I've been waiting to tell this story
When I as at School, long ago.

There was a boy who I shouldn't name called Paul Bentley

He was bullied lots.

One day before the teacher had arrived in classroom, a naughty child had drawn this on the whiteboard



All very entertaining I'm sure you'll agree.
The naughty child then shouted out

'Bentley, Bentley! Draw the pubes! Draw the pubes!'

Bentley was reluctant, he thought the teacher would walk in just as he started to draw.

Eventually he was cajoled into stepping up to the whiteboard, marker in hand.

'Draw the pubes! Draw the pubes!' chanted the class.

What Bentley drew relegated him to the world of the bullied forever. When he stepped away from the board this is what we saw.


( WormuIus, Wed 13 May 2009, 13:24, 34 replies)

Being bullied by an eleven year old
I recently moved in with my long-suffering girlfriend, in doing so I’ve inherited a couple of stepsons. Non-identical twins in fact.

The transition from friendly bonhomie while I was first dating their mother to becoming an authoritarian figure now that I’m living there has gone remarkably smoothly, with very little petulance over the change in status quo. I’ve grown very attached to the little chaps, most of the time they’re great kids and a pleasure to be around, but occasionally something will kick off and their competitive spirit will force them into small acts of rebelliousness against the new regime.

Of the two boys “F” is the prototype brooding alpha male. He’s a popular kid who loves sports and being the centre of attention, it’s also fair to say he’s had the hardest time coming to terms with someone else being in close physical proximity to his mother.

One afternoon whilst the twins, their mother and I were sat in the car, “F” expressed his displeasure in a very succinct way, stretching the very limits of sophistication for eleven year old wit and dropping the ultimate in wisecracks for which there simply is no answer to.

“You’re gay”

At that point both boys dissolve into teary laughter. The resolve of my authority was being tested and “F” knew it. My girlfriend turned her head toward me and raised an eyebrow. The bar had been lifted.

“You’re gay. G-A-Y. Gay”

How can I respond to that? Do I challenge him to an arm-wrestle? Do I open my beer bottles with my teeth? How do you best a physically confident eleven year old who in all probability is going to grow bigger than you within a couple of years?

I thought long and hard. Whatever I said next didn’t just have to top the last remark in the here and now, it had to stamp my authority on the situation for ever after. I took a deep breath and replied.

“Your mum”.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 15 May 2009, 12:58, 14 replies)

I am a chubby ginger nerd, not gay, but fairly camp
I don't like sports, and was sent to an all-boys secondary school.

The bullies could smell me from miles away.

My entire school life was a misery. I was beaten, tortured, abuse was hurled at me from every direction, I was once bottled in the street for being ginger.

My mother called the school, who asked me who the bullies were, gave them one stinking detention (and let's face it, these kids probably had one every day anyway) which just fuelled the beatings, and my father did nothing as, apparantly, having your face rubbed in mud builds character.

I went the sensible route of telling people, the stupid route of attempted suicide, even the useless route of acting all friendly to your attackers, but nothing worked.

One day, when I was 16, I got pulled out of school early because my nan had died. In the time it took my mum to pick me up, and drive me home, my dog had also died.

The next day, I arrived at the school gate with a note for my form tutor explaining what had happened, and just asking to keep an eye on me if I got upset all of a sudden.
It was taken out of my pocket by a big fucker called David. He was one of those kids who must have hit puberty around 4 years old, and had a full beard before anyone else had pubes.
He read the note to his friends, ripped it up, and began to tell a delightful story about him having sex with my grandmother's corpse.

I know it is a cliché, but I realy don't remember much of what happened, as it was all a bit of a blur. All I know is that when I was found by the fence in the foetal position, all of David's 'friends' had abandoned him, and he was lying face down by the kerb, screaming, attempting to gather up his teeth.

It slowly came out as the school investigated it that I had literally jumped at him, onto his back, and hit him until he had fallen to the ground, then smashed his head against the floor.

I was about to be expelled when my favourite teacher of all time, Mr Wallace, who had, on many occasions councilled me through problems, and who I still consider a friend today, called attention to a folder.
In true 'Miracle on 34th St' fashion, it was emptied onto the head's desk. It contained no less than 100 sheets of paper, each of them chronicalling a bullying/attack incident against me over the course of around 5 years. The bottling to the head, my bag being set alight, being force-fed insects, they were all there, and nobody had done a fucking thing to help me except Mr Wallace, who saved my life.

I make no apoligies for length, but probably should for coming across as a mental-case.
(bobman500 enjoys a grope as much as the next fella, Mon 18 May 2009, 0:35, 12 replies)

BEVERLEY HILLS COP & THE SUPERGLUE INCIDENT
This moment of office-counter-bullying tom foolery led to the scariest car journey of my life.

It was absolutely fucking buttock-clenchingly, spew-my-lunch, piss-myself repeatedly terrifying. I spent the journey travelling from Brighton to London with my eyes shut, praying to God, Allah, Buddha, and even Lewis Hamilton that I’d get back to the smoke in one piece. I was – in point of fact – a sweaty nervous wreck by the time I was dropped off at Kings Cross (well, more so than I usually am anyway).

But lets go back in time a few days, Marty McFly style...(only without the fucking-my-own-mum subplot, unforunately - my mum was fucking HOT when she was in her twenties)...

I used to work with an absolute cunt named Beverly Hills Cop – a twat from the Home Counties named Edward Murphy who had been brought up on a healthy regime of badger bating, fox hunting and wanking off members of the local young conservatives club in the backrooms of country clubs. The bloke was an absolute grade A, top-of-the-class, colossal, 29 carat, solid gold cunt; he was the king of cuntdom.

Edward Murphy - Beverley Hills Cop to the rest of us - was also a monumental bully and thick as pig shit. He’d got to a pretty high position of seniority in the company I worked for by depositing a nice healthy amount of manfat in the bosses daughter on a regular basis. He was marriage material, apparently. He was one of the family. He was - as far as everyone else in the firm was concerned - absolutely fucking untouchable.

The two of us had been seconded down to Brighton for a week to sort out a presentation to some bigwig client for this sales firm I used to work for. I’d handed in my notice a few weeks previously and really didn’t want to go, but had no fucking choice. I think the boss realised Beverley Hills Cop was too fucking stupid to sort out the contract without a bit of help. So, we’re down in the Brighton office, two twats from London in suits, and Beverly Hills Cop starts acting like Billy Big Balls, ordering the underlings round and generally treating the locals like they were his inferior country hick slaves. He spent the first three days shouting at random people and abusing his I'm-fucking-the-bosses-daughter superpowers. He considered himself something of the practical joker too and thought it would be fucking hillarious, a morale builder, to piss about with people and superglue their possessions to their desks, put superglue on the coat rack, even leave a thin layer of the stuff on somebody's keyboard when they went off for a piss. Oh, how we all laughed while he cack-handedly bullied his way through the staff with the aid of a tube of Loctite...

And he did all of this thinking no one knew it was him, the prick.

Then on the Thursday before the presentation, when it was prepared and ready to roll first thing on the Friday morning, we’re sat round kicking our heels and Beverley Hills Cop strides in, stinking of Lynx Africa and Brylcream, takes me to one side and whispers:

“I’ve just done something so fucking funny – Spanky, you are gonna piss yourself at this!”

“Oh, what have you done, Ed?” I asked.

“Just wait!”

And one of the Brighton peeps, a nice lad named Jim, got up to go to the bogs. And he didn't come back. After awhile one of his mates went looking for him, only to come back moments later to advise Jim was stuck on the bogs.

