Please, Miss! You're on my cock!
It was a geography trip to a local forest to show us how deciduous trees grow, or some such shite. The only good thing about it was that our geography teacher was Miss Miller, at 23 not improbably older than us and every 17 year-old's fantasy. Her tits are burned in my memory even now.

As it was a sixth form thing, the school didn't hire a coach but a minibus. One problem: there weren't enough seats, and as Miss Miller was the last to board, she had nowhere to sit.

"One of you lads is going to have to sit on another," she said. This was soundly rejected as nobody wanted to endure a lifetime of homosexual jibes. So she said, "OK, I'm going to have to sit on your lap, Frankspencer." And she did.

By Christ she had a soft arse! And as she wriggled it to get comfortable, I felt little Frank becoming rigid. After a very short time, so did she. But she wasn't about to mention it in front of everyone else. Indeed, she didn't get up or show any sign of embarrassment. She started to rub against it.

At first, I thought it was accidental, but when she opened her legs a little and pushed her hips back to position herself precisely on my bulging tip, I guessed otherwise. Back and forth she rubbed until I could control myself no longer and filled my boxers with molten jis.

As we prepared to disembark from the minibus, she whispered in my ear with hot breath, "That'll teach you not to get up for a lady" and tripped off to explain about photosynthesis - as cold ejacualte trickled down my thigh.
(frankspencer, Fri 8 Dec 2006, 14:59, Reply)

Anal Yodelling.
About 5 years ago I did a job, a conference, in a very quiet off-season Swiss resort.
The venue was a huge hall jutting out from a hostel type place, on stilts, containing 4 indoor tennis courts with a glass wall at one end giving a spectacular view of the Alpine scenery. Concerned about the acoustics of such a hangar-sized building , myself and a colleague strolled in to find that the place had been taken over by a large party of rowdy French schoolkids aged about 10-12. They were hanging out of their dorm windows, shouting, fighting, throwing bags at each other, totally Sunny D’d .

Reaching the centre of that cavern, 2 courts in, we realised it was an acoustic nightmare.
Needing to think and wanting to silence the French ADHD party, I bellowed “Hey!!! Ecoutez!” at them. Instantly, they all fell completely silent, stopped in mid-pillow fight and turned to face us. At that point, I struck the pose, cocked my leg, and kick started my imaginary motorbike, unleashing the longest drawn-out sheet tearing rip-snorting fart I have ever done. It was audio perfection, changed pitch mid-way, and I swear it bounced off the mountains and reverberated round that hall for about 10 seconds, I couldn’t believe such a beast had emanated from my very own dirtbox. Lifting off the pedal before I drew mud, I turned to face the schoolkids and took a bow. There was absolute, perfect silence for just a split-second before they (and us) erupted in screams of laughter. Picking ourselves up, literally, we left the building with them still howling.

For the rest of the week whenever we happened across the party of French kids in their class gatherings, all you could hear were them making loud farting noises prompting their teachers/handlers to go completely mental trying to restore order. They obviously had no clue as to why the appearance of these Englishmen triggered total mayhem from their little charges.

I like to think that they all went home and wrote essays about the Incredible English Anal Yodeller (and his astounded colleague)
(Rsoles, Mon 11 Dec 2006, 22:39, Reply)

Just when you thought it was safe
We went to the swimming pool every Friday for the ritual humiliation of bearing our bodies to classmates so we could be mocked for years afterwards about our fat / hair / birthmarks / no tits etc. But at the end of each term, we were allowed to mess about with snorkels and masks.

This provided a great opportunity to swim beneath Judy B in order to get a cod's eye view of her love mound. It also led to the situation where Adam S, a portly boy with freckles, had a dump in the pool.

The high fat and corn content in the said log caused it to bob heartily in his wake, causing the sadistic paedo swimming instructor to order everyone out of the pool to avert a hygiene scandal. And everyone fled the pool like that scene in Jaws - everyone except John K, who surfaced from the deep directly below the trident sub that was Adam's stool.

As we gasped, it narrowly missed his breathing tube. As we winced, it settled with amazing accuracy on the top of his mask, shelf-like.

Imagine how it must have seemed to him, surfacing to see his classmates screaming and pointing at him. Imagine the sensation as he slipped off the mask to ask "WHAT?!" ... and slicked the still warm turd back through his hair.

