mary,
mary was my history teacher back when i was in school, her name was
really karen but we all called her mary because she responded to it.

mary was quite a dizzy teacher she didnt seem to know what day it was and constantly gave us the same project over and over. as you can imagine we took full advantage of the fact she really didn't know where she was or what she was doing (we'd often wonder how she managed to dress herself in the morning never mind actually become a teacher)

this project was always about richard the third and none of us ever actually did this project. whenever mary asked for it she was met with the reply "but miss we've already handed it in" then she'd sit there for a minute before going "oh yeah i remember now" then we'd watch a video
this worked because the poor woman believed that we'd never lie to a teacher.

of course the day came were she realised we hadnt done a project all year (we think someone had words with her) she then decided she was going to have a good talking to us and she wouldn't forget to ask us for our projects because she was writing it down in an empty notebook that she would now use to remind herself of things.

as you can imagine, this wasnt good news for us. the book was promptly stolen and thrown off the 55 bus on the way home.
mary of course had forgotten that this book existed and we never did actually do that project.

last i heard mary left that school after being locked in the stock cupboard for an hour by her year 7 history class.
poor mary.

.
(stitched, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 16:26, 2 replies)

not mine but his guy i knew
The best one I remember was Cairns and his nuclear amp, he built a guitar amp and the science teachers wouldn't let him switch it on, he had built it in electronics in an after school class, the teachers deemed so dangerous that he wasn't allowed to switch it on. When he brought it home it killed all the fuses in the house.
He was also the one who thought rocketry would be a good 6th year project, and was allowed to work on it till he let one off in the quadrangle and it went in through one of the science windows
(Acidhouse, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 16:08, Reply)

Tanks for the mammaries
I did a project on World War I tanks when I was about 12 or so.
The workshop my Dad was in also had a stack of musty old 'Mayfair' magazines from the '70s and '80s hidden down underneath one of the old woodworking benches.

Now, as an enterprising young chap, I knew quite a lot about the contents of these, and at the time they included actual serious articles, short stories and the like. (for any other children of the '80s, they were the ones that had the yellow card paper in the middle with the dirty stories in).

One of the jazzmags happened to have a five page article about WWI tanks, which I half-inched. However, it turned out that cutting out the photos of the tanks and gluing them into my project wasn't the best idea.

It took a while, and wasn't obvious at first, but after a few days the glue seeped through the magazine pages and you could clearly see (if you knew what you were looking at) the nekkid ladies on the other sides of the photos. I realised this when I got the project back, post-marking.
(entomologist, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 16:06, Reply)

Physics, Fish and Fire
Our secondary school physics lesson were always held in a portacabin in the school grounds. Me and my schoolmates sat on a desk at the back, which never helped me much because of my shortsightedness.

Anyhows, at the back of the classroom was a fishtank with the ugliest muthafukkin fish we'd ever seen, going by the name of Oscar. Now, oscar had one party trick, which to be honest, probably accounted for the fact that the pupils had let him live so long - if you held your fingers near the surface of the water, he'd circle a few times then jump up and snap at your fingers with his gummy little mouth.

Now, Oscar was also a nervous little chap (who wouldn't be in his position?) and jumped around freakishly whenever there was a bang. Of course, first lessons of the day always involved taking your chairs down off of the tables (we used to have to put them up there after last lessons so the cleaners could blitz the room fast enough to leave before they'd even turned up for work!). So cue us trying to give him a fishy heart attack by slamming our chairs down at the beginning of first lessons!

However, fish aside, physics was fairly boring except for one lesson where we had to measure how rapidly water cooled and plot a graph. In order to heat up the water, and being in a portacabin without a gas supply, we got spirit burners, tripods and beakers - pretty standard issue.

Well, we decided we should conduct experiments with the spirit from the spirit burners, and poured that into the beaker. First was the "dip your fingers in, set them alight and see how long you can last before blowing the flames out" experiment. That went quite well, and if I remember correctly the lad won who did a Freddy Kreuger impersonation whilst doing it.

Next was the "how melted can you make a biro by dipping it in and setting it alight?". Well, the answer is - quite melted, until the plastic ignites and gives off acrid black smoke.

Running out of ideas, one of the lads decided to test how long the spirit flames would burn for before igniting my text book, and promptly splashed some over my book and set it alight. Interesting experiment, as I managed to bash out the flames before my book set alight.

Lastly, he extended the same experiment to the entire desk, complete with textbooks, pencil cases and equipment. To add to the effect, his impersonation of Satan laughing whilst the flames lept up was quite good.

Conclusion? All of the above experiments were carried out without the teacher even knowing what was going on at the back of the class and were most educational.

Side-note: Oscar was unimpressed with my protractor and eraser that got threw in his tank. At least I managed to get my pencil case before it sank next to his little plastic castle.
( brown-wings Made with three kinds of butter, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 16:05, 2 replies)

R.E
I remember one project given to me by my Religious Education teacher. We were in groups of three, and each group given the topic of a human rite of passage (birth, coming of age, marriage etc.) and asked to investigate how different faiths dealt with it.

Our group was given death, and were asked to produce enough material for an exhibition in the school foyer. I did alot of work on the written material, but got to do two bits of field work; visiting and interviewing an undertaker (utterly weird) and a visit to a crematorium (even weirder).

At the crematorium I was shown all the bits you don't normally get to see; the conveyor belt that rolls the coffin into the oven, the oven itself, the scraper thing that removes the ashes from the oven and so forth. All with a chap who seemed far too jolly to ever be working in a crematorium. For being a good little boy and feigning interest and attention for an hour, the chap gave me some parting gifts; a few issues of the crematoria trade magazine (yes, there is such a thing and yes, it's very weird) and an actual plastic urn. These are not the decorative ones that go on top of the mantelpiece, but simple brown plastic tubs with a screw-top lid that are used when ashes are buried, or where there's no family around to pay for anything more fancy.

This was great as an exhibition piece, but I figured it could be even more compelling. When I got home I took a few toilet rolls and some old newspaper into the back garden, set fire to the lot and some time later collected the ash into the pot.

The next day took it back into school and (with my somewhat black sense of humour) would reply to anyone who asked "what's that?" with "Grandma". A quick unscrew of the lid seemed to prove this for them (despite newspaper and toilet roll ash looking nothing like human ash). Some of the reactions were priceless and I let people dangle for some time before telling the truth.