"Somebody put superglue on the toilet seat," he said wearily. "Jim's nearly got himself free, but he has to go slow or he'll rip his skin off." And he looked directly at Beverly Hills Cop, who was sat at his desk grinning like a twat and trying not to laugh.

Nobody else found it funny - it had been a hard week. The company was going through a rough patch and nobody wanted to complain for fear of having a nice, bright and shiney P45 land on their desk. Eveyone just wanted the weekend to roll round; beer, drugs, the faint possibility of a one night stand with a random stranger - all good clean and wholesome fun.

Beverley Hills Cop came up to me when Jim finally made it back to his desk and gafawed like the cunt he was and showed me the tube of superglue, hidden in the palm of his hand so no one else could see.

"Don't tell anyone - but it was me!" he said. "Just a bit of harmless fun, eh?"

Oh, yeah, really fucking harmless you fucking walking shit stain, cunty cock sucking, horse-shagging mong! But he was, as I've said, untouchable. I could hardly go to the bosses and complain.

After a few minutes Beverley Hills Cop put on his jacket and fucked off back to his hotel. One of the locals sidled up to me:

“That cunt has made our lives a misery for a week, Spanky. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

I explained Beverley Hills Cop was untouchable. That he was fucking the bosses daughter and if I made a complaint about him fuck all would happen. They seemed dispondent. But then I remembered something, a revelation that'd been staring me in the face, something so fucking obvious I'd completely discounted it:

I was a bigger cunt than this Home Counties tosspot.

And he’d actually put an idea in my head. “I’m just popping out to pick up some stuff,” I said, grabbing my coat and wondering off to do a spot of shopping.

I then proceeded to abuse my expenses account to the degree your average MP would’ve been proud of and went back to my hotel, chuckling like a moron.

In the morning of the big sales presentation I got in early, sat at the window and waited until I saw Beverley Hills Cop walk up the street. Then I set the trap while the locals watched, chuckling.

“You sure about this, Spanky?” One asked.

I shurugged: “As my old grandmother used to say – fuck it. Anyway, I'm leaving soon - if any shit comes about from this, I'll just say it was me.”

And then we sat back and waited.

Beverley Hills Cop came into the office, strode over to his desk, saw what I’d placed there, reached out and picked it up firmly in one hand and started shouting. And when he realised the thing was smeared in superglue and he couldn’t let go, he started shouting some more. Then he panicked. Then he started to whimper about the presentation he had to give in fifteen minutes. Then he threatened to have everyone fired.

“Don’t think it would look good if you went back to London and told um what’s happened, what with you doing something similar yesterday,” I reasoned, taking him to one side. “Tell you what – I’ll lead the presentation. You can sit there and cover your hand with a folder or something and we’ll sort out getting that thing off afterwards.”

Beverley Hills Cop considered this - the tiny cogs were turning in his inbred brain. Eventually, he shrugged and agreed.

And I did the presentation, the row of suits from this Sussex-based property firm sitting round the table looking professional and competent, while Beverley Hills Cop sat in a corner, watching, nodding, adding the occasional: “Hmmm, yes!” while hiding his hand under a strategically placed and rather posh leather document holder he'd found.

After the presentation the suits stand up, say they’ll consider the pitch, and reach out to shake my hand, as is customary in this sort of situation. And then the lead suit, a woman in a sharp business suit who would’ve scared the shit out of Helen Mirren in Prime Suspect, turned to Beverely Hills Cop, and said:

“I think we can do business,” and she extended her hand to him.

And Beverley Hills Cop went pale as a fucking bedsheet. He reached up with his left hand. The woman stood there resolutely offering her right hand. I stood by my whiteboard enjoying seeing the fucker squirm, but then he did something horrible, something awful, something that made my jaw drop slackly open.

What a STUPID FUCKING PRICK!

He removed the folder and showed her his other hand; he could've just said it was busted or something! The thick cunt!

“Just a bit of office fun,” he said with a nervous chuckle.

The MD of this major client looked down at his hand, and all credit to her, her only reaction was to raise her eyebrows slightly and, after a beat, said: “Indeed – I just hope you wern't planning to offer me that to sweeten the deal,” and then she spun on her heel and strode out the room followed by her entourage. "We'll get back to you early next week."

And we were alone... wondering if that had really just happened.

I glanced over at Beverley Hills Cop, he glanced back at me, and we shared a silent moment of pant-shitting realisation that this could well and truly fuck up an awful lot of hard work.

Thankfully, it didn’t. We never heard anything about it again and we
nailed the contract. I didn't give a shit about Beverley Hills Cop, but alot of people's jobs rested on the contract going through.

We went back to the office, gathered up our stuff, tried to get the damn thing off Beverly Hills Cop’s hand, found it had actually melted a bit and fused onto his skin, and then decided to head straight back to London so he could have a word with the bosses daughter and try and head off any problems: he'd get rid of the damn thing back at his place.

The Brighton peeps could hardly contain themselves at the sight of this prick striding out the office with his briefcase in one hand, suited and booted, and this fucking object attached to the other. Even as we closed the door we heard the sporadic outbreak of laughter. Beverely Hills Cop fumed, I smiled broadly back at him:

"Just a bit of harmless fun, eh?"

We walked over to his car in silence.

"Well," I said as we clambered into the motor - he had to drive on account of me being a thick twat who'd never learned how. "Maybe you should think twice before using superglue yourself in future..."

He didn't respond, he sat in fuming silence all the way back. He was angry as fuck and scared we'd loose the contract.

But not as scared as me.

Travelling in a turbo-injection company car driven by an angry sales rep in a hurry who's got an eighteen inch dayglo pink dildo glued to his steering wheel hand is, to put it bluntly,

absolutely

fucking

terrifying...

(And you should've seen some of the looks we got from people in other cars on the way. The sight of a man driving, obviously fuming, holding a HUGE bright pink plastic penis, sat next to another man in the passenger seat who was almost in tears must've led to some interesting conversations and lots of jumping to the wrong conclusions that day speeding up the northbound carriageway of the M23)...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:06, 11 replies)

Sometimes you have to act.
A few years back when I was in my early 20s I was walking along the street in my hometown. I happened to notice a little girl skipping along towards me on the other side of the road, she was all pigtails and freckles and smiles and couldn't have been more than 7 or 8. As she skipped towards the entrance to the park 2 lads, clearly several years her elders, emerged from the park and she was unable to avoid them and crashed into one of them.
I stood astonished as the scene unfolded in front of me and these 2 lads started shoving this little girl around. When I saw one of the lads lifting his hand a fully punching the girl in the face I saw red mist descending. I couldn't stand and watch this anymore. I crossed the road and my fists started flailing and boots started swinging. I was like a wildman. I fought with a savagery that I didn't think I had and I have to tell you guys.
Between the 3 of us we totally kicked the crap out of that little girl.
I even got her lollypop.
(Figmaus, Mon 18 May 2009, 17:45, 6 replies)

Controlling bullies
My eldest daughter was bullied at secondary school, The perpetrator was a fat ugly dim badly-dressed waste of DNA from a reputedly "hard" family. As my then wife was training to be a teacher, she urged, nay begged me to "go through the proper channels" so I did.

The teachers were worse than useless. In their own inimitable self important smug way (like all teachers) they went through the motions and even began to imply that the bullying was somehow my daughter's fault! I'd let my wife attend the meetings, she'd come back with some buzzword-laden "strategy" that they'd come up with and all would be well for a day or so, then my daughter would be back home crying her eyes out terrified to go back. When she started stuttering, screaming when the 'phone went (I later discovered that the scumbag had a habit of ringing her just to tell her what was going to happen the next day) I took control.