He used a whole bottle of shampoo later.
(frankspencer, Wed 13 Dec 2006, 13:46, Reply)

Didn't we have a luvverly time the day we went to...
...Jodrell Bank space telescope? Well, no, not really. We were about eight or nine, and Mavourneen started whining about halfway up the motorway that she needed a shit. So our teacher Mrs Woods forced all of us to move into the front half of the coach (which meant perching on any available knee of the slightly older delegation from another - much rougher - school that we didn't even fucking know, inevitably leading to all kinds of "now we know your boy/girlfriend" taunts) while she used all of our coats (!) to make a feeble impromptu 'curtain' across the rear half.

She then 'borrowed' a tube of Pringles off fattie Briggs (even this lardfelcher was NOT going to be asking for it back) , gave us one each to keep us 'occupied', and, still munching on a sizeable handful herself, embarked upon the distinctly audible (and presumably highly balletic) process of coaxing Mavourneen into a breathtakingly dextrous bout of bum-sniper-tastic precision pooing at 55mph in the slow lane. Apparently she was doing alright until it started to curl.

Afterwards, Mrs Woods threw the vile scud from the moving coach window, and told us in no uncertain terms that any further mention of the incident would result in a week of after-school sums. By the time we got to Jodrell (rubbish) half an hour later, entire classes from two different schools had racked up detentions lasting until sometime in mid-2026.
( grey kid is breakdancing to save a community centre, Tue 12 Dec 2006, 15:58, Reply)

I shouldn't have made up

that I got my hands on the ample boobs of Andrea, aged 15, on a camping trip.

I certainly shouldn't have kind of grinned and admitted it when the headmaster asked me.

I thought he'd just say I couldn't go on school trips any more.

But no, he fired me.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 8 Dec 2006, 6:28, Reply)

We were all going on a trip to France in first year.
So the bus was full of 11 year olds and four teachers who were trying to be 'cool' and show how hip they were. A friend of mine was playing Dares with a few other guys; they dared my friend to take a dump in a brown paper bag. He does it. The bag gets passed around, much to everybody's dismay, one of the teacher notices the fuss.

"what's going on here then?"
"Nobody wants to pop the bag, sir"
"you wusses, give it here then."

*SPLAT*

To this day, I've never heard children screaming so loud.
( TonyUNDERSCORE from the Internet, Sun 10 Dec 2006, 1:01, Reply)

Don't Stare at the Monkeys
Many moons ago we got taken to Chessington, and before we could go on any ride, we had to do the poxy biology trip around the zoo. One question on the sheet was about monkeys, and while we are looking at the them, the Biology teacher says to us "Don't stare at them", "Why?" says we, "'Coz they get all upset and think you are challenging them, here, watch" At which point he starts to stare at a little spider (type) monkey.

Said monket starts going crazy, jumping around and screaming. At which point the teacher says, "see, told you they don't like it!" and then, at they very instant, the monkey lepas at the cage infront of us, screams, rattles the cage, leans back, and then launches the most enourmous piece of monkey spit straight into the teachers eyes and mouth. Funny? not as funny as when he started running about screaming " AIDS! AIDS! I might have AIDS! "
(smirker neverletmetellyabouttheraggamuffinbiznessandting!, Fri 8 Dec 2006, 10:52, Reply)

bidet
On our school trip to France, Wayne pooed in the bidet and Mr Strudwick found it and had a flip out. He shouted "who is responsible for this", actually holding it in a tissue. Very unsavoury.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Thu 7 Dec 2006, 11:34, Reply)

Shrewsbury
Back around 1994 I went on a school trip to Shrewsbury to see mines or whatever. On one of the days was a visit to some village where they dress up like the days of old and herd pigs around. On arrival I realised that I needed a nice big dump but, the first part of the day being guided, I had to wait. Come lunchtime we are sent off to do our own thing so I hurry to the shitter. Unfortunately the facilities were some what run down. They were in such a state that there was a dispenser on the wall of disposable plastic bog-seat covers so you didn’t have to get AIDS off the seat. Sadly I didn’t have the right change so I ended up deciding that I could wait until we made it back to the hostel. But the cramps took over in the later part of the day. They got to that stage where you just have to freeze or you know you’ll shit yourself.
The journey back on the coach was somewhat white knuckle feeling every bump in the road. At one point I went to lend my Gameboy to another kid and froze mid-handing due to a massive cramp. He just looked at me like I was nuts…
So we finally make it back to the hostel and I waddle inside and straight to the downstairs bog. Ahhhhhh! Sweet release! That dump still makes my all time top ten list!
Having finished and now a few stone lighter I retire to the dorm room and get changed for dinner. On heading downstairs it would seem that there is something wrong. People are walking through the lobby and winching. There are two girls on the phone who look like they might be sick. Then it hits me, the ripe smell of the cable I had laid 20 minutes earlier was thick in the air since the bog I used was off the lobby! Feigning ignorance I casually asked what the bad smell was. Their answer, and I’m still proud of this to this day, was:

