What is it about France that brings out the very worst in children?
Year 11 and we're all off on a 4 day residential trip to France to go look at WW2. So much went unbelievably wrong on this trip that it ended up being the last foreign trip our school ever took.

Frankly I don't think any of the staff quite knew what they were letting themselves in for. Firstly, the French are a bit more lax when it comes to serving alcohol to children. They're also quite good when it comes to fireworks. There was also a full scale riot in Arromanche when we were allowed to roam free.

However, the real triumph was the unmitigated carnage that was inflicted on the hotel we were staying in.

The guys in the room next door had already acquired something of a reputation by Day 2. A large amount of porn, booze and fireworks had already been confiscated from these guys (secretly I think our teachers were pretty damn grateful to get all that stuff for free) and so they were already blacklisted.

Anyway, it also turns out that as well as having a tendency to purchase contraband items, they also weren't too good at looking after their accommodation. After a long hard day of running around the beaches and shouting various Nazi slogans from the D-Day gun emplacements, we were all back at the hotel by about 10pm. There were 4 of us in our room, and as we walked down the corridor, we couldn't help but notice that hall carpet was a bit squelchier than you'd expect. In fact, it was absolutely soaking. Luckily though, our room was fine, so we thought no more about it, got into our bunks and popped on the telly. If there's one thing you can guarantee about French telly, it's that there'll be some sort of shagging, regardless of channel, time of day or context. And tonight was no exception.

Anyway, we're all sat there watching this nurse bop merrily up and down on a patient's nob, with the sound turned right down so we don't get caught. It's then we suddenly hear rather a lot of shouting and crying next door. Yes, it turns out that next door had somehow managed to flood their room and were now being yelled at by our French teacher, a man not known for his calm temperature. At all. This man can shout.

We listen in for a good few minutes as everything gets a bit more frantic, and then the conversation hits this beautiful crescendo:

Mr. G: Right! Outside! Now! Line up against that wall!

Visions of a firing squad popped into my mind, temporarily displacing nursey from my thoughts.

Mr. G: Who did this? WHO did this?

There's a murmered, nervous silence.

Miscreat 1: (very quietly)We're really sorry...
MR. G: Sorry? You're sorry? You're not sorry! I CAN TELL YOU'RE NOT SORRY BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT CRYING!

I'd beg to differ. I could definitely hear sobbing.

Mr. G: I'm going to count to 3 and you'd better tell me who's responsible before I finish counting. ONE!
Miscreant 1: I didn't do it!
Mr. G: TWO!
Miscreant 2: It wasn't me!
Mr. G: THREE!

I shit you not. There was a scream as if someone was being burnt alive or being forced to watch Vanessa Feltz host a chat show, followed by the sounds of teenage boys running for the fire exit.

We heard the whole floor erupt into laughter, which probably didn't help the poor sods much next door but was pretty damn funny for the rest of us. I have never, ever heard anyone shit themselves quite so magnificently.

We were all asked to leave the hotel the next morning, and that was the last time our school ever left the confines of sunny Gloucestershire.
(DeusXM, Thu 14 Dec 2006, 14:18, Reply)