I arranged a meeting with the laughingly-designated "discipline committee" and the head teacher. I'd checked the relevant law regarding "In loco parentis", assault and battery etc and was ready to do my famous "Control the meeting from the start and PERSONALISE the complaint" strategy* and boy was I ready for them!

The meeting started with the head inroducing himself and the members of the panel. I didn't smile, just looked at each one whilst taking down their names. They didn't like that.

They also didn't like me taking down everything they said, in silence.

They also didn't like me referring to my notes, writing down everything they did (like leaning over to their neighbours and whispering) and demanding "One meeting, if you have anything to say it will be recorded in my notes, otherwise this meeting is over and we'll carry on at the police station".

All the staff were very nervous at the sight of this suited and booted, calm, polite, articulate and above all well-prepared (I'd been a governor at this school just 2 years before) parent rocking their belief in their omnipotence.

The head, after his speech said "Well Mr A****, how do you feel about our revised strategy"?

"It won't work"

"I think you'll find"..........I cut the twat off with

"It won't work because it's not going to happen".

One smarmy twat started to say "I think you'll find......"

I cut HIM off with " Shut up and listen"!

"What is going to happen is this:- YOU (pointing at the head) WILL remove this thug from your school - today".

"I can't do that!"

"In that case I have already instructed my solicitor to issue personal proceedings against each and every teacher that was "In loco parentis" of my daughter when she was assaulted, for professional negligence, I have their names here".

A chorus of "BUT but, I never" etc etc

"Furthermore" I said, calmly "YOU (pointing to the head) are the head of this organisation, therefore the main buck stops with you".

Twat thought I was bluffing.

I never bluff.

The very next LESSON, the dna waste was excluded. After "careful consideration" she was sent to a secure unit school where, two years later she was raped and eventually killed herself.

Result!

I've said it before.

Don't fuck with my daughters.

the moral of my story is this, if your kids are being bullied at school go for the teachers PERSONALLY. The spineless smug lazy bastards expect to be cotton-wooled through their cushy career and think they can just sweep anything under the carpet.

Wrong!

Protect the weaker kids, remove the scum and Joe Public will leave you alone. Don't do as above and we'll come for you - personally.
Teachers are all bullies (except Mr A who gave me a love of maths and Engineering, Mr T who was ex military and gave REAL guidelines on behaviour, and Miss B who gave me my love of language.) and expect respect from whoever they meet, just because they are a teacher.

Respect is earned and they, as a profession, have a very long way to go.

*even my boss is impressed when I go into "unreasonable" mode.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Fri 15 May 2009, 11:07, 210 replies)

Bullying is natural - all species do it.
Even sticky notes


( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Wed 20 May 2009, 21:34, 8 replies)

Character Building
I desperately needed some spunk and I needed it now.

But I was distracted. It was the first time I'd ever rolled a condom over my cock; a big deal in the life of any young man. I remember looking down at my little fella and thinking: It’s a stick up! and sniggering to myself like a drunken lunatic. The wee chap looked forlorn, scared, almost trembling like a small blind animal in my hand, and he also looked like he was wearing stockings over his head and was about to hold up a bank.

But, back to the job in hand, I thought, and I started pulling the pud furiously. I hate to admit it, but this was an angry wank. There was no enjoyment in this. None at all. So, locked in a cubicle in the bogs at half midnight, having had far too much Skol for a fifteen year old, I wanked furiously to an inevitable, sticky, salty conclusion.

I was on a residential trip to Wales with my school to help 'build our characters'. We’d arrived earlier in the day and set about doing a range of character building trust exercises which culminated in the ultimate test - standing in front of another kid and falling backwards so they could catch you. Fuck that. After five or six kids had sustained what in medical circles they refer to as ‘severely bruised arses’, we gave that up. Then we moved onto some healthy hill walking interspersed with our own inner City twist of chain smoking, spitting, and swearing like pissed up Irish nuns on St. Patricks Day.

The walk was going ok, well, as ok as being forced to march up and down mountains can be when your fifteen and as lazy as fuck, when suddenly something, some horrible wet object landed on my head with a sticky splat. I reached up, thinking a mighty mountain bird had shat on me, and recoiled in horror as I removed a used condom full of spunk from my bonce.

“Urggggghhhhhh!!!” I said, chucking the damn thing onto the unspoilt ground.

And then a load more used johnnies rained down, hitting my mates and I in the ultimate barrage of biological warfare. It was not nice. Not nice at all. And when the barrage stopped we turned to see Rik and his crew laugh at us menacingly. Rik was the uber bully at my all boys comprehensive. A big thick twat who could crush walnuts in his bare hands. He liked nothing more than fucking with everyone and everything - he was our very own James Dean, our very own rebel without a cause; only Rik didn't have a motorbike and had been well and truly tickled with the ugly stick; he had a face like a slapped arse.

“Plenty more where they came from you faggots!” Rik reasoned.
And there were.

We spent the next hour or so trudging and slipping through the mud while a barrage of spunk-filled prophylactics rained down on us – it was like the First World War trenches, only instead of dodging the high explosives we had to contend with little rubber cock socks filled with premium weapons-grade man milk.

And I remember all I kept thinking was: Where the fuck are they getting all this cum from? Rik and his merry band of teenage dad cretins must’ve had testicles the size of cannonballs!

And the solitary teacher we had with us, a newly qualified airhead named Mr James, either chose to ignore what was going on or genuinely didn’t give a fuck. It was a pretty miserable experience. I was remember afterwards feeling lucky that I hadn't inadvertently gotten pregnant.

Later back at the lodge when Mr James and the rest of the teaching staff (the ones who couldn’t be bothered to go mountain trudging) had fucked off to the local, Rik and his posse cracked open the crate of Skol they’d smuggled in with them and set about drinking. Rik sidled up to me and gave me a beer, put one of his butcher-sized arms round me and said:

“No hard feelings, Spanky – but you’ve gotta admit that was funny as fuck, mate.” Oh, yes – Rik was the kind of fucking comedy. I could hardly contain myself from laughing til my sides split. I imagined he’d soon be on stage lobbing used cock raincoats into the crowd.

Oh, how they’d laugh. Oh, how they'd cheer...

I grunted an acknowledgement of just how funny Rik was and pissed off. A plan forming in my booze-addled brain. (I was only fifteen and at this time even a whiff of beer would get me absolutely wankered).

Fast-forward to half past midnight, Rik and his crew are hammered on illicit beer and have retired to their bunks in the big dorm we’d invaded for the week. I’ve sneaked cat burglar style into Rik’s bag and helped myself to a small square foil packet containing something round and rubbery, and I’ve padded off to the bogs...

I return, a little sweaty and red faced from my exertions, holding aloft the still hot crinkly efforts of my labours for all to see like a fisherman proudly displaying a prize fishy catch. Then I tip toe over to Rik asleep in his bunk and place the fucker squarely on his face. He moves a bit, mutters, but doesn’t wake up. And the rest of us gather round, silently, not to do anything much really – just to have a look.

And the condom, placed with loving tender care over the bridge of Rik's nose, leaks some of its spunky contents down Rik’s face, a thin river of testicle tadpoles trickles ever-so-slowly directly

into

Rik's

open

mouth...