“It smells like a rat died in there”

I think the handyman was sent to look for the dead animal and everything!

Yes!!
(Phelpsy Bollocks trapped behind radiator since, Tue 12 Dec 2006, 17:47, Reply)

Lassie Come Home
Like every unfortunate Yorkshire child of the 80's, one of our school trips consisted of us getting in a coach and travelling no more than 20 miles to the local pit (you know, so we can see where all our families used to work before Thatcher made them all poor and bitter).

We have fun, going down the pit, having a look around the coal museum (again, I am from Yorkshire..) and playing on the swings. Time to go home, and we all pile on the coach. Sensible Teacher counts all the heads..30 children. We set off.

Half way home an almighty racket ensues! There is a dog on the bus! Dog gets let off at park, a few kids are bollocked, one cries, the usual. We set off.

When we get back our parents are waiting to meet us, for it is 3.30 and working past this time is unthinkable. We are all greeted by our parents..apart from Mr and Mrs Cosgrove who are (slightly frantically) searching for little Simon, a ginger kid who was good at the piano. 'Everyone was on the coach when we left the colliery' says Sensible Teacher. Until she is called into the school by the headteacher, with the parents. Oh dear. What has happened to poor Simon!?

Turns out Simon was in the pit gift shop buying an oversized pencil when the coach left. How did Sensible Teacher count all 30 heads..yes, it is shamefully so.

She counted a fucking DOG as a kid. A DOG!

Fuck screening for paedophiles and murderers. There should be a tick box option for anyone applying for a job in a school. A picture of a kid with the caption 'what is this'? If she writes 'DOG' then burn her CV!!
(Northern Lovely, Thu 7 Dec 2006, 16:09, Reply)

Dressed For Action
At the age of eight our entire year went on a weekend trip to top quality northern olde worldy attraction village Beamish. On the second day our headmaster advised us to wear 'something comfortable' on our feet. Being a tad naive at that age I took it a bit literally; which is why I was sent back to the bus after being spotted, wading through a ton of pig shit at the farm enclousure, in my Action Man slippers.

Kudos.
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Sat 9 Dec 2006, 10:13, Reply)

Anvil
As part of our history lessons, we were taken to see a blacksmith working at an old-fashioned smithy. Cue: fiery furnace and a huge, hairy-armed bloke pelting away at near-molten metal with a giant hammer on his anvil.

The time came when it went interactive and the blacksmith asked for a helper. I volunteered to hit a red hot bar with the hammer while he turned it accordingly. Only the bloody thing was so heavy I needed two hands to lift it, and on the downward stroke I missed the anvil entirely.

I dropped the hammer on his foot. This caused him to scream "You little fucking prick!" in a rather uneducational manner while hopping around with a glowing rod in his gloved hand.

The last thing I heard as I fled the smithy in fear was my teacher Mr Biggin trying to placate the man:

Biggin: "I'm sure he didn't mean it.
Blacksmith: "I'm gonna rip the little bastard a new arse!
(frankspencer, Thu 7 Dec 2006, 16:03, Reply)

Bit Of A Pearoast
.

We were on a school trip somewhere in the Dales and the PE guy was with us along with Morticia, an RE teacher. First night there, teachers all headed for the pub and we headed for a different pub that was happy to serve us. Come 11pm and we headed back to the hostel where, on entering, we could hear whimpers and a series of heavy thuds. When we got upstairs we found a drunken PE teacher trying to smash down the door to Morticia's room bellowing

"Come on you cock-teasing tart! I Only want a little bit....."

We mobbed him and dragged him off to a broom cupboard where we locked him in for the night to sober up.