This was all very funny until it transpired that one kid had indeed just lost his grandma and, of course, she was cremated. My flaunting granny's ashes around the place probably wasn't the most tactful thing to do, and I was politely asked to stop. Spoilsports.
(absurdistan, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 16:02, Reply)

What?
School was 34 fecking years ago.
Alcohol + Other Abuse = No Memory
(MichaelLinge (ywc), Fri 14 Aug 2009, 15:19, 4 replies)

Aye, his dad must be proud
Totally appropriate for this QOTW, I think:

Get a certificate in catching the bus!
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 15:16, 2 replies)

courting Alice.
Alice, Alice, Alice. What was she like? She was like a breath of fresh air in a sewer. Like the word "sky" whispered by one who sits in darkness, in a prison without windows. As Euclid must have felt when he first saw the Golden Mean, so we felt to look upon Alice. How fortunate it was that we were not in the age of duels, or of ships sent against cities, bearing men with shields of bronze. The corridors of Wanniassa High School would have swum with gore, and the lessons learned would have been bitter ones indeed.

Anyway, she was having a birthday. Probably a 17th? I was somehow aware of this, even though I never talked to her. It was in the air somehow, like Autumn; as the approaching end of school can't be seen, yet is everywhere.

I was walking home with my friend Mark, when she appeared. She was handing out photocopied invitations, each one-eighth of an A4 sheet of paper, and yes I do remember the exact dimensions of the invitations, and each letter and picture too, as if she had written in unfading letters of golden fire on my very skin, instead of with pen on paper.

She gave Mark one. I didn't expect to be invited, and tried to bear my lot stoically, heavy though it was at that moment. But some part of my desolation must have shown, because she said "um..you can come too if you want" and gave me one. Thankfulness and humiliation no doubt warred for dominance in my face, as in my heart, as I gave some ineloquent thanks.

But I couldn't go. To accept such crumbs would be worse than starvation. She didn't want me there, her friends didn't want me there, Mark certainly didn't want me there - although frankly fuck him. My burden had been lifted only to be replaced with another; that of the wheedling, prideless part of myself, which lied and lied, saying it'd be OK, you never know, and anyway..just to look at her in her summer dress; and this last was truly its most powerful argument.

And yet, the humiliation of being the only one to not go, to listen to Mark's boastful recounting, no doubt as profane as it was fanciful; to bear his poisoned questioning of my thin excuses. If only she had been cruel. Yet, if cruel, she would not have been Alice.

Such were the thoughts that gripped me that weekend, throwing me back and forth like a lurching drunk being beaten by two bouncers, not that I knew what that was like then. But then genius struck.

I would buy her a present. I would deliver it, with my excuses for non-attendance. And (and this was the genius part) - it would be a fucking awesome present. It would be, as it were, the ambassador whose grace and wit make the court forget the many shortcomings of the actual country. To desire to visit it? Well, perhaps at least to think of it with some fondness. To, perhaps, wish that it was here, instead of the other country called Mark. Yet what present could play such a role, especially to Alice? What do you get the girl who is everything?

A record? Christ, she likes...Ultravox? The Cure? I looked at my sister's copy of 'Smash Hits' like a tourist with a subway map which he's holding upside-down. Who are these people? My sister's advice may as well have been directions for getting through the spice-markets of Zanzibar. OK, girls like clothes...I don't know how to buy clothes for a girl. Perfume? Ha! Soft toys...Soft toys! I will buy a soft toy, which girls like, and it will be awesome, because... because I will spend all my money.

Now, the reader will no doubt see that this could go horribly wrong. What if I'd bought an imp bearing a love-heart announcing his status as a 'horny devil'? Or a magical pony, designed for one half her age? Yes, I respond, but what if I'd got it astonishingly right?

Community Aid Abroad (aka Oxfam) had a shop which I used to look in, and one of the things they had were - I guess you'd call them realistic-looking soft toys. Tigers, apes, giraffes, that sort of thing. Anyway, I knew which one I wanted: the leopard.

It cost $300, which was pretty much all I had. Man, I'd get into trouble if my parents knew. Do I want it wrapped up in tissue paper? Er, yes, I suppose. Card? Um...I haven't got any more money...but it was free. And so I took the bus to Alice's house, holding my present like I was trying to stop it exploding.

Alice's Mum answered the door. Thank God, I don't know what I would've done if Alice herself had been home.

"Wow, you look just like her" I said. I wasn't trying to be sleazy/charming, I actually just blurted out the first thing that came into my head. Anyway she seemed to like me OK. I explained that I'd been invited to her party, I couldn't come, but I bought her a present...

"Do you want to leave it in her room?" It was quite something, that room, the first girl's room I'd been in other than my sister's. Belinda Carlisle's claim that heaven is a place on Earth made a lot of sense at that moment. I didn't linger (this being b3ta, I should specify that I also didn't steal underwear for 'later'), I wrote a quick and dignified note on the card and made my exit.

And that was it. I was there while not there. Not in the gangly and awkward flesh, but looking through the wise and loveable eyes of a soft-toy leopard. Like a cuddly sphinx, offering and needing no excuses. Where are your excuses, o you who came bearing cheap perfume, like unwise kings visiting a cut-price saviour? Your kingdom is ground down to dust, your witty sallies are worms in a corpse's mouth, and only I remain. Only I remain at night, when you have gone home, passed out, vomited, been picked up by your parents...I didn't really know how teenage parties worked, I never got invited except this one time. Anyway, at some point you've gone, is the point, and what remains? The moon, Alice, and I.

And it worked. It was her favourite present of that year, and she said so. And that leopard bestowed on me qualities I'd never had before. As Alice desired the leopard, so everyone desired me, at least a bit. And I got to hang around with her and, months later, I went out with her, after she'd 'gone with' and broken up with someone else. Anyway that's what I wish had happened. So, yeah, basically I'm saying that if you want to ask someone out you probably should, OK? Better to have loved and lost than be writing about it on b3ta twenty years later.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 15:03, 20 replies)

Religious Education, Offerings and Stiff Letters
Secondary school. The class was tasked with making some type of old bread-like offering some Jewish chaps used to make in the olden days. It had raisins and miracles in it, or something. I dutifully note down the ingredients and cooking guidelines from the blackboard and wander off home to present Mum with my list of needs from the local shop.

Once all the ingredients had been procured, we set about mixing the various bits and bobs together. I seem to remember quite a lot of dried fruit making it's way into this mixture, which, according to my notes, had to be popped on the hob with some water for a bit. Following the guidelines 'religiously' (sorry), that's exactly what we did.

After the required time on the hob, off came the lid to inspect the mix, ready for the next stage. What greeted us was definitely not something old JC would be proud of. In fact, I reckon he and his pops would most likely banish this abomination to the fiery depths of Hell should I have pitched up at the pearlys with a bowlful.

Now, Mum hates waste, with a passion. There was no way of resurrecting the gloop that lined the bottom of the pan, all was lost, a culinary Armageddon. Add to that the wasted evening and wasted leccy and Mum, bless her, was seething.

The pan was left to soak and the gloop was binned. What followed could only be described as 'furious scribbling', coupled with a chunnering under her breath, I think there were sweary words involved. I was then handed a note, folded, and told not to open it, just to give it to my RE teacher the next day.