Rik splutters a bit, rubs his face with a hand, and manages to splat a load more of the lumpy white contents onto his lips and cheeks as if he’s squeezing out the final contents of a sachet of mayonnaise. A wave of exited muttering breaks out amoung the gathered watchers as Rik proceeds to coat his nose, lips, cheeks and chin in a fine layer of gonad glaze.

It really was an awsome sight...

Eventually my mate Greg whispers to me: “That’s ace, Spanky! Don’t forget to put the can of shaving cream back in that cunt’s bag - if he finds it in your stuff he'll rip your fucking arms off.”

I whisper back, not able to take my eyes from the strangely alluring homoerotic display before my eyes: “Shaving cream?”

“Yeah, you know – what these cunts were chucking at us earlier today...” and – as Greg clocks the instant panic spread over my face he utters four little but incredibly insightful words: “You sick, sick fucker...” Greg says.

I then spent the next half an hour trying to clean my cum from the school bullies face while trying not to wake him up - now that's fucking character building, I can tell you...
( SpankyHanky, Tue 19 May 2009, 10:30, 7 replies)

I'll do YOU a good turn...
There’s a [controversial?] vein of opinion which suggests that bullies are troubled beings, victims themselves one way or another. In many ways I hope we can sometimes spare a thought for the poor tossers. I know when I was bullied many moons hence I look back on the perpetrator with a kind of gleeful pity. This is a bit of a long one, but then I am a terrible gasbag – so tough.

I had enjoyed a long and productive career in the Brownies; grabbing up badges by the chubby fistful, rising through the ranks with a dark, Machiavellian intensity, and doing good deeds until all the geriatrics in the area frankly begged for mercy. I was a Brownie bloody virtuoso. I became a Sixer (those not in the know – it’s like a lieutenant to Brown Owl’s general) in the Pixies, and I ruled my little group of reports like a fucking despot. But then the inevitable happened. At 11 I became too old to remain in the Brownies and the day beckoned when I was destined to become a Guide.

So – with a brand new blue uniform to replace bile yellow and baby-poo-brown one, a sash bare of badges, and an acute consciousness that I was now at the bottom of the pile where until recently I had been lording it at the top – I threw myself into my new life on Wednesday evening instead of Thursday evening at the leaky village hall. Before you knew it, I was up to my old tricks – sucking up to ‘Mole’, the adult leader, like a Dyson, and generally being a little goody-goody arse.

A few weeks after I joined was the annual Guide Camp event, where we were sent off to large it up under canvas in a field in Withyham. I was put in a tent with seven other girls of varying ages who I didn’t really know at all, but I was the youngest and by far the fattest, specciest and most ginger. There was a leader, of sorts, called Gemma. It took about a nanosecond to interpret the atmosphere in that tent to be one of a relentless and really quite creative hatred towards me, personally. And one look at Gemma was all that was needed to see a laser-like determination to make my four-day stay at Guide Camp an utter, utter misery. After a few minutes it was established that I was ‘spastic Wheezy’, and every time I attempted to join in the conversation my words would be drowned out with a chorus of strained mooing – even if I was replying to a question asked of me. In retrospect, this was quite obviously genius, and if the roles had been reversed I would have laughed like a ‘tard as well every time it happened (every few minutes).

Things started to go wrong for Gemma when we were assigned our first task in tent-groups; lashing together wood we could find in order to make a free-standing wash basin. Would you believe it? I had perfected knot-tying to an art the previous week! So off I go, pushing other people aside, snatching wood out of their ham-fisted hands so that I could do it properly myself, ostentatiously undoing their [perfectly fine] knots and replacing them with my own. Most of the other girls (after a decent amount of ‘stop it you little bitch’, ‘get off, you fat spastic’, ‘moo’, etc) just gave up and took advantage of this saddo to do their work while they sat down and blew through grass whistles. Not Gemma. She was foaming at the mouth with rage that I was taking charge, and pinched and pulled my hair when I didn’t respond to her shouting in my face. I was just putting the finishing touches to the stand when she finally lost it, and, just in time for Mole to see her as she was coming around the tent to inspect our team’s handiwork, Gemma picked up the whole rickety structure and tried to hit me in the face with it. Totally worth it – Mole went postal. Gemma not only had to compose a formal apology and relay it in front of the whole camp at dinnertime that evening, but she was written down in Mole’s little book as a ‘troublemaker’. ‘Hah’, my sneaky little mind thought, ‘that’ll put an end to her tricks.’ Oh no.

Gemma just became more devious in her approach. She and her gang would wait until Mole was otherwise occupied before capsizing my kayak or putting mud in my opaque water-bottle. I managed to drive her to distraction by gaining particular commendation for my skill in recovering from capsizing and also my kindness for relieving a ‘hot and distressed’ sheep by washing it with my own bottled water, which was freshly replaced as a mark of appreciation. She cottoned on to the fact that I was paralysingly scared of the dark, and so would tell ghost stories in the middle of the night which meant that I wet my sleeping bag rather than going outside to the portaloo. The tent was a complete mess, and it wasn’t until the following morning that it was discovered that I had weed on Gemma’s copy of ‘Smash Hits’ with all the pictures of Shane Ritchie drawn around with biro hearts. She wouldn’t admit it was hers – the shame if she did! But I saw her face of real heartbreak when she thought the others weren’t looking.

At last it was the final day. Gemma and the gang had grown tired of mooing at me whilst I packed, and had retired outside to do cartwheels. I was jamming my (dry but slightly whiffy) sleeping bag into its carrier when I unearthed a pair of white kickers. ‘Not mine’, I thought, and looked at the name embroidered in the waist band.

‘Gemma’

I looked at the knickers more closely. There was a long, almost perfect light brown skid mark stretching a considerable distance in the gusset.

I pondered them, then, checking that everyone else in the camp were busy helping take down the kitchen marquee, I sprinted out to the flagpole at the centre of the ring of tents, tied the shitty pants to the cord, and whipped them up to fly proudly about 10 feet off the ground – just out of reach of even the tallest camper, but near enough that the crusty crime was evident for all to see. I scuttled back to my packing, chuckling in a fat, speccy, ginger way.

Gemma cried, and had to be picked up early by her mum rather than go home on the minibuses with the rest of us.

Sorry, Gemma, you poisonous slag!

*pop*
(Wheezy Luv-ah is pootling about on, Fri 15 May 2009, 16:15, 9 replies)

Compared to some of the stories on here
... then I haven't gone through as much as many of you, i've been picked on as a kid for being different, had a few scraps but nothing ever serious until one time which in retrospect last 18 months. The only thing is I didn't realise it until these last few months. Sorry for lack of funnehs to follow here...

We'll call her Sarah (not real name). We met nearly 3 years ago and to be honest it was wonderful at first. I'd been single for about 6 months after coming out of my first serious relationship (i was 21/22, she a year younger) and i'd had a bit of fun but meeting her for the first week everything seemed good and i was genuinely happy. This soon changed... it was getting to the point where if i didn't at least call her twice a day and see her every other day then she would kick off, verbally and physically. Bear in mind i was living at home at the time and she lived about 25 miles away, so it was a 50 mile round trip and i was still getting myself out of debt from a bad car purchase.

So we'd go out too, i'd have to buy the drinks, the food and drive, but it was ok, I'm the boyfriend and that's what we do isn't it? Next thing i know is we're living together within 4 months of meeting. We got a place round the corner from her family and friends so she isn't away from them, whereas I am in a town i don't know and have no friends nearby within a 20mile radius either.