Teachers - you can't take them anywhere

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 7 Dec 2006, 12:08, Reply)

I believe I have already answered this question with my most memorable school trip:
here you go

small as you like, no?
( mrlogic is copying your beard, Tue 12 Dec 2006, 16:35, Reply)

The special button
When we were about 15 we were sent on a school trip to tour HMS Illustrious which was docked in Portsmouth. Upon arrival we were duly split into groups and trundled in different directions around the ship.

When our group got to the bridge the spotty sailor in charge said we could play around as everything was off. Cue me discovering the best button on board: the one with the little plastic cover that you have to lift in order to press it.

Pretending I was about to launch a missile I lifted the cover, gave myself a suitable Thunderbirds-style countdown and pressed.

For a millisecond nothing happened, then it all went a bit crazy. Things started bleeping, alarms started buzzing and our guide went a bit pale.

The captain ran up to the bridge and we were all hurriedly escorted onto the deck. Turned out that some of the emergency buttons weren’t as off as they could have been and I’d just put the whole of the Naval Base, and therefore the whole of the British Navy, on red alert.

It seems that I’d found the equivalent of the ship's panic button.

Two things happen when you press the button. The first is that it sends a signal saying “we’re under serious fucking attack – help!” the second is that it starts up some super radar thingy that, if used on land, would have sterilised all the women in Portsmouth.

Surely, stopping the local Pompey chavs from breeding (and I say this as a local) would have been worthy of the freedom of the city… but no, we were escorted off the ship by armed guard and our school was banned on the spot from ever setting foot on board again.




As a postscript – it was a crappy ban. Three years later I was a journalist and the captain of Illustrious contacted our newspaper to invite one of us on a press trip to the Gulf. Guess who went…



Penis length is fine, I just can’t get anyone pregnant…
( DickieDoesDallas eshews witty slogans, Fri 8 Dec 2006, 2:43, Reply)

Trip to a local church
We were supposed to be studying this fine example of Norman architecture but things deteriorated a little when:

- Simon Johnson broke a thousand year-old stained glass window with a stone.
- Moira Kelly shit her pants and cried about it until it was time to go.
- John Dawson broke his shin trying to hurdle a tombstone.
- Previous to breaking his shin, he carved '666' in a pew with his penknife.
- Bradley was caught stealing from bags on the coach.
- Lee Sharpe put a dead squirrel in Moira's bag (exacerbating her shit-stimulated tears).
- Jonathan Booker stole a Bible and cried when we told him he was going to Hell.

The University of Sheffield no longer takes trips to that church.
(frankspencer, Mon 11 Dec 2006, 14:02, Reply)

French Cycling Trip
It must have been about 1986 or thereabouts. 25 or so fifteen year old hooligans cycling down the Cherbourg peninsula to St Malo for the best part of a week. Glorious carefree sunny days, camping and staying in Youth Hostels, you get the picture. There were two teachers with us (one cycling, one driving the school minibus with all our bags, etc in) who were fairly happy to turn a blind eye to the occasional fag smoked or bottle of cheap frogplonk being passed around.
Late one hot afternoon myself and a mate of mine called John were ambling along a typical Normandy country road on our racers, and as far as we were concerned we were bringing up the rear, so to speak. We couldn't see the rest of the lads or the van up front, so on noticing the rotting corpse of a poor run-over cat on the grass verge a very wicked plot was hatched between us. As any veteran of any childhood trip to France knows, explosive bangers are (or at least were) freely available at most newsagents/toy shops, and all of our group, without exception had a small arsenal of them about their person ready to let off as soon as the teachers were out of sight and earshot. Dangerous fireworks and teenage boys. What a winning combination that is.
John pulled out one of the biggest bangers imaginable (it looked like a small stick of dynamite) and gently inserted it into the cat's gaping mouth. The stench up close was fucking awful, and you could see maggots crawling around everywhere.
John then took the fuses from two other smaller bangers and joined them to the original one, in order to allow us time to cycle out of the "blast zone".
He lit the fuse. We ran like fuck to our bikes, got on them and pedalled away. Twenty seconds or so later we were further down the road and stopped to witness the spectacle. Two seconds after that Mr Pell rounded the corner in the minibus. One second after that the minibus was re-decorated in putrid, decaying cat.
We fucking pissed ourselves.
Mr Pell (who had been driving with the windows open) took a very different view.
All the other lads' bangers were confiscated that evening, and myself and John were therefore not all that popular for the rest of the trip, but hey - it was worth it.
Shoplifting crap aftershave became the next holiday pastime by the way. To this day, even the faintest whiff of "Hai Karate" takes me back to rural France.