On entering the classroom, I was greeted by beaming smiles from my fellow students as they showed off the wonderful offerings they had managed (some-bloody-how) to create, complete with halo and choir music as they open the tupperware box. Rejoice!

Noticing that I had no halo wielding tupperware, the RE teacher asks me what's happened to my attempt. My only reply was to hand her the folded note I had been instructed to give her. To this day, I have no idea what Mum wrote in that letter but the teacher went a very odd shade of grey and sat uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the lesson.

Religion - Don't mess with Mums, they'll send letters!
(smithe-ingelby-smithe, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 14:52, Reply)

Salty Tears and a FunFax
I’ll happily admit that I was a bit of a goodie-two-shoes in my younger years. I didn’t want to do well, I had to do well. I had no real pressure put upon me by my parents but I think somewhere in my twisted brain I wanted to be good so that my parents would at least have one child out of three that they didn’t have to worry about… that probably explains the mental breakdown I had around GCSE time, but I digress.

After being taken on a school trip to The March Museum… (oh yes, the tiny market town of March had its own museum) we were told that there would be a mini-project to write up a report of the various things on show in the museum, these included a collection of old CocaCola bottles, a child’s cot, various crap from the 60’s, misc fossils and everybody’s favourite a glass eye.

Soooo yes, normally I would have written up a few paragraphs, drawn a picture or two and handed it in… but this time it was different, there would be a prize given to the best report, well that changed all the rules! I HAD TO WIN! Only having two days to write the report I went crazy, I went back to the museum and drew detailed pictures of near enough everything in there, I spoke to the mad man who owned the museum and got his opinion on a few things and also a bit of the history of the building etc and then I set about writing my report. I stayed up nearly all night scribbling away, I had to get the report finished!!

The next day I turned up at school, bleary eyed, semi-conscious with a fistful of papers. My report was detailed, clear, concise it was pretty, it even had doodles, it was everything a report should be. I handed it in and eagerly awaited the next lesson to find out who had won the lavish prize.

Well, next lesson came around, cue me sitting at the back, fidgeting about, grinning from ear to ear like some sort of deranged headcase awaiting the results… nothing. Not a sausage. No mention of the project at all. I sat through an hour lesson, desperately trying to work out what had happened the previous week, had I imagined the whole thing? Had I misheard? Was I going potty at the young age of 11? Turned out it was none of these things…

I stayed behind after the lesson and asked my teacher what had happened. It became apparent that I was the only bugger who had actually bothered to hand in my project, so my teacher decided that she wouldn’t bring it up at the next lesson. I couldn’t believe it, I had wasted my time, well there was nothing else to do at that point but cry, so that’s what I did. Great big wobbly salty tears rolled off my cheeks and my teacher felt so guilty she gave me a £5 book token at my next lesson my for effort – I brought a FunFax… it was A-MAZING!

So I’m not sure what the lesson here is… maybe that crying sometimes gets you what you want? Who knows! Feel free to make up your own lesson! :)
(Flim-Flam the Magnificent "You is talking loco and I like it!", Fri 14 Aug 2009, 14:36, 2 replies)

Automatic Fish Feeder
I built a fish feeder for people who go on holiday. It worked by feeding them when it got light in the morning and again when it got dark in the evening.

Being lazy, I used it even when I wasn't on holiday. This meant that the poor fish got fed every time I walked into the room and turned the light on. Realising my mistake, I'd quickly turn it off, feeding them again in the process. The result was a lot of fat, but poorly, fishes.
( Norbert Lightowler, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 14:23, Reply)

Bang!
Dr P used to teach physics. He was also - fortunately - very tolerant of teenage boys in class. (Apropos of nothing, he was an Ulsterman. This meant that, every time he picked up a piece of equipment, someone'd shout, "IT'S A BOMB!" and the whole class would dive under the bench... but I digress.)

One day, he had the misfortune to have a heart attack while teaching. When he returned to work a few weeks later, his class had set itself a research project. At random points in the lesson, a heavy book would be dropped on the floor to see if the surprise'd cause him to have another infarct.

Well, I think it's a sign of a healthy interest in empirical science...
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 14:21, 4 replies)

Puddle
In the 2nd year of junior school (or year 7 for all you young 'uns) we had a teacher who seemed to have pursued a career in education not because she liked teaching but more because she found it highly amusing to shout at young children and make them cry.

One morning we had to hand in a project on something inane (probably my favourite animal or similar)and a lad called Chris stood up to tell the teacher he had left his at home. Much shouting ensued at the end of which Chirs was a little upset and started crying. When the teacher asked what the hell was the matter he uttered the immortal line "I think I wet myself"

The puddle under his desk confirmed it.

Length - he was only 8 so it was still growing
(Lurky McLurkerson, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 13:57, 8 replies)

Art GCSE
At GCSE I took Art, as I knew that if I wanted a 'proper job' one day I would have to take 'proper subjects' at A-level, so I saw it as my last chance to dick about a bit.

Now, I'm not the best at drawing, I can do it but I'm so impatient I can't be bothered with shading and whatnot, so I used to be quite inventive to avoid having to do much drawing. One of our coursework pieces was entitled 'My Town', so I made a sculpture of a church window out of plaster of paris bandage type stuff (may not be the real name of the substance) and stuck it to some paper on which I'd drawn a silhouette of some famous buildings in our city, then done 'sunsetty' sky at the top. Other girls in my class were all chavs, and even worse at drawing than me. They, in the same project, had pretty much all drawn a (lopsided) building with a cartoon of themselves at the front with 'my town' done in bubble writing at the top. My art teachers were lovely hippyish women who were obviously very frustrated and took the time to nurture me, let me come in at lunch to improve my skills and so on. I am still friends with one of them to this day.

Anyway, I digress.

The time came for the FINAL EXAM. So, what happens is, you get 2 weeks to prepare for a piece, research and so on. You're supposed to chart your progress through this, sticking pictures that have inspired you in a book and so forth. You then get 10 hours time (split up, obviously) to actually do it.

Now, as I have said, all the other girls in my class were chavtastic. There is invariably a 'fashion' theme you can choose (design a festival headdress, for example), and they all did this. Not ONE of them actually MADE the headdress, just spent 10 hours (ha ha) drawing it.

So, I went not one, but a MILLION times better. I filled 3 project books with my research into INSTALLATION ART. Oh yes. Now, I was a bit of a loner at high school, so nobody knew what I was planning to do.


Which is why they all looked a bit shocked when I came into the exam, where they were all sitting silently drawing, took off my school blouse (to reveal a vest top, pervs), tights and shoes, and started to make casts of my foot, leg, arm and hand (with the aforementioned bandagey stuff).