I'm having to take time off work to get a 2nd job to earn extra income as she decides to quit her job and go to uni. 2 1/5 days a week. I was also having to drive her to various friends at weekends where i wouldn't see or hear from her for 2 days and if i tried asking then i would get a torrent of abuse. Now I'm a well built lad, nearly 6 foot and i've played rugby most of my life, whereas she was a 5foot2 size 6/8. I've stood up for myself on and off rugby pitch, been in some fights too but with her i was completely paralysed and couldn't do a thing. She would should at me and i couldn't do anything but take it and let her keep chipping away at what little self esteem i had left. Then she would start hitting me, kicking me or if the argument was in the bedroom then she would grab me by my hair and hit my head against the headboard. Then after she'd done that she would grab her things and walk out saying she was leaving me and i'd have to beg her to come back, which she would the following day, with no explanation of where she'd been other than the alcohol on her breath.

So i was feeling physically sore and tired every day, i was getting into trouble with work for my attendance and work inconsistency. I was starting to put on weight too as i had to quit rugby as she didn't like it and as i also didn't have the time. I was spending money on having to take her out, money i didn't have, so i'd then have to take out loans. And she had a part time job and uni loans which she'd spend on drink, shoes, straighteners and if i asked for even as much as £60 per week then i would get the abuse again. She got herself into trouble, financially and bailiffs were threatening to go to her parents, so another loan was taken out, by myself, to pay off her debts. This happened twice which also included me having to get more money somehow. Next thing i knew i had over £6k in debts with loans and credit cards and i was struggling to even pay the interest on these. Birthdays and christmas i'd get vouchers for shops, she would then use them without my knowing or by saying she'd pay me back.

Several occasions i had to be woken up by the police during stupid hours in morning saying she was in hospital and could i go pick her up. I'd get through and be told a story by her of how she'd been spiked by someone and she doesn't remember anything, yet i'd hear her on the phone to her best friend later saying she remembered everything and what she'd done and with whom, but i put it down to the fact she must have been spiked so she had no control?

So this continued to happen for 18 months, my career was going nowhere, i wasn't able to see or visit friends because they either weren't allowed round or i couldn't afford petrol money to see them. I'd be hit, smacked, kicked, shouted at. I was becoming depressed, i couldn't sleep and then when i knew i had some time to myself, i'd break down. One time she saw this and laughed at me telling me i was pathetic.

It doesn't sound like much but to live with someone every day who you thought you loved, and loved you, even though every day you hated coming home from work because you knew how you'd be treated, but it was destroying my soul, my self esteem and my confidence in anything. I was going to the doctor several times a month due to various health issues, which he put down to the way i was living. He even asked about my bruising, which i put down to rugby issues. He didn't buy this so i ended up having to stop going.

Then, 2 days before Christmas day (last year) she left and walked out, expecting me to come after her and i was going to beg her to come back, but one of my friends said no. He'd just gone through the same thing and said i should stand ground. I did this, she came back Christmas eve and i told her to find somewhere else to live and had packed her bag. She tried to hit me then and for the first time in 2 years i stopped it. I grabbed her arm so tight she was almost crying and i threw her out of the house with her bags. I then changed the locks, went inside and i fell to the floor crying.

I rang my parents, told them we'd broken up and then spent the next couple days round at there's and they were probably the happiest days of my life. For the first time i felt like people actually cared about me again.

Then i was back home, living in a house where i had so little money after all my bills and debts had gone out i was left with less than £30 a month. This doesn't even include petrol for my car or even food/shopping to live with, my parents then started to help out by buying my shopping each week. But i was, and still am living in a house in an area where i have no friends. She'd try coming round banging on door screaming and shouting, or call me at 3 in the morning telling me she missed me or asking if i was alone before going off on another tirade. I was struggling to cope as i didn't know what to do with myself and then my friend whom i mentioned earlier, who had been through the same as me, he hanged himself. Everything began to feel black to me again, however with the help of a new boss at work he began to help me get myself sorted.

Life is better now, i've got my career back on track with promotion involved too, i've started sports again and seeing friends too. I'm still struggling with severe debt and living in a house i don't want (and can't afford to leave/sell) but I'm getting back on track again. Met someone recently and it wasn't until talking to her i realised how broken i'd become, and she helped me to build my self esteem back up - unfortunately she had to move away, which although hurt but because of the time i'd spent with her she'd made me stronger in a quick space of time and so i can cope.

I'm starting to pay my debts off bit by bit (down from £6k - 5k now!) and from what i've heard my ex is struggling completely. she hasn't tried to get in touch with me since i dropped all her rubbish off at her parents (well, the bits which I'm not ebaying at least!). Her parents are great people and have been the victim of this same abuse as i have, but now I'm away i can see that she is a bully and will not get anywhere in life, which is a shame as her parents would still want me round for dinner and ask me to explain the lies my ex was telling about me, and they believed me too, but family is always first.

I'm still on the mend but life is starting to look a bit better. I do get lonely at times but thanks to support from some true friends and awful as it may sound my friend who hanged himself, he taught me a lesson by doing it, making me realise that life is not so harsh that it can't go on, that there are folk out there who care and will help. I am still insecure but it's certainly given me an experience in life i've learnt from.

Sorry for going on, although i've spoken to friends i've never said as much as i have done now, and having been a b3tar for some time i've seen how others have been able to find some strength by writing out their pain and anguish and i do feel a bit better for letting it all out here :-)
(One_Winged_Angel Ich Dien, Tue 19 May 2009, 18:59, 9 replies)

i once knew a kid
who was regarded by the whole school as slow.Time and again he'd be surrounded by a group of jeering morons who'd upbraid him in harsh terms for being a 'retard' or somesuch.
Their favourite game was to offer him a fifty-pence piece and a pound coin.They knew he'd always take the fifty pence because it was bigger.It was their favourite trick and they'd do it time and again to jeering laughter.
Once after many months of this I stopped him.
'Don't you realise that they're making fun of you with the whole fifty pence/pound thing,mate?They're doing it for kicks and laughing at you!I'm sure you know that a pound is worth more!'
'Yes,' he said,looking up at me shyly.'But if I took the pound they'd stop doing it.' and walked off shaking his head like I was an idiot which,in all fairness,I guess I was.
(Fuckpig "That's not even a pound a midget.", Fri 15 May 2009, 13:51, 5 replies)

Police Bullies
Have an amusing pearoast from back in December 2007.....

My Dad was a policeman (now retired) and tv programmes like Life On Mars are very near the truth apparently for the average nick in the 1970s and 80s. My Dad is full of stories about what happened then...some of them are exactly like LoM and some are more like Heartbeat....none really have the style and panache of The Sweeney...

Just as in LoM they didn't use tape machines to record interviews which meant that a certain amount of 'leeway' could be employed...

Yes, they could bully their way to a confession.

This did mean that on some occasions the result would actually be humorous (well, for the outside world perhaps, maybe not if it resulted in you being banged up for a long stretch just because the man in uniform didn't like you...but I digress...).


On one particular occasion a man had been brought in for questioning regarding a crime that the police knew he was responsible for but he refused to budge from his story.

The decision was made to attempt to provide a little 'pressure' to ensure the required outcome was arrived at....

One of the coppers on duty was a member of the police diving squad and just happened to have his wetsuit and gear with him.

This was at a coastal police station so someone was sent down to the pier and a large fish was purchased.

The accused had been left in the interview room for a while, alone...then the door opened and in walked a frogman - full kit including flippers and facemask, and carrying a large fish....The questions were posed again and this time with each 'incorrect' answer the accused received a mighty wet fish slap around his chops.

Eventually the chap 'coughed' to the crime and it all went to court in due course.