No apologies for length. The cat loved it.
( BobbyParadise, Thu 7 Dec 2006, 14:01, Reply)

Leningrad
School trip to Leningrad in March 1985, back when it was still proper scary Russia. We'd all stocked up on thick sweaters and enormous coats, only for an incredible heatwave to hit the country - we checked the international weather in a paper in Heathrow and discovered that it was six or seven degrees hotter in Moscow than in London.

So we're in Leningrad and it's not exactly sweltering, but it's not cold. And 'cos of the heat, the ice further up the Neva has started to thaw, so there are chunks of ice the size of busses floating down the river, and inevitably a lot of them end up sitting against the riverbank, temptingly well within jumping range.

One of the third formers decided that it would be both funny and good to jump onto one of these mini-icebergs. Turns out it wasn't. The force of his landing dislodged it from the bank and sent him drifting off towards Finland. Only some remarkable quick thinking and some truly incredible leaping (onto the ice floe) and throwing (the terrified teenager) by one of the teachers saved the holiday.
(Wong Fei-Hung - now with added flickr.com (see profile), Thu 7 Dec 2006, 11:50, Reply)

PC gone mad!
We went on a trip to Hamsterly Forest. Anna was perched on a quite a large rock when she fainted. Mr Davis, who was standing behind her didn't catch her incase he grabbed "the wrong part".

She split her head open.
(Peter Sutcliffe's Right Bollock, Tue 12 Dec 2006, 18:40, Reply)

Cub trip
Cub trip to Aldershot army days.

Lots of fun running about with tanks and guns and assault courses and things.

One display had a big collection of weapons to play with - pistol, rifles and machine guns. No ammo, obviously, but the squaddie in charge was enthusiasticly showing us eight-year old psychopaths how to cock a light machine gun and pull the trigger. Clackety clackety clack.
That was great.

Later on that day, me and five or so mates were clambering over an armoured car thing, which had a machine gun mounted on the top of the turret. Ah cool, thinks me, I know how to work these now. So I pulled back the charging handle and pulled the trigger.

Clackety clackety clackety. No ammo in it, of course, but by some complete conicidence of timing an old 1940s barrage balloon on the other side of the field chose that moment to catch fire.

I was CONVINCED I'd just shot it down.

The squaddie looking after us, the bastard, must have seen the look on my face and said something along the lines of 'ooooohh, you lot are in big trouble...if anyone finds out..'

Even though I had been the one pulling the trigger, all five of us were fulling shitting ourselves now.

'mister, please don't tell on us'.

The squaddie goes very serious and says
'ok lads. But you must never tell a soul about this.'

We solemnly nodded, and none of us EVER mentioned it. Not even to each other. On the trip home the other kids were talking about how cool it was when that balloon caught fire.

We never said a word.

I was about 14 before I realised that the bastard was teasing us and there was no way on earth I could have shot that bloody thing down.

I don't like guns now.
(inflateable, Tue 12 Dec 2006, 17:23, Reply)

Apeshit
Condensed (yes, even more long-winded) from the entry at www.stevedix.de/blog/305

Our school once decided to take us all to Twycross Zoo, home of tea-recommending chimps and TV-watching gorillas. (no, really).

On this trip was someone who shall be known as "Charlie". Charlie was the school psychopath. Charlie was so mental that even the hard kids avoided him.

We arrived at Twycross and were herded round the cages, which seemed to be full of shit and little else. This bored Charlie, who disappeared. We were sent to find him, before he mauled a lion or something.

I discovered him just in time to see the horror unfold. Charlie had discovered a chimp that had been isolated from the others in a wire cage. The chimp blew raspberries at everyone. Charlie, on discovering this, blew raspberries back.

The chimp spat at him.

Charlie spat back.

The chimp then calmly stuck his hand underneath his arse, and filled his hand with his own shit. Charlie was too busy laughing to mimic that, which was an unfortunate mistake, as it left his mouth wide open.

None of the shit really missed him, which was incredible, considering it had passed through a wire-link cage.

When we got back to the coach, the teacher sniffed suspiciously. "What's that on Charlie?" she asked.

Bingo.

"It's chimp-shit, miss".