I made a cast of the top of a head too (vase) and wrote all over them and painted the nails, until, when placed on the floor, it looked like someone had sunk into it, with just the top of their head, outstretched arm, top of the leg and foot showing.

It was ace. I got the only A in the year.

I still have it and take it out from time to time to have a look. As I said before, I'm not a creative person, and seem to spend my life surrounded by musicians and artists, so it is nice to know that, before uni and research squished it out of me, I was good at creative stuffs.

On another note, I have a 2500 word essay due in on Tuesday, of which I have only written the introduction, and have spent all morning on B3TA before I go to work.... damn.


Length? Well I'm only 5 foot 1
(BelladonnaAnodyne Melissa's gonna wet herself, I swear..., Fri 14 Aug 2009, 13:42, 7 replies)

A catalog of errors
I was never 'practically minded' at school, I suffer from a lack of imagination and dexterity but am surprisingly rather pragmatic...
I dreaded CDT, FT and even Drama as I'd be foreced to bodge something or other.

CDT - I hated my teacher, Mr Hoskin, as he smelt funny and had a jungle nose. He always leared at the girls too which was annoying as I was trying to get into their pants too.
Mr Hoskin also hated me, mostly due to my ineptitude and lack of effort - I regularly got a 1/5 for attainment and effort for the subject which made me the best.
The other teacher, Mr Edwards- who was married to the P.E teacher, was having an affair with my History teacher so his class didn't get him perving at them as he was getting his 5 a day. Lucky sods. He also looked like the liquid metal Terminator from T2 which was ace.

I digress.
Our class had to make a box with a buzzer in it which would buzz when the box was opened. I actually thought this was a good thing to make and so put my heart and soul into it.
What I ended up with was a fantastic box but the lid looked like it'd been run over by a tractor and was falling off its hinges. I'd managed to get my mate crafty Pete to help me with the joints but I couldn't master the art of using a screwdriver. The buzzer never worked.
To make things worse, the parents were 'encouraged' to buy the box from the school to pay for the materials! Stupid cheap school. I didn't want the box, I wanted it to become a relic, to remind students how *not* to make a box. But I was forced to pay for it out of my pocket money!
I still have this arse of a box to this day, I keep things in it but they fall out as the lid's still crap.
I left Mr Hoskin a can of deoderant on his desk on leaving day with a post-it-note attached which read "PLEASE use me"

F.T - Stupid Kieran Joy put food colouring and curry mixture into my victoria sponge, it tasted like fire and looked like a brain.

English - Best project ever. We studied' Z for Zachiarah' and had to make a radio broadcase! This involved me and my best friend Keith arsing around for a week and making up fake adverts before me pretending to be the Secretary of Safety (Justin Case) and telling people not to bother worrying about a nuclear war, "if it happens then we'll all be too borked to care". This was before the days of Dizzee Rascal, otherwise they'd have been told to "think fast, look sharp". Mrs Wilbraham was an amazing teacher and just nodded and said "very good, very...original..."

History - Project on 'The Romans'. I was known for being alright at this subject and was put with 2, less skilled, pupils so the teacher would look better and I'd end up doing the project for them.
I was fed up with this always happening so I did nothing. Nothing at all. Then when the 2 guys came up to me with 30 minutes to go until class telling me they'd done nothing and "where is our project then?" I printed a page off Encarta about Julius Caesar and handed it to them.

Skip ahead to A levels.

German - Frau Perks I hated you so much I woke up early to hate you more.
I was known for not doing work and making up words (e.g adding -en to a verb to 'Germanize' it) these became known as (my last name)isms.
We had a class of 3 in my A2 year so I couldn't exactly hide, she hated me and I hated her. We came to a detente whereby she'd not ask my questions and I'd pay lip service to doing homework.

This came to a head when I had to deliver an Oral (hahaha) presentation on the rivalry between the UK and Germany.
I'd told her all was going to be fine, that I'd even got a powerpoint presentation ready and was going to use my Dad's laptop.
This was a lie.
I had 5 pages, 3 of them with full size pictures. The rest was just warbling about empire and 'the war'. I mentioned 'the war' in my German Oral exam and expected to pass?!
However, things looked up when the examiner showed up. Her short skirt just aching for a breeze to lift it up while her low cut top gave a hint of what appeared to be a generous bosom. I was psyched and marched in quicker than Hitler went into Poland.
Whatsmore, during the exam the examiner just smiled at me as I was giving the presentation and seemed to even help me by prompting me, I was engaging with my audience! (Although I'd liked to have engaged with her orally a bit more fully...) How could I fail!
I got a D overall (an E in my Oral exam...) which I thought was pretty good considering my lack of effort and work done that year. This was building on the solid B that I'd got for AS, when I'd been in a class of 25 and moderately happy as the ginger fuhrer's attention was diverted to yell abuse at other people.
That 22 students had dropped out between AS and A2 level does explain how hellish it was really.

I wanted to drop German but I dropped Chemistry. I had to really, I knew that I wasn't going to do well when in my practical I made vinegar instead of the 'deep heat' smell. A few chars on the ceiling were also because of me.
Fun times.
(Evilweevil is covered in bees, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 13:32, 6 replies)

How a school project made me disillusioned with politics
Well school election but since I don't know when I'll get another chance I'm posting it here.

The year was 1997 and even amongst those of us in primary 6 talk was of the big election. Being young and naive in 90s Scotland all we really knew was we wanted the SNP to give the others a bloody nose. Even our teacher was caught up in election fever and decided the best way to motivate our little minds into how elections worked was to hold our own for class president!

We were informed by tomorrow candidates were to be nominated and we broke off for lunch. I admit I was already questioning if I should seek such ultimate power at a young age though I knew two of the so-called popular kids were going to stand and thought against it. At that moment however a lassie from my class, lets call her Chelsea, come over and informed me she was going to nominate me since she had been impressed with my rant on independence the day before. My mate, Neilly, standing beside agreed and so it was I 'reluctantly' accepted and set about campaigning.

Chelsea was probably my greatest political asset - while I wasn't unpopular I certainly was no match for the other two. Furthermore one of them was a popular good-looking female who was sure to win over not only the female voters but some of the men. Chelsea though was equally liked by the non-popular males and females. I realised that was the weakest part of the other two candidates - they were the so-called "popular kids" and would unlike realise that the majority of the class were made up of those they deemed "rejects". So it was I made Chelsea my campaign leader - she was the Palin to my McCain. I sent her off to begin building support. Neilly's eyes lit up with anticipation he wanted to be given a title on my campaign to. I thus made him PR leader and set him off into the playground to find out what the other kids wanted.