Once on the stand the defendant withdrew his earlier confession as it had been made under duress, and explained the situation surrounding it....

The judge had him sent off for psychiatric assessment.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Mon 18 May 2009, 18:44, 7 replies)

this QOTW
is too upsetting at times :(

Have some kittens :D


(Kuja335, Sat 16 May 2009, 14:27, 9 replies)

Sick and tired
A four year old Rakky is sat on the school bus, wearing her boater and gymslip, heading off to another day at the hell hole school she’d been sent to. And like every day, as soon as the bus doors closed and my mother’s tearful face slid out of view, the girl from my class, the stupid, popular, rich one would start on me. “Give me your jotter, what’s the matter, cry baby, going to tell teacher?” On and on it went, every single day until one day I could take no more.

So, pulling myself up to the full height that only a four year old can muster, I prepared to unleash a salvo of such terrifying force that even the gods themselves would stop to listen…

And I vomited on her.

Didn’t mean to, it just kind of fell out.

Left me alone after that though. Stupid bitch.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Thu 14 May 2009, 9:06, 4 replies)

I wasn't going to post, I can' t add anything that hasn't been said already..
So have a pearoast from a while back, we need more funny...

Bless her...
My elder Sparklet is known for her outspokenness, always has either suffered, or made others suffer for it, but she's a great girl and I'm very proud of her..

She was bullied to hell at her secondary school, there was one yound lad who had decided it was his "Turn" to make her life a misery, which he did, for the rest of the term. Then he was off school with a weird form of bone cancer, resulting in an amputation of one of his arms up to the elbow. During his illness, the school went into overdrive collecting money for him, extolling his virtues as Captain of the school rugby team, top student and all round nice guy, which pissed her off no end, given how he'd treated her. So much so that when the collection came round at parents evening, she asked the collector what the plans were for the funds raised, they replied that they were compiling a list of suggestions, and stood with pens poised.

"How's about half a juggling lesson?" asked my dear daughter, before turning on her heel, marching off and leaving me to deal with it..
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Wed 20 May 2009, 10:20, 6 replies)

Bullied.
I, along with most of the population of b3ta, was bullied at school, by both pupils and teachers. I don't particularly want to think too much about it, so here's a story my mother told me about one of her experiences with bullying:

My maternal grandfather died when my mother was 10 years old. She's always talked of him in the best possible terms: a loving father, someone who would never discourage my mother and aunt from exploring and experimenting, who taught them how a car engine worked, how to break into a car if you've locked your keys inside (sadly it won't work these days), how to read, draw, play rugby, and generally lead a happy childhood. Most importantly, he taught them very early on how to defend themselves: if they're being bullied, hit back and harder. If a man attacks them, go for the balls, use your hands, feet and teeth to hurt your attacker, and run away the first chance you get.

My mother was devastated when he died. The other children at her school didn't know how to talk to someone who'd been bereaved, so opted not to talk to her at all. She was, and is, very shy, but has the most volatile temper I've ever seen.

So when, one day not long after her father died, she was enjoying a day tobogganing about on her sled, an older boy (let's called him John Smith) took it from her, she saw red. She was 11, he was 13, and much bigger than her. She asked Smith to give it back. He said no. She balled her hand into a fist and made a movement with her foot as if she were going to kick him. Smith instinctively put his hands down to deflect her kick, whereupon she hit him as hard as she physically could in the nose, breaking it. His blood fountained out, splattering into the snow in warm spurts. She grabbed her sled as he clutched at his shattered nose, and went home.

Later that afternoon, there was a knock at the door. It was Mr Smith, who had known my grandfather slightly. He asked to speak to my grandma, and told her that my mother had attacked his son John without provocation. My grandma asked my mother to explain herself, and therefore my mother expained exactly what had happened, and that she was just defending herself as her father had taught her. Mr Smith looked at her, a small, defiant girl, and nodded. He left. He went home, explained to his son that (a) his lie had been found out, (b) he should never try to take things that weren't his, (c) how dare he bully a girl who'd just lost her father, and (d) wasn't he ashamed that he'd been beaten up by a girl younger and smaller than him? He gave him four strokes with the cane, and then marched him over to my mother's house, and made him apologise personally in front of my grandma and aunt, completing his humiliation.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Mon 18 May 2009, 13:03, 7 replies)

FLY BOMB
There was a bully in the street where I grew up named Lawrence. Nasty piece of work. Seventeen year old smoker with a tattoo of a nudie lady on his arm; ok, it wasn't such a great ink job - she looked a bit down syndrome and appeared to have three tits, but he had a tattoo all the same. This made Lawrence hard. Also, the fact that he'd quite happily mash the shit out of any kid who strayed onto his driveway helped this image along nicely.

Lawrence also had a car - a mustard yellow Ford Capri. It was his pride and joy. When he wasn't beating the shit out of the local kids for 'looking at him funny', or trying his damndest to sexually harrass any teenage girl in a two mile radius, he'd be out front of his house waxing his motor, the windows down, blaring out hardman music like The Clash, or on occasion, Frankie Goes to Hollywood.

Lawrence even gave the car a name - he called it The Thunderdome (in homage to favorite film; or possibly because he loved Tina Turner and wanted to marry her; fuck knows). But The Thunderdome became famous in our street. It had the same affect as looking directly at The Arc of the Covenant in that Indiana Jones film - if you dared look at The Thunderdome for any length of time, you could expect a swift thump from Lawrence and a barrage of death threats. Apparently looking at this motor wore out the paint, according to Lawrence.

Then, one fateful August day twatting about in the street with my mate Greg on our choppers, I inadvertently swerved, clipped the pavement, and went into the side of the poorly parked Thunderdome. Greg, being a true mate, legged it, leaving me sprawled on the street, badly brusied, grazed and bleeding, with the:

Whooooop!!! - Whooooop!!! - Whooooop!!!

of the Thunderdome's car alarm rattling in my ears. I got on my bike and fucked off sharpish. And within minutes Lawrence was stalking up and down the street asking the kids which fucker had just scratched his motor. He never really bothered with me as such before and not really that much after. I had no interest in cars, he had no interest in me - the arrangement worked just fine.

But having to spend a nice sunny afternoon trapped in the house playing Mouse Trap with Greg (took ages to set that fucker up just for ten seconds of excitement; a bit like my sex life now, come to think of it), anyway, I decided enough was enough. It was time to bring this cunt down a peg or two. For the sake of all the kids in the street. And anyway - I was bored.

I went and found my mums purse and 'borrowed' a quid. Then I sneaked out the back door, Greg trailing behind, and we went to the fishing tackle shop a few streets down.

"What are we doing here?" Greg asked.

And I explained how my Uncle George had told me about something that happened to him once when he went on holiday and forgot he had a jar of maggots he'd bought as bait in his shed. I remember sitting, mouth agape, as my Uncle George relayed the tale. I imagine he was trying to warn me off, but all I could think was: Shit, I've gotta try that one day.

"Half a pound of maggots, please," I asked. Mr Maggot-Seller weighed out the booty and passed it over.

We went home, put the fuckers in a big glass jar with some old bacon, screwed on the lid, knocked in a few airholes, and hid the fucker in the shed.

Fastforward a week or so...

Lawrence is still stalking round, enjoying the fact its school holidays and he has a shitload of local kids to terrorise. He's busy shouting at someone or other with some shit 80's hair rock ballad blaring on his motors radio. Greg and I, holding the now buzzing, angrily vibrating jar of angry-as-fuck flies, old bits of rotting bacon, and loads of broken open pupae cases, sneak over to The Thunderdome, SWAT-team style, loosen the lid on the jar, and slide it down onto the passanger seat through the open window.