First post, apologies for enormous cock. er.
( Stevedix http://www.stevedix.de/blog, Tue 12 Dec 2006, 12:13, Reply)

Permission slips
We had to get permission slips signed to visit Hampton Court Maze, because of the danger of becoming lost forever within its mysterious depths. Kathy Peters' mother refused. Probably sensible, as she was borderline mong.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Mon 11 Dec 2006, 15:06, Reply)

horrendous. simply horrendous.
as i posted in "inappropriate crushes", i was totally and utterly smitten with my historyteacher. bells ringing, birds tweeting, me blushing every time he came anywhere near me. and the entire school knew about it and ripped the piss mercilessly. usually in the middle of lessons.

so when i was about 14, we went on an overnight history trip to wales. we went to a medieval banquet, all dressed up (apart from one gimp whose parents wouldn't spring for the costume hire, so he was in school uniform. ouch) and then stayed in a castle youth hostel. the next day we were to study a castle all day.

i never have been able to help myself (unless it's to more wine or chocolate) and i brought this on my own head, i think. when the divine mr d asked for some volunteers to go on the chugging minibus instead of the coach with him, i elbowed my friends and we were in there! result!! how happy was i, casting covert and swooning looks at his beautiful face in the rearview mirror.

until approximately 15 mins after we set off, when the entire bus of about 20 students started singing "rswipe and mr d. sitting in a tree..." and so on. all the way to wales, or so it felt. he was bright red, grinning like a loon, and mounting every kerb with embarrassment. i was in a puddle under the seat, walkman on full whack to drown out the horror.

you'd think it couldn't get any more adolescently scarring, but that was just the appetiser in the restaurant of pain. after the banquet, the minibus kids got back to the hostel first due to mr d being a bit of a speed demon. eager to get to the antiquated bathroom before the rest got back, but desperate to get out of the stupid medieval dress, i wriggled into my nightie. doom.

by mistake i had packed a very inappropriate for my age slithery peach satin number that my grandad had bought me (please don't ask!), which clung unashamedly to my then very flat chest and skinny thighs. the latter still being fetchingly clad in black holdups and heels as it was a stone floor and i didn't want to go bare foot.

i ran down the stairs, cleaned teeth etc. then, leaving the bathroom and grubbing around in my bag for something, i quite literally sashayed smack. bang. into mr d. he was pacing around waiting for the coach to return and was understandably annoyed at having a seductively dressed scarlet faced teen bang into him non-existent cleavage first and fall over, legs akimbo. he looked at me, and his amazing blue eyes almost popped out of his head with horror.

"you... you... what are you DOING?? oh, get back to bed!" he moaned. i fled. it was only later that i realised he thought i'd probably been trying to seduce him...

trying? pah! if i'd ever really tried, he'd have - well, as he turned out to have been gay all along, probably my only chance would have been to turn round and bend over!!

apologies for length, but you've saved me a fortune on therapy xx
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 7 Dec 2006, 18:08, Reply)

MUMS!
Make sure your child is socially fucked for years not weeks, by packing 2 pairs of unisex plastic underpants 'just in case' on a 'Schools Abroad' trip to France...
(David Fishwick Minibus Sales - notmad.co.uk, Thu 7 Dec 2006, 16:27, Reply)

Sheep!
Once hiking across Dartmoor on a DofE trip, everyone had to make a sizeable jump across a ditch, probably about 1 1/2 metres. Once 10 or 12 people have jumped across, the landing strip becomes a bit slippery, given this was spring time on a marshland.

Which knobber went last? Me. So I make the jump, find a total lack of grip, and slip feet first into the ditch. This particular ditch was brim full with what can only be described as 'shit'. It had the smell and consistency of fresh cow dump. Now at the tender age of 14 I was already about 5'11", and when I fell into this bugger I went all the way up to my chest, probably about nipple height, and I couldn't feel the bottom. Understandably a bit panicked at the prospect of dying in a shitty grave, I started grabbing at the grass on the bank to try and pull myself up. While my friends stood their absolutely pissing themselves.

Eventually, and I mean at least 2 minutes of me begging them to get me out because this vile stuff was seeping into my hiking boots, 2 of them grab my arms and try to hoik me out, but they're having some trouble. I can feel something on my foot, pressure on the top of it every time they pull. I don't think too much about this given the situation, and tell them to stop being such pansies and get me the hell out.

