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» PE Lessons

Tramp Attack
Our school was big on trampolining for some reason. I honestly don't know why, it's not like we were the champions of the local Imaginary Trampoline League or anything, but we had two of the fucking things, and both our heads of sport were masters of the bouncy lattice. The big chief – let's call him Mr C, not because that was his name, but because I'm a huge Shamen fan – was a PE teacher in the classic mould. Every day he sported tracksuit and bling, with his glassy eyes covered in big tinted specs – imagine '70s Edward Woodward playing Jimmy Saville in a biopic. He was the Gene Hunt of secondary school atheltics, and as a result had earned the imaginative nickname of 'The Bastard'.
For our first lesson, in order to making bouncing seem somehow glamorous, Mr C assembled the class for a demonstration of tricks which were SO DANGEROUSLY DEATH-DEFYING that the pupils must NEVER, EVER perform them. Got that? That's the only reason I'm showing you these tricks, maggots, so you know not to do them. That sort of thing. To be fair, it was quite impressive as he performed a raft of double-kneejerk frock slides and underarm arctic rolls and all that stuff you do on trampolInes when you have NO FEAR OF DEATH.
Demonstration finished, Mr C then reached the critical 'warming down' phase, in which you gradually reduce the intensity of your bounces until you, and the mesh, come to a complete and harmonious stop, preventing you from falling off and bashing your head. You can guess what's coming next. That's right, he misjudged a bounce and landed bollocks-first on one of the springs, which locked its pitiless springy jaws fastly on the stems of his testicles. Mr C was in agony. Sweet, hilarious agony. Once the class realised this was not, in fact, a demonstration of a trick they should never try (well, I suppose it was in a sense), absorbed the awesomeness of the situation and stifled their hysteria sufficiently, they left the gym to alert another teacher, and eventually the emergency services. All the while Mr C was suspended by the balls, trying to hold himself steady as the spring crushed his nickynackynoos like a vice - after all, the slightest twist would result in instant nadputation. The sounds he made were along the lines of a wildebeest trying to rap in Chinese.
Once the fire brigade had stopped laughing, they realised the only way to free Mr C without eunachising him was to cut the attached of the trampoline away. Thus he was publically stretchered into the ambulance with a sqaure of trampoline chowing down on his dillbag. Following a short and humiliating operation, Mr C was finally freed from his bollocky nightmare. When he awoke, he was given the sad news – one of his men didn't make it out of the ordeal alive. The kids, as you can imagine, were sympathetic. They stopped calling him 'The Bastard' after that. Instead they awarded him a gentler, altogether fluffier nickname. 'Womble'.
(Fri 20th Nov 2009, 16:25, More)

» Doctors, Nurses, Dentists and Hospitals

In the land of the deaf, the no-necked man is king.
I was deaf, and now I can hear. That's an NHS story which never fails to excite me. But I can understand it might be a bit dull for everyone else, so let me jazz it up with impropriety and gore.
I was laid up in a specialist ENT hospital after having had one of my rubbish ears fixed. Following surgery, my ear had been packed with surgical cloth stuff, and I had bandages wrapped jauntily around my head, leaving me looking like a gay Mr Bump and hearing like Mr Eh What's That Can You Speak Up I've Got Soil In My Ears. Anyway. It was visiting time. I had recently split up with a ladyfriend, and had more recently (and secretly) hooked up with a mutual acquaintance of ours, who came along to cheer me up and bring me sweets. Between the sweets, company and temazepam, I was feeling pretty nice. Right up until a nurse came over to tell me my now-ex had turned up for a surprise visit. Everything got very 'Terry And June', very quickly.
There was only one exit to the ward. My current visitor quickly ran into the breakfast room, begging the other patients to hide her. I didn't see her again after that. I couldn't for the life of me work out what they'd done with her. She's quite small, so I thought they must have stashed her in a cupboard or something. For the rest of visiting time, I was a bit worried someone might say something to my ex - and maybe they did. It's hard to tell. See, most of my wardmates were in for tracheotomy-related ops – either having their original voiceboxes taken out or their new robot ones put in – and were wandering around with their gaping neckginas on display (GIS: 'X Files The Host' for examples). Nice guys, but couldn't understand a bloody word they were saying (literally bloody btw, those things bleed like PETA members' hearts on Whacking Day). There was much gurgly laughter for the rest of the evening, but it was impenetrable to my ears and I eventually fell asleep puzzled.
The next morning, I went for some breakfast. I was still weirdly expecting my friend to jump out from under the sink or be dead in he fridge, as I just couldn't fathom how she could have escaped.
'Awgurgle urugle arghargle' said the guy sitting opposite me at the table.
'Pardon?' said I.
'Ahahrargle hurghurgle ararhal' he said. Imagine how Cuddles the monkey would sound if Keith Harris stuffed his neck with a sock soaked in swarfega.
'Eh?' I said.
Blood spattered his Rice Krispies as he raised his voice.
'Pardon what eh?'
'He says,' bellowed Doctor Evazan down my 'good' ear '"What are you looking for – have you got another bird stashed away somewhere?'"
This was followed by a chorus of Smash robots falling down a staircase made of Optimus Prime voice changers (ie laughter). A crimson haze descended on the formica as the assembled slaked their bloodmirth. Turns out my incomprehensible new friends had found a way out through the roof, which led to an outdoor fire escape, and freedom. After that, they decided to keep that a secret and wind me up about it, because why not? To this day it remains the most surreal, memorable and oddly heart-warming way I have been pwned in my whole life. And also the second bloodiest.
(Wed 17th Mar 2010, 17:17, More)

» Performance

I was a clown once, for about a minute.
'd been very excited when I heard there was a circus coming to town. I'd seen them on telly, and there were lions and elephants daring young men on the flying trapeze and all sorts. Before internet pornography, circusses were just the best fucking things in the world. On telly. Provincial northern touring circuses, on the other hand, were basically a magician and a clown.