Then we leg it and find a nice place to watch proceedings.

Lawrence finishes hitting the kid. Stalks back towards the Capri, he sees something on the passanger seat-

- opens the door -

and disappears in a violent cloud of pissed off blue bottles, falling backwards and screaming like the evil little nonce he was.

"Arggggghhhh!!!! Gettum off!!!! Gettum off!!!!" he squealed. But no one helped the fucker.

And in moments the flies had dispersed. Lawrence gathered himself, went into his house, picking dead flies out of his gelled hair and from between his teeth as he went.

Although Lawrence continued his chosen calling as a bullying, now at least he had to put up with everyone - even some of the adults - making a strange, droning, barely audible 'buzzing' noise as he stalked past.

Fly bombs - cool as fuck.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 14 May 2009, 14:17, 2 replies)

i find the suggestion that victims "choose" to be victims as was suggested below (Pig_of_Doom,) utterly fucking reprehensible...

my father bullied me all my young life - a sad small alcoholic loser, a tyrant, a figure of sheer terror to me as a small child.

i now have a great career and a wife and child that love me - but...

i was told aged 5 i was "all the man i was ever going to be" whilst having my hand crushed to a pulp as a supposedly 'manly' way to say goodnight. I WANTED A FUCKING HUG FOR FUCKSAKE.

i saw my home smashed up and my mother cowering in a corner at 3 am with mascara streaked eyes that were dry and sore from hours of crying, every other fucking weekend

every christmas ruined.

blood on the walls.

smashed televisions and glass from broken coffee tables littered everywhere on a saturday morning

stabbings.

burning newspaper being held up to my mothers face whilst pinned to a wall.

my mother being threatened with an air rifle in her face.

lying awake till 3 am hearing my 'father' call my mother all the whores and cunts he could muster (i found out that way quite early in life my mother lost her virginity on a train aged 18 -sadly she was spectacularly fertile so i was the accident that smashed them together) apparently that made her "a fucking hingoot"

other joys? regularly being dragged out of bed at 4 am on a school night at primary school age with my even younger sister "because we were leaving" sadly this never happened

bullies?

fuck off, you punched a child in a playground, you have no fucking clue

this whole QOTW is about "i hit a big boy when i was 8" VIZ: i won!

thats fine, dont tell me i chose to be a fucking victim
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 14 May 2009, 21:37, 22 replies)

Second Week of Big School 1983
At lunchtime I was hanging around by the tree in the playing field suddenly a bigger kid comes up to me and said 'Oi! are you new here'? I replied in a quiet 'Y-y-yes'.

He said 'Watch this' and picked up a small rock from the floor and threw it as hard as he could.

About 200ft away a small kid in my year was nonchalantly strolling at the end of field probably thinking about the latest adventures of Dangermouse, unaware that I and a few others were watching the trajectory of the missile as it made a graceful arc across the sky.

It looked like it was going to bounce right off the top of his head, and with a loud CRACK!, it did.

I turned to the bully with a look of amazement as he said 'That's physics that is mate, You'll learn that in a few years' and with that the stone thrower strolled off.
( Terry Oblong There's nobody here but us chickens on, Wed 13 May 2009, 18:23, 5 replies)

I was a bully
My first pearoast. A bit soon if I am to be honest.

Many moons ago when Porky was a callow 14, I was small, thin, wore glasses, had crap hair: basically a bit of an unattractive package. However I was well in with the cool kids. Yeah right. I was tolerated in their company because I was funny and always up for a laugh (have you ever noticed the coolest kids aren’t really very inventive? The ones I knew weren’t). But I digress. One of the kids at school, Huw, was rather strange. He was Welsh (although the accent wasn’t too bad as we lived in the North East), short, very hairy and had a haircut that resembled a suede brush. To top it off he wasn’t too bright in a special sort of way and had a pronounced speech impediment that gave the impression he was speaking in tongues. In other words uglier and less acceptable than me. Yay!

On the day in question we had suffered the stultifying boredom of double maths leading up to morning break. I had survived the class by burning the back of my hand with a magnifying glass to keep myself awake. There was only one solution, FIND HUW! Now although Huw was not one of the cool kids he had a rather severe tobacco addiction and was usually to be found in the boys bogs having a quick cancerstick between lessons. And sure enough there he was, enjoying in solitary peace and quiet what was probably one of the few things that kept the poor cunt going.

Only he wasn’t alone any more, he was surrounded by a bunch of predators intent on making a few moments of his day an absolute misery. There was a bit of ribbing which was designed to make him lose his temper (mocking his accent, hairiness and speech impediment usually did it) and hence in need of punishment.

Sorry, I had to take a break there. I’m not remembering this, I’m reliving it. It isn’t pleasant as you will see.

His first punishment was an arm twisting. Up until this point I had never joined in with the more physical bullying but today was my turn and at the behest of the genial and laughter filled cool kids I twisted his arm. Hard. I could hear the ligaments and tendons cracking and popping. I felt sick. Huw was squealing like a raped suckling pig and one of the more inventive chaps suggested we put his head down the toilet and pull the chain to quiet him. So I did. I crammed Huw’s head into the shit speckled porcelain and someone pulled the chain. Huw stopped squealing and started making gagging, choking noises. Quite understandably. At this point my erstwhile pals took to their heels as the bell sounded for end of break. I would like to say I was torn by remorse and helped Huw get cleaned up for his next lesson but I didn’t. I did however look at his face and I wish I never had. The haunted look of pain on his face was unbearable. A dumb-animal look that communicated his failure to understand why anyone would want to do this to him hit me hard. His shoulders slumped and he picked his bag up with his good arm. Silently he shouldered his way past me and went home.

But it didn’t end there. His mother brought him back to school, cleaned up, after lunch. I was called to the head’s office. He had named only me. Fine. I took the physical punishment (a sound caning) and was then given the devastating real punishment. I was known to all the teachers as a bright but lazy scholar, my punishment? To help Huw after school with his homework. Every night for six months. I still don’t think it was enough.

I came to know Huw rather well and he was one of the funniest most irreverent little gits I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. He forgave me quickly and with ease, he was like that. I also forgave myself eventually but I never forgot and I never bullied again.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Wed 13 May 2009, 13:12, 13 replies)

from cool to "gay" in 5 seconds
i'm 18 years old and recently was on my way home from work and was walking up the back street
near this club were they have metal bands on for 12-18 year olds. i used to go there but stopped going because well i could legally drink
so the few of us who'd been going since we were 12 had kinda moved on to other places.

i noticed there weren't many kids outside, only about 10 of them, which if it was bad weather was expected as they'd be let in early but it was a nice night.
so as i was walking past one of the lads shouted me over, he was my friends little brother and only about 13 years old.i went over and
was having a chat with him when i noticed about 7 or 8 chav looking boys who were my age and older walked up the road.
usually you'd get a few idiot trying to pick on anyone round there for being a "GOFF" but they never did anything just shout.

then one of them walked over and punched my friends brother in the side of the head and started laughing and showing off to his mates.
he was stood on the edge of the curb side on to me.it really really pissed me off that he was 18 years old picking on a kid just
because he knew the kid wouldn't fight back. i grabbed the back of his hood, punched him in the face and pushed him off the curb.

he obviously wasn't expecting this (neither was i to be honest just acted on impulse) and fell flat on his arse in the middle of the road.
his friends were hysterical laughing shouting "YOU BIG GAY YOU JUST GOT FLOORED BY A GIRL... LOOK AT HER SHE'S TINY!"

i gave him one last kick in the balls, much to the amusment of his friends, and then walked my friends brother home.
(stitched, Thu 14 May 2009, 12:20, 3 replies)

Poor Ben
I should start by saying that I heard this story from the person involved. It may well be total shite and a story that every school has. If that's the case, though, I've no idea why he didn't admit so and save himself years of bullying.