Left alone to ponder my strategy I spied young Brian prowling for pray, his hand you see was a face hugger. Normally me and my mate would annoy Brian and his friends in order to get them to chase us, my mind though realised more capital was now to be gained through gaining his support. The other two candidates would definitely not canvass him and his friends. I called Brian over and grudgingly pretended to be stuck to the wall while he face-huggered me. In later years it was to be discovered Brian is gay and into bondage and I can't help but wonder if I was agreeing to take part in some early form of homoerotic experience for him purely with the hidden agenda of gaining his support for my campaign... such is politics I suppose. He hissed as he brought his hand towards my face, spit from his mouth spraying me. Being informed he had now "impregnated" me, we moved conversation towards my campaign and I got his support only through mentioning who the other candidates were likely to be.

So came nomination day and as expected it was me, popular guy and popular girl. Neilly had handed me a list of the voters demands and so it was I started my official election campaign on the joint policies of Scottish Independence and shafting the residential homes at the seafront to make way for a rollercoaster park. Popular guy had no policies apart from his ego and the popular girl claimed she could get her nextdoor neighbour, a famous footballer, to help us with our PE. Fortunately this would work to my advantage as she was only poaching support from the popular guy with her policy.

Thus came election day: Chelsea was still working her way amongst the masses and Neilly was to make lists of those whose support I had won over. Out of the class of 30 I had 14 people as definite supporters I could taste sweet victory! Balloting over and the teacher informed us that 7(!) votes were discarded because they had put ticks instead of crosses. Before the voting started we were repeatedly told only Xs would be counted and not ticks. I scanned the room and saw Brian and co lower their heads in shame - the bastards!

The results were read out: me - 11, popular guy - 2, popular girl - 17! An apparent landslide. If you do the maths however to include the 7 discarded votes that makes 37 with a class of 30! Something smelt fishy and after class I ran round my supporters to ask what happened - roughly 5 admitted they had put ticks but the rest had put crosses, the election had been fixed by adding all the discounted votes onto the popular girls! Why? That was to be discovered the following months when the teacher repeatedly asked our new el presidente when she would get the footballer in, her election promise though never materialised.

And that was how at the age of 10 I knew what Stalin meant when he said "The people who cast the votes decide nothing. The people who count the votes decide everything" and was disillusioned with parliamentary politics thanks to a school project / election.
(Brydie, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 13:21, 1 reply)

A 10 year project spanning various schools


Slightly tenuous but I spent most of my time at various schools where my main project on an ongoing basis was to annoy the fuck out of as many teachers as possible.

This resulted in:

Being expelled from junior school aged 7 (kicked over teachers motorbike), “withdrawn” (parents took me out just prior to expulsion) from prep school aged 10 for various crimes, being expelled from secondary school for fighting & being a disruptive smartarse, being on almost permanent suspension from 14-16 for generally taking the piss out of teachers – winding them up to the point where a couple tried to hit me (I then threatened to complain to the governors). Then on to college where I was slung out for driving a mate’s car over the football pitch (ploughing the turf up).

I then gave up on education but during this disruptive behaviour my proudest school “project” was the traditional torture of supply teachers. We had a supply teacher for geography called Mrs Pilkington. A couple of weeks after she had started teaching us I was arrested one evening (a fairly frequent occurrence by this point) by a rozzer called Sgt Pilkington. Now the rozzer starts asking me various questions including where did I go to school. “My wife teaches there – Olive Pilkington – does she teach you?”

Now then it was pure gold for an obnoxious school kid to know a teachers first name.
The only school in the county that would take me by the age of 15 was rougher than the corns on my grandma’s feet & I was in a class of 35 swedebashers & sub-normal inbreds. So it wasn’t difficult to persuade the rest of the class to participate the next time she took us for geography.

“Good morning class” she said. “Morning Olive” I shouted out, cue 30 other kids shouting out in a perfect Popeye imitation “Ug Ug Ug Ug”.

Olive then bursts in to tears & sprints out the room quicker than a clan of starved tribesmen after an antelope. Never to be seen in the school again.

Looking back I’m not particularly proud of it – particularly what this behaviour must have done to my parent’s blood pressure. It certainly wasn’t that easy trying to establish a career with only one grade c GCSE either.

However as an ongoing school project hassling teachers for around 10 years was a project I certainly devoted plenty of time to.
(lkjshaglkasjdhglkhjz lkcvl; g;aodh;owih, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 12:40, 3 replies)

gore fest
The obvious choice for my A levels (being a lazy git) was art & theatre design. I had a little bit of talent for this so I was stationed by the main entrance to the top floor along with 2 of the upper sixth formers who were now busy with their final exam pieces and we were cordial to each other, although being the lower sixth former meant that I was treated a little disdainfully (upper sixth twats). The whole place was open plan and we always had a class of regular school kids taking their art class in full view of what we were doing.

For one of my theatre design projects I was making a scale model out of all kinds of stuff, balsa wood, cardboard etc and being a little bit bored I started to carve a piece of wood with a stanley knife whilst standing next to the upper sixth twat who was painting a frog (it was quite good i must say). I stood the piece on its end with my hand on top and carved downwards whilst some 11 year old kids who were fingerpainting sat nearby spell bound with what I was doing. On my last downward stroke the knife snagged, the wood flew out and my hand dropped onto the stanley blade which went into the fleshy part at the base of the thumb. I wasn't aware of this but there is a pretty big vein running through there and I sliced it open very nicely as the blade went quite deep. Blood spurted out about 3 feet over the kids and then all over the work of art from the upper sixth former which was a final exam piece and all hell broke loose. Kids screaming, people diving on top of me and teachers running around in a panic. I was rushed to hospital for stitches and I never went back to college again
(gentleman mongoose the Lion, the Witch & the Robot, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 12:11, 2 replies)

In GCSE Food Tech
On my final project, I accidentally put salt in a cake instead of sugar. My teacher nearly cried.

She let me re-do it though.

It was fucking disgusting.
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 12:09, Reply)

Graphic Design AS
I worked my metaphorical bollocks off trying to do well with all of the coursework. I filled nearly half a folder more than everyone else (I desperatly want to be a graphic designer) and I was blody happy with the highest mark in the group.

A friend, also in the same group, did the equivilant of sod all during the whole year, did half as much coursework as me in the 4 days before the final deadline (bearing in mind it was not annotated or coloured and half of it was missing). He got a C. How does that work!?!?

Anyways, the teacher got his remarked and karma came good and he got a U.

We're still mates though.
(one-winged-angel-616 isn't as depressed as she sounds, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 12:00, Reply)

Don’t talk to me about School projects
I was a notorious swot at highschool and would always like to try and get the best grade or the most recognised piece of work.

We were told that the upcoming end of year history presentation (in front of the whole year) may have a prize for the best one and were allowed to either work in groups or go it alone, I wanted the prize for myself and therefore went it alone.

Over the weeks up to it I spent hours labouring over the project and had done more than required, including adding a few references to keep the assembled crowd amused too.