So they pull again, and eventually I'm free and on the bank. And I find out what the pressure on my foot was. A decomposing sheep carcass had gotten hooked around my foot, basically I think it's jaw got locked into my foot. It was at a wondeful stage of decomposition, where the wool was still discernable at places, but it didn't really resemble a sheep any more.

No-one much fancied walking next to me that day, and I spent the rest of the hike walking with decomposing sheep sloshing round in my boots.

Got my DofE Bronze though. :)

Length? It's my first time, length is the least of my worries!
( Rookie You'll have to speak up, I'm wearing a towel, Thu 14 Dec 2006, 16:34, Reply)

Beauvais Skate Doom
I went on a couple of French exchanges to Beauvais, in France. I guess this time I would have been around 14.

There was a girl I fancied at the time going, and her French exchange partner fancied me, so we hung around together a bit. One day we went ice skating. The 2 girls both knew how to skate, but I had never been before.

After a while of floundering around at the side of the rink, they both came over, and grabbed a hand each. Then they proceeded to pull me around the rink at high speed, which they both thought was hilarious. However, one of them let go, causing me to spin and immediately lose my balance.

As I fell, I reflexively flailed my arms and grabbed out, taking Charlotte (the English one) down with me.

She banged the back of her head hard against the ice. I laughed and tried to pull her up, but she seemed dazed and disoriented, so we went back to the benches at the side to wait for her to recover properly.

After a while it became obvious that rather than getting better, she was getting vaguer and vaguer. We started to worry, and the French girl called her mother, who was a doctor. After a while she arrived, and took one quick look at Charlotte, and then immediately erupted into a whirlwind of activity.

She had to be rushed to hospital immediately, she said. As the only person who could speak both French and English, I went along as translator. The front seat of the car was flattened back as flat as it would go, and I sat in the back while the doctor screeched through Beauvais at rally-driver pace.

She kept shouting to me (in French obviously) "Keep her talking! Don't let her go to sleep!" and so, with increasing anxiety, I tried to keep her talking "what's your name, where are you" sort of stuff. She got quieter and quieter, muttering "it's because of the weather, it's because of the weather" over and over again.

After a while, she went quiet for a bit, then opened her eyes and took off her ring, which had a flower on it, and gave it to me, saying "look after the flower" - then her eyes closed and she went limp.

No matter how frantically I babbled at her, I could not get her to regain consciousness. She was well and truly out. I was beginning to realise that I had killed her at this point.

We got to the hospital, and a stretcher was rushed out, and we wheeled her in. We had to spend a few minutes waiting for the X-Ray room before anything could be done.

There was incidental muzak piped through a tannoy. Suddenly Charlotte's eyes flicked open. She stared straight into my eyes and asked

"Is that the angels singing?"

then she slumped back again. "Oh holy fucking shit" I thought- "even she thinks she's dead."

Then they wheeled her into the X-ray room, and I spent the next 15 minutes pacing arouind the waiting room, trying to process the fact that I had just accidentally killed my friend.

Eventually the doctor came back in. She looked very concerned, but still a bit relieved. I asked her whether Charlotte was alive. "Yes, she'll live" she told me. "But she has broken her neck."

I went to see her after a day or 2. She had a cast from her chin to her waist. She didn't look well or happy, but I was just incredibly relieved she was alive. Eventually they sent her back to England, and then she was out of the cast and into a brace, and then eventually she was perfectly OK, but of course I could never really have a proper conversation with her again. She didn't blame me - to be honest I think I was the only one who really blamed myself, but still, blame myself I did.

Anyway, at least she survived.

When I got back to England my mum had been ice skating, and had torn ligaments in her leg, crippling her for ages.

So there you go - the moral of the story is never go ice-skating, for it is satan's passtime.
( crab_bloke), Thu 14 Dec 2006, 12:21, Reply)

Menstrual France
For some reason, I missed out on a trip to France with my year when I was in my third year at high school. I could have been ill or something - anyway, the second years went shortly after the third years came back, so I went with them instead.

I was the big boy, and everyone kinda looked up to me. I got all the sausages at meal times, and everyone would listen, enthralled as I regaled them with Third Year stories, helping them appreciate the hidden wonders of Mid-School life. I also got kudos off the ladies of the group, but sadly no handjobs.

One evening, I was scaring the shit out of a group with some spooky stories. We all retired to sleep. In the morning, we were all awoken by a scream. Hurtling down the corridor, we opened the door of one of the girl's dorms, to find blood smeared down the left hand door of the wardrobe. The issuer of the scream had just discovered it.