So we're watching these two clowns being about as funny as getting chewing gum stuck in your arse hair, when they ask for a volunteer from the audience to help them with their next bit. This was my chance for fame! Maybe I'd be a big hit, and they'd take me on the road with them, and turn me into an elephant so no one would ever bully me again and they'd finally have an act worth watching! This is it! I raised my hand, as did eveyone else because raising their hand was probably the most fun they were going to have all day. But they picked me! Yes, me! I think I must have been wearing my magic Dick Turpin T-shirt that day.

I walked up onto the stage and Clown Boss told me I'd be helping with a simple trick. I liked Clown Boss – he smelled a bit like my dad did when he came home from the snooker club. Except stronger. Clown Boss must have loved snooker. All I had to do, he whisp-slurred in my ear, was sit on this dining chair, and wait for him to hit me on the back of the head with a rolled-up newspaper. When that happened, all I had to do was perform a forward roll head-first off the chair, onto the stage and over to Underclown, who would help me up. That was all.

Reader, I shat myself. I was 7, on stage in front of a load of people, I'd never been to a circus before and I was terrible at normal ground-level forward rolls, let alone diving off dining chairs and THWACK! The impact of the newspaper practically did the forward roll for me, propelling my head towards the ground. I rolled, probably as a survival instinct, and Underclown pulled me onto my feet. The whole routine went off without a hitch, and the audience applauded no more half-heartedly than they'd clapped anything else that afternoon. As a reward for not having my stupid neck broken by child abusing clowns, I was given a goodie bag of crap non-brand sweets and a colouring book with pictures of polar bears chasing ghosts around an ivory tower. It remains the best day off my life.
(Tue 23rd Aug 2011, 19:01, More)

» Greed

Killer crisps and zombie chicken
Years ago I worked in an office where we got paid little and drank a lot. This didn't leave much disposable cash for rent or food, so we all lived in hovels and scavenged whateer sustenance we could. Once upon a time, and for complicated reasons, we took delivery of several pallets of Flamin' Hot Monster Munch with nowhere to go. This was a brand new invention in them days, and we all tucked in to this trendy new snack with gusto.

But there was something strange about them. Something none of us could put out collective finger on. It was while opening my fifth or ninth packet of the morning one day when I realised what it was – they smell like spunky tissues. Seriously, go and buy a pack now, and inhale the air from the bag. Go on. I'll wait.

See? Spunky tissues. Obviously, I couldn't wait to share my eureka moment, yelling 'spunky tissues!' across the office. Needless to say, once I explained the nuances of my Unified Monster Munch-Jizzrag Theory, this put people off eating Flamin' Hot Monster Munch after that (the office was a regular sausage farm with a somewhat homophobic atmosphere).
Me and one other guy continued to live on the remaining boxes and boxes of the not-especially-monstrous snacks until they were well past date, despite someone making a joke about us liking eating spunky tissues every single time we opened a pack. And now every time I wank, I want a bag of crisps.

A few months after that, we had some new computers delivered. I thought tthe plastic chips they were packed with looked like Wotsits, but everyone said they were plastic. So I ate one. It tasted like an unflavoured Wotsit. So i ate a load more. Again, I lived off those for at least a fortnight, grabbing a handful whenever I got peckish at my desk. I wouldn't allow the handyman to take away the box because he was 'stealing the food out of my mouth'.
Nowadays, I'm pretty sure they will have chemically treated those packing Wotsits to make them safe for computers, so Zod knows what hilarious effects I'll experience in the future. I've got my money on 'beneficial mutations' and I'd rather no one told me any different.

We also used to eat Popcorn Chicken – not the nice meat-y stuff you get now, but all the bits of Colonel-coated gizzard and connective tissue and eye you used to get when they first tried it in the UK. It cost something like £1.50 for a big box full, and even though we were clinically malnourished, it was A BIg Deal when one of us (me again) actually finished the whole thing.
(Fri 15th Apr 2011, 12:45, More)

» Airport Stories

Not leavng on a jet plane
I used to have a funny-looking name on my passport that made customs people want to put their fingers up my bottom. Not long after I changed it, I was looking forward to my first anal-invasion-free overseas trip, to check out the Israeli dance scene. All went fine until my compulasory "exit interview" at the airport. The guy at the counter refused to believe there was such a thing as an Israeli dance scene, even when I showed him the CD I had just been given by Israel's top DJ (who had also helpfully got me wankered on Israelijuana on my way to the airport). I had to go into a special room for a whole battery of probing physical and motivational examinations.
To make matters worse, all the rest of the staff at the airport were amazingly gorgeous girls in army uniforms, all of whom I fancied. One of them started talking to me about how good the club were in London, so I gave her my mobile number to butter her up. Then the first bloke appeared, took my mobile off me and turned it on - the start-up message was, hilariously, "I must destroy", so he took it away to "examine" it/blow it up. Not that it mattered, as the army girl then found the fluffy animal I took with me to pose in amusing photographs. The conversation dried up pretty quickly at that point. I had to stand there in stony silence, apart from me occasionally whining 'Can I have my phone back, please?', while she scowled at me, obviously thinking I was some sort of nancy boy. The whole thing was like a Chuckle Brothers episode scripted by Franz Kafka, and I haven't had an erection ever since.
Still, I can highly recommend Israeli raves, they're fucking great.
(Fri 3rd Mar 2006, 11:34, More)
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