When it came to the big day I heard I was due on next to last and therefore had to sit in the audience nervously while a number of other students tried their best. A few presentations were amusing, some totally forgot their lines and went totally off tangent and then it was my turn.

I stepped up confidentaly, delivered the whole matter using a few pictures for demonstration and received a few claps from the auditorium, I sat back thinking that I had done a good job and the prize was surely mine, especially since the last act was the two class slackers.

Oh My God.

Don’t ask me how, but somehow the two managed to get a number of actors dressed up as historical figures and whipped the audience up into a storm. They then ended with a firework and laser show by packing every one of the actors into a telephone booth and disappeared, Doctor Who style.

Needless to say they won the whole thing and I was pissed.

I hope they spent the book token on one of those “how to play a guitar in a day” instruction as their band was crap (Or one to improve your acting ability as during the presentation one of them was quite wooden with a monotone voice and the other looked like he would only get a number of bit parts in the future- like a vampire gang member etc etc)

Sorry I am still bitter.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 11:41, 11 replies)

Tango!
During the run-up to the 1997 General Election, our year was given a project in RPSE to come up with an election campaign. This would culminate on election day with an actual election, and the winner would get a fabulous prize. OK, no prize but the general smug satisfaction if knowing you are cleverer than everyone else.

I wanted this smugness. I never win anything and was determined it would be mine.

So people drew up their manifestos, allied themselves to one of the real-world parties, adjusted their policies to affect 15-year-olds etc. All were fairly serious, fairly realistic campaigns.

I had entered my name as the "independent candidate" and had little to no idea what to do.

Those of you who are slaves to advertising will remember the Still Tango adverts around this time. Still Tango came in four flavours, in a really cool wide-necked black bottle. They ran a series of adverts urging you to "vote ORANGE Tango!" and decrying all other flavours - apple was weak, lemon was a pervert etc.

And so my campaign was born. Me and my friends coloured a lot of bits of paper in using orange highlighters, and stuck them around the school without a hint as to what it related to. Come election day, the Labour, Conservative, LibDem and Green parties gave their speeches. Most went down well, if a little dull.

I then stood up in front of the whole year group, lined up four bottles of still Tango, and recited the advert word for word (in a rather dramatic fashion of course).

I then sat down.

Length? 45 seconds. Percentage of the vote: 88.
(MightyX5 living on a small island on, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 11:05, 9 replies)

Recycling's good, right?
As part of my A-level English, I had to to an extended essay. I can't remember exactly how long it was, but there's a part of me that thinks it was around the 5000 word mark. It could be on a topic of the candidate's choice.

I chose to write something about the political themes in Anthony Burgess' work. It took me a long weekend to write. Looking back, it's not a great piece of work - certainly not publishable - but it was reasonable, and I was proud of it at the time; in due course, it got me the A. (Let's face it: an A at A-level in the mid-90s wasn't exactly a mark of high achievement...)

A couple of years later, I was a finalist at the University of Redbrick, and one of my courses was on politics and the arts. It was assessed by exam and - thanks to an easy-going tutor - an essay on a subjct of our choice.

Hmmmmm, I think. I think I have just the thing for this..., and I dig out the disk with the A-level project on it. (Christ only knows why I had it nearby, but that's not important.)

It needed fiddling with a bit - but nothing too much. A couple of hours later, it was printed off and ready to submit. It got a first.

Hurrah for Anthony Burgess.
(Star Wars Starwarsy McStarwars Face, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 10:53, 11 replies)

Cool Runnings
It was 1994 and the Winter Olympics were in full swing in Lillehammer, Norway. Being only 10, I didn’t really have much interest in it and neither did the rest of my class; we were more concerned about playing Cops and Robbers, putting upturned drawing pins onto each other’s chairs and singing the wrong words to hymns in assembly. Playtimes were spent swapping Panini Football Stickers (a shiny was worth at least 2 normal stickers), trying to push one another into the thorn bush and or sticking ‘itching powder berries’ down the back of someone’s shirt. Life was good; I had no worries in the world and not a great deal of homework to contend with at that age – as long as I went home with a new sticker for my album, I was happy.

My teacher at the time was Mr.Marsh; feared by many, he was the only male teacher at my primary school. His booming voice would stop a misbehaving child in his or her track. Some were known to have wet themselves after being shouted at. Now, Mr. Marsh was not an ordinary teacher. He made learning fun; we listened to every word as he spoke, such was the enthusiasm of the man. We’d already completed a class project earlier in the year where we had various airports dotted around the classroom, complete with toy planes. Daily timetables were drawn up and it was up to the ‘Air traffic Controller’ and ‘Pilot’ (specified daily) to move the correct planes, at the correct time, to the correct airport. It was not unusual to see children wandering about in the middle of a maths lesson, to move a toy plane to its next destination. This taught us geography and time management skills apparently. I didn’t care – it was fun.

Mr. Marsh also loved sport. Not only did he teach us in year 5, but he doubled as the PE teacher for the whole of the school. He was sport mad, so to him, the Winter Olympics were a big deal. I remember the beaming smile on his face as he broke the news to us about our next class project one morning.

“Class”, he started, his deep voice bouncing off the walls of the classroom, “for our next class project, we will be holding a bobsleigh tournament. You will work on your own and will compete against each other”

Our ears pricked up. Even the cool kids at the back of the class stopped whispering and passing notes.

“We will build a bobsleigh track in the classroom. Not a full size one for you to race down, but one that will fit a matchbox car. The only rule is, your matchbox car will have to look like a bobsleigh. You will have to use card to make the correct shape, decorate it in the colours of any nation you choose, and attach it to your car. We will then hold time trials to see who is the bobsleigh champion. We will build the course this week and time trials will be Monday and Tuesday of next week”. It was Mr. Marsh’s own little way of getting a class of 10 year olds interested in the Winter Olympics.

We couldn’t believe our luck – we were going to be coming to school to race our cars! Even the girls in the class didn’t seem fussed by this. I was over the moon; a keen collector of matchbox cars, I was sure I had the perfect car to beat all the opposition.
The course was built over the next few days. Mr. Marsh provided a plastic track from some sort of toy car race track (Hotwheels or something similar). This was attached to wall at the side of the classroom, running down at quite a steep angle so that the cars could pick up speed. It was about 7-8 metres long, then doubled back on itself sharply, and ran along some desks that were pushed together alongside the wall. The first part of our project was to decorate the wall with a winter Olympic theme, complete with spectators. I think Neil drew a yeti somewhere in the background. This was the boring part on the project. On the Friday, we all had to bring in the car that we wanted to use in the bobsleigh tournament. Mr.Marsh supplied those who hadn’t got one (mainly the girls) with a car from his collection. I carefully cut out two shapes that vaguely represented the side profile of bobsleigh, and blu-tacked them to the side of my car, which was a black Porche if I recall correctly. I had chosen this because the wheels seemed to go the best out of all of my collection. I gave my bobsleigh the number 12, and coloured it in black, green and yellow; the colours of Jamaica. We were even allowed to oil up the wheels of our cars - It was one of the best days of school ever. I actually wanted the weekend to go quickly, as Monday was the day for testing our cars on the track and making any modifications if required, ready for the time trials on Tuesday. Most of the class couldn’t wait either and a friendly rivalry had already sprung up amongst classmates.