Everyone was questioned. No-one admitted to having smeared the blood - everyone was jumpy anyway, 'cos of my storytelling Skillz the previous evening. The teachers weren't too sure what had happened.

The next morning, another scream. There was now blood in another girl's bed, and in the bathroom.

The girl was questioned - it turns out she had her first period. Her parents must have been shit, as she had no idea what was happening to her poor 12 year old body. So she mopped up what she could with her hands, and wiped it on the wardrobe door, and, I assume, thinking she was some kind of freak, hoped it would go away. Then, obv, she slept and bled all evening. Quite a heavy one too.

So, yes. That was my introduction to the wonder that is Menstrual Fluid. It was also my introduction to tits (I got a sneaky glance at a rather fine pair of buds), and I sniffed a bra. Not quite sure why, but I liked it.

School trips are ace.
(V3lvetPresley, Sun 10 Dec 2006, 20:46, Reply)

She appreciated the arts
Back when I was at high school in the US, our school orchestra wanted to go on a week-long school trip to Europe. As they were a bit short of cash, they decided to ask local businesses to sponsor them in return for advertisement on the back of the official trip T-shirt.

One day, a women in her forties calls in and says she'd like to sponsor the school orchestra. My violinist friend meets her and collects $200. "What's the name of your business?"

"Beulah's Raw Sex."

Yep, she's a hooker.

The music teacher forced them to print the name backwards, "Xes war s'halueb", but the official school trip shirts still advertised her services on their European tour.

And that's the story of how our orchestra's school trip was sponsored by a prostitute.
(generic hybrid, Sat 9 Dec 2006, 2:05, Reply)

Norfolk People. Bless 'em.
I was on a school trip to London, all the way from sunny Norfolk. I think we were going to see Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead or some such play. Anyway, with us on the trip were a couple of third years (Year 9 to you youngsters I believe) when about ten minutes after the prerequisite pee and sandwich stop, one of these younger lads starts hollering that he needs the loo. The teachers, having only just ferried us back onto the bus, were understandably miffed and told him he'd have to wait for a bit. There's silence for about ten minutes, when all of a sudden this god awful screeching and wailing and nashing of teeh comes from the rear of the coach. Girls are sobbing and screaming, boys are howling and gagging. The bus screeches to a halt and we all turn around to see this lad, squatting over his lunch box, dropping into it the biggest, wettest coil of turd you have ever seen. After finishing his poo, he calmly pissed into the lunchbox (still squatting) and then walked the walk of shame down the bus to throw it out of the door. He didn't stay very long at our school after that.

Apologies, etc etc.
( bennyhillslovechild, Thu 7 Dec 2006, 13:20, Reply)

teachers go Golding
a girl in our holiday camp dorm, on a trip to swanage, liked to sing, and when the lights went out she'd blast out a tune or two. not a problem - she was pretty good and we'd all sing along.

a few nights in, whilst she's singing, one of the teachers throws open the door, and says for us all to be quiet. I say 'says', I mean 'slurs'. so we have a giggle, and when we think she's gone, we all start up again, unknown to us she's just hiding in the corner of the pitch black room. this time she makes the girl get out of bed, wearing just a slip, and brings her out to the corridor. one of the other girls runs to the door, and this is what she reports:

Outside our room is a campfire. In a CORRDOR. Around it are all the teachers, smoking fags and sharing a couple of bottles of vodka, confiscated from the boys. When they see the girl being led out towards them, they all cheer. The teacher who brought her out tells the other teachers she was singing. The art teacher, therefore, tells her to sing. The girl is faced with ten rowdy, drunk, teachers/arsonists, she's almost naked, there's a fire in front of her, and they're going to make her sing for them. So she does the sensible thing, and starts crying. This then results in the jeering pissheads trying to set her slip on fire with lighters, before she makes a run for it back to our dorm, where once she's in, we all pile against the door to keep the teachers out, who start trying to kick the door in. After about ten minutes they give up and go away. We spend the rest of the night with one of the bunkbeds propped up against the door.

The next morning, but for the burnt hole in the corridor carpet, all is normal. Neither us pupils or the teachers ever spoke of it again.

It was a 'progressive comprehensive' my school. For my money, it was mostly just odd.
(niceandwarmandhot vive la résistance, Thu 7 Dec 2006, 12:53, Reply)