Monday came, and one by one, we were allowed to take our car to the top of the track and release it, seeing how well it performed. Giving the car a push was not permitted. I waited with great anticipation for my turn; my surname begins with ‘W’ so I was one of the last as we were going in alphabetical order. I was sure that the other kids would be so jealous when they saw how fast my car went. Finally my time came and I stepped up, make-shift bobsleigh in hand. I let go and it whizzed down the track at some speed, much faster than most. When it came to the curved bend, the bobsleigh almost shot over the top. ‘Ah, skills’ I thought to myself, ‘I can win this’. My main competitor, from what I could tell, would be a girl named Sarah Bow, who’s bobsleigh had also nearly left the track, such was the speed of it. I hadn’t noticed anyone other bobsleigh do this. I went home Monday a happy child, brimming with confidence about the following days competition.

Tuesday came and it was the final day of our Winter Olympic project, the day that we’d all been waiting for – the race competition. Excited voices filled the classroom that morning, every child was confident that their bobsleigh would win. I kept quiet; I knew that it was a two horse race between myself and Sarah Bow. After class registration, we had an opening ceremony. Every competitor had to go to the front of the classroom, say an interesting fact about the country they were representing and place their bobsleigh on the desk before returning to their seats. Mr. Marsh waited until the 25 or so small bobsleighs were lined up, and declared that we would be starting the day with a history lesson; competition would commence after break. What a tease.

We came into class after break time and the competition started. All did not go according to plan. The first couple of bobsleighs seemed to ‘stick’ to the track and wouldn’t go down it. Closer examination revealed that there was a cheat amidst us; the wheels of the toy cars had been stuffed with blu-tac. Picking up my car I noticed the same thing had been done to mine and the wheels were slightly bent. I was quite distraught – my hopes of winning the competition had been dashed. Mr. Marsh hit the fucking roof!
“Who has decided to cheat and ruin this for everyone?”. The walls shook such was the ferocity in his voice. No-one owned up, no-one daren’t look up; every child in the class had their eyes fixated on their desk. Mr. Marsh was clearly disappointed that someone would do such a thing. He explained that he would ‘come down like a ton of bricks’ on the person responsible for cheating, should he find out who had done it. Fortunately, such was his love for this project, he let us have until lunch time to fix our bobsleighs and competition would restart in the afternoon.

Rumours circulated during lunch break about who the phantom tamperer could be. One name kept springing up; Sarah Bow. Rat-Catcher Simon told me that he had seen her go back into the class during break time and a couple of other kids confirmed this. For me, that was enough evidence. She was a competitive little cow – it was widely known that her mum had completed her Mozart project earlier in the year and she had taken all the plaudits, as well as the book token first prize. I was fuming. My bobsleigh had no chance of winning, the bent wheels meant that it was now one of the slowest. If I couldn’t win, I was going to make sure that Sarah Bow couldn’t either.

I scoffed my lunch down faster than usual and left the canteen. I made my way towards our classroom, pausing only briefly for a quick sip from the water fountain – my throat was dry; I was going to do something devious, but I didn’t know what. The classroom door was open slightly, and peeking through I saw that the room was empty. Outside, I could see other members of my class playing ‘Tag around the bush’ and Mr. Marsh watching over the playground, wearing really tiny PE shorts. I entered the room and pushed the door shut behind me. On the desk in front of me were all the bobsleighs. My eyes scanned the desk quickly, looking for Sarah Bow’s, all the while I was listening intently for any sounds of someone coming. If I got caught it would ruin me, my reputation would be in tatters as I would surely have been prime suspect as the phantom tamperer.

I saw Sarah Bow’s bobsleigh, (a red and white one, I think it was Canada) and I grabbed it in my hand. I examined it –not a trace of any damage to the wheels; she must have tampered with everyone else’s, I was sure of it. What I did next still confuses me to this day. Not really knowing what to do with the bobsleigh, I dropped my trousers and inserted it into my anus. Now, this was the first time I’d ever put anything up there, and I was surprised by how quickly it slipped up once I’d got the nose of the car in. ‘Wow, it’s like it’s actually driving up me’ I remember thinking. At the time I was worried that our pockets or bags would be searched once Sarah discovered her bobsleigh was missing, so my arsehole was the only place where I could safely hide it. Once composed, I went into the playground and joined my friends, my bum pulsating slightly.

An upbeat vibe filled the classroom upon our return after lunch. Even Mr. Marsh seemed to have calmed down and was eager to start the competition. I stayed calm, I was perspiring slightly but I kept my cheeks clenched tightly, my stolen prize stayed put. I knew that Sarah Bow would go mental when she discovered her bobsleigh was missing.

To cut a long story short, she broke down in tears when it came to her go and she couldn’t compete. I think Mr. Marsh may have had his suspicions about her already, he just shrugged and said, “You must have misplaced it”. My heart swelled with pride and my buttocks ached with pain – I had stopped Sarah Bow winning and it was just what she deserved. I think Andrew ‘Carrot Nose’ Littlejohn won the competition in the end. I came in the bottom 3, but I wasn’t fussed. The highlight of the whole project for me was seeing Sarah Bow’s devious little plan all come unhinged. I waddled home that afternoon content with the world and had the most refreshing poo of my life to date. The Canadian bobsleigh slid slowly out of me and I picked it from the toilet bowl with some tissue paper and buried it in the garden.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 10:47, 10 replies)

Robbed
In sixth-form I did Physics A-Level and was part of a group asked to take part in a competition at Manchester Science Museum.

Four of us turned up to be told that we had to make a lunar rover out of Lego, capable of carrying Christmas trees(obviously) up a mountain on the moon.
The winning team would get some state of the art personal stereos. Pretty good prizes - this was pre-portable CD players and mp3 was a word not invented yet.

Our rover was immense. Geared to perfection and although slow, would drive up monstrous gradients. It also had a large platform for carrying the aforementioned moon-based Christmas trees.
The other teams were a bit younger and didn't have the Lego skillz that our team possessed and had all made single cogged-elastic band powered go-karts.
The competition began and in each round our magnificent tractor would grind it's way to the top of the ever increasing gradients.

Soon, there were only two rovers left - ours and one of the go-karts that seemed to have the most powerful motor.
The last round started and the gradient was death-defying.
The tiny go-kart tried and failed.
Now it was our turn. Cogs grated and the motor whined as the rover started up the hill... Unfortunately, as the rover was built to spec of transporting trees, it's weight was hampering it's progress and it ground to a halt halfway up, at pretty much the same point as the crappy go-kart.

A draw!

Surely our engineered rover, capable of actually carrying things and having a well designed gear system would be awarded the prize over the five minute cobbled-together go-kart which would barely carry a few twigs, never mind moon Christmas trees...

The teacher adjudicating decided that there was to be a play-off!
Who has the fastest rover over a flat surface?

To be honest, there wasn't much point even running the race as everyone in the room knew who would win.
We argued our case but to no avail - the teacher would not see reason and the kids with the go-kart were smug in the knowledge that we had no chance.

At the prize giving, we stood grinding our teeth, as each £75 stereo was handed over.
As the last kid received his stereo from the adjudicating teacher - two words still haunt me.

"Thanks Dad!"
( scoshi pretending to diet since, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 10:27, 6 replies)

If any of the people who were there read this, they'll know who I am (or, at the very least, what I've done)
For some bizarre reason, as part of my Masters degree, I had to come up with a phylogeny showing the 'evolution' of biscuit. Yes, I had to draw a little chart showing how biscuits had changed through the ages as part of a flippin' Masters degree course. I was so proud of my work I sent it into a website (I think it was something like acupofteaandachat.com or some such). Unfortunately the laptop that stored this wonderful piece of research died about three years ago otherwise I would share it with you

If it helps, in my opinion, custard cream are the pinnacle of biscuit evolution.

Don't ask me about Jaffa cakes.
( Funkenschlag still likes dogs more than cats, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 10:18, 35 replies)

Gae Paree (Gay Paris)
When I was about thirteen and doing French at my secondary school, the teacher asked us to make a french themed collage.

Mine took about five minutes to make:

1. A picture of a couple kissing on a bench in front of the Eiffel Tower.
2. Another picture of a french bloke.
3. Gullotined woman's head off.
4. Glued other bloke's head on.
5. Scrawled 'Gay Paris' over the top.
6. Handed said juxtaposed masterpiece to teacher.
7. Returned to drawing penises on heads of all the tour de france cyclists in the text book.
(theremin put the lotion in the basket on, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 10:18, 2 replies)

Brick shithouse wind turbine.
There were many poor and rubbish school projects over the years from the cardboard food grater, to the made up household cleaner however I've decided to tell you about the good one. The Brick shithouse wind turbine!

In physics a small group of us were "encouraged" (forced) to do a special project in conjunction with some university students who were presumeably either trainee paedos or wanted to work with school kids for some other reason.

This project, for they were engineering students, was to design, build and test different wind turbines. The glorious conclusion of which would be to test them to destruction in the wind tunnels at City University in London.

The other geeks threw their efforts into studying propeller design, aerofoils, motor transfers etc etc and getting all technical about it.

I was more of a down to earth than that. Imagine if you will an archaelogical dig. The other team members would be the ones with little trowels and toothbrushes while I would be using the digger. Ok, perhaps I wouldn't get the same perfect results but I'd get the job done quicker.

So with this attitude to the project we set about designing and building. The others put loads of effort into making very complex propeller designs that would efficiently capture the most gentle of breezes, then stuck them on shitty little towers. Just like the real thing we see out in the countryside.

I however realised a very important fact. We're making small wood and cardboard models. They're going in a fucking big wind tunnel. There is an issue of scale here. In other words it doesn't matter how good your "sail" is because with that much wind a fucking brick would move, but if the damn thing won't stand up it's useless anyway.

So I set about building the most solid tower structure the world has ever seen*. I used hot glue, cross braced wood, metal tie rings and behold my 50cm tower could hold my weight! To this I fitted the most basic childs windmill inspired propeller attached to a basic electric motor and output meter.

The big day came I got quite a piss taking from all where what I had resembled the eiffel tower with a childrens windmill on it, christened the "tellytubbie" it was not pretty. Into the wind tunnel it sat along side the carefully engineered wonders. My skoda to their ferrari.

We cranked up the wind tunnel.... 5mph breeze increasing 1mph every 30 seconds.... after a couple of minutes one of the others began to resonate and vibrate. They were all producing electricity, some more than others. The vibrations grew larger in the first turbine until we could see it literally tearing from it's base then it collapsed and fell to the floor. One down!

By the time 25mph was reached only 3 turbines remained... one looking very poorly indeed as it shook like an wind swept excited Mohammed Ali in an open top porsche. It clung until it's propeller span so fast it lost a blade, the sudden unbalance flinging the rest of it to the side.

Still the wind speed crept up and up until the tell tale vibrations began in the other competing turbine. It rocked and swayed slowly tearing itself apart until spectacularly it just seemed to explode. The wind speed high enough that the pieces were flung to the far end of the room and pressed to the exit grate.

Only my tellytubbie windmill remained! The windmill span in a dizzying blur but the tower was solid as a rock. With an evil glint the tunnel operator cranked the speed up determined to destroy my work.... the wind reached 50mph.... 60mph....as it edged closer to 70mph there was a spark and the meter reading died. Yep, my windmill was now spinning so fast it produced more electricity than the meter would cope with and burnt it out. Eventually at 74mph my windmill "propeller" came off the tower and it was game over for my turbine but still my tower stood in a sea of debris of the other failed ones.

I was triumphant and being the twat I was back then I made sure the others knew it.

The teacher was a bullying northern tosser and thought I was thick as shit, perhap I was as most of what he said made no sense, but I can erect a very firm tower**!

To this day I still over engineer things but I have to say it works. Like the plate rack I built... that I could also do chin ups on!


* may not be true, but was pretty solid for wooden dowels and coat hangers!

** 2 years later I found out that while I could erect a firm tower, the teacher couldn't, which is why his wife left him.... for a woman!
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 10:15, Reply)

School Project
Being a bit of a swot I thought I would ace my school project-making a lamp with a elaphants body, when you pulled the trunk the light was supposed to come on. Only mine didn't
I ended up in dentention over it. On a Saturday of all days with a right crowd of steryotypes, A jock, a princess, a weirdo and a troublmaker. We didnt get on at first but by end of the day we were smoking dope and copping off.
I wonder what happend to those people. A few years later I ended up in a coma and then spent the rest of my time doing good deeds and trying to prevent the end of the world.
Yours
Brian Johnson
(Gru being trolled since 1998, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 10:14, 3 replies)

I'm not proud
In my second year of 6th form I talked a girl who I knew fancied me in to letting me borrow her English A level coursework so I could 'get ideas' for mine.

She got in trouble for copying me.


Serves her right anyway, she was a bit warped and once claimed to have been raped by a cab driver to get attention from me (and yes, it was later confirmed to have been a lie).



I got a C overall though, if anyone's interested.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 10:14, Reply)