Anyway, there was a kid at my school called Ben. He was super clever and also a really nice guy. The kind of guy who was honest to a fault. He was into radiohead before anyone else and got stick for years before everyone else realised he was right. Music tastes, however, were the least of his worries. He had very strick parents. The kind that ensure academic success through a distint imbalance of the carrot/stick ratio. I dare say he was terrified of them. We sure were. Two super-strict Egyptian surgeons who prided themselves on discipline. And this made sure the story that sentenced him to 2 years of abuse all the more special.

As the story goes one day 16 year old Ben was sitting at his desk in his bedroom doing a little bit of internet surfing. As is the way with a combination of a teenage boy, privacy, and an open internet connection, he soon found himself looking at porn.

Now, Ben had recently heard that having a wank while sitting at your desk is like having a shit with your clothes on - it gets the job done, but there are more enjoyable ways. So he decided to walk on the wild side and have a standing wank. Hence, a couple of minutes of flesh-staring later, reaching the vinegar strokes and legs spasming, he was in the wanking version of what sportsmen would call 'the zone'.

Then in walks his mum.

Now, under usual circumstances - as we all know - the reflex kicks. Something is thrown over your crotch, monitor turned off and tissues hidden within about 0.1s. This is, apparently, not so easy with your trousers round your ankles, monitor out of reach and legs going through spasms. So, horror-struck at hearing the door open what does Ben do? He freezes. He turns to face the door and freezes. But it was too late. The vinegar strokes had arrived. So, stopping dead and clutching at his penis, his mum enters into the room to be welcomed by the sight of - you guessed it - Ben jizzing right at her.

Apparently he hit her dress near the ankle. She didn't stop. She simply walked in, got spunked on, and walked straight out again like an incestuous dial-a-bukkake. All within the space of about a second.

Needless to say, they never spoke about it. And, riddled with such a mental cluster-fuck, Ben confided in his best friend. Who told his best friend. Who told.....etc His life was misery from then on. Even the teachers knew - one once even joking about "seeing Monica Lewinski, er, I mean you mum" at parents evening. I mean, what's Ben going to do? Tell his dad?

The poor lad is getting married soon. Almost none of his friends from school are invited. Presumably to avoid his fiance learning that her new husband once spunked on his mum.
( thiswasmyclone, Tue 19 May 2009, 5:45, 5 replies)

Sage Scottish advice
Growing up I was the killer combination of being short, bespeckled and crap at sports. It’s as though the bullying fairy had shat in my crib at birth.

At first things weren’t too bad because almost everyone’s short and weedy at first (with the exception of William Dale, who was nearly six foot by the time he was 13 and built like a brick shithouse – lovely chap mind you). But when puberty hit life started to get very miserable indeed.

To compound things I was stuck in a boarding school so it went on all day and all night. I assembled a motley collection of bruises, wrist burns (and one breakage) endless shattered specs, far too many ‘Deep Heat on the bollocks’ sessions and a broken tooth by the time I was 14. I’m only glad I didn’t live in a country with easy access to guns otherwise I’d have been stalking the school halls with an AK47 in one hand and the scrotums of two or three of the worse perpetrators in the other*.

Now parents will tell you to just ignore the bullies and they’ll go away. After several years working towards my PhD in the school of getting the shit kicked out of you I can attest this is bullshit. “Just keep out of their way,” is also not good advice when you’re sharing a dormitory room with them for 30 weeks of the year.

The school chaplin suggested prayer, which I tried as well. Either god doesn’t listen to prayers or he takes active pleasure in watching gangs of kids beating up their peers – and after many years of thought and a thorough reading of the bible I suspect the latter.

Thankfully it was my great uncle Jim who provided the answer. I’d gone up to Scotland to stay with him for the first time in years and he’d noticed that the ‘bonny wee lad’ he’d last seen five years ago had turned into a quivering lack of self confidence in a perpetual state of fear. After some patient questioning and two large whiskey toddies I unburdened myself to him and he thought for a while, puffing on an unfiltered Senior Service, before giving me the answer.

“It’s going to hurt for a wee bit but ye’ll have to hammer the cunts.”

He explained that he’d had similar problems in the army in the Second World War. He had joined up in 1940 and, being bookish sort and a homosexual to boot, had suffered similar torments. In the end he told me it drove him almost insane but he got the advice he had given me from a corporal and it had worked. He fought back, fought dirty and never backed down unless unconscious, which had happened more than once.

He then spent the next week inculcating me in the art of fighting dirty. I learnt the value of bollock grabbing, instep crunching, long fingernails and elbow strikes to the face. It was kind of like Karate Kid without the boring 'wax on, wax off' rubbish and substituting a wizened Asian man with a gay, perpetually drunk Scotsman (which to my mind would have made a better film.)

As the next term started I used his advice. Once the bullying started I hit out and didn’t stop hitting, biting and scratching until they ran off or I couldn’t get up again. Yes, there were many times when I got the shit kicked out of me, because all the fighting in the world won’t help you when it’s five to one, but I didn’t mind it so much. There was none of the sick misery I’d felt as a victim before, more just a stoic acceptance that it was needed and a sneaking pride in my ability to pick myself up and go out and do it again.

It’s remarkable how quickly the bullies faded away. Most of the scum who bully are cowards deep down, that’s why most of them do it – to prove to themselves that they aren’t, and if there are other kids out there who won’t hurt them they’ll move on to new and easier game. By the end of the term it had stopped all together and I was well on the way to getting some confidence back.

I’ve never had to fight since, apart from one incident on my 29th birthday but that was self-defence, and have grown up to hate bullies and all they stand for, be it in schools, the workplace or wearing a policeman’s uniform. If my goddaughter ever has problems I’ll pass on Jim’s advice with pleasure, just as I’ve passed it on here, and I urge you all to do the same.

Apols for the length but it’s a hot button issue for me.

*The day after Columbine I said as much in the pub and was surprised at how many people agreed. Thank goodness for gun control.
(paxvobiscum, Thu 14 May 2009, 0:03, 8 replies)

My dad worked for the police force...
...when we lived in Cambridgeshire. He clocked around 13 years of dedicated service and has about 1,000,000 stories to tell of his time, and boy does he tell ‘em - I don’t mind though, its always kept me on the straight and narrow, well, actually he just used to scare the shit out of me so I was too scared to break the law… just in case he found out… and then found me!! *shudders*

Anyhoo, one story that has always stuck in my mind relates to this QOTW so I’ll fire it down here for all to read, if you feel like it…

One miserable drizzly evening in 2000 my dad and his partner in crime (enforcement) got a call about a domestic dispute in Wisbech, a man had beaten up his wife. They hopped in the car and drove around to the address to meet up with the two police officers that were already at the house.

The second they knocked on the door a women swung it open and got right in my dads face shouting. She had a bruised cheek and a collected work of verbal obscenities and she wasn’t afraid to use them. My dad tried to calm down the woman and asked her to explain what had happened. She started jumping around screaming that her husband had beaten her and that they needed to throw him in prison as he was a danger to society. It was then my dad realised they were one person short. Where was the husband?

My dad left the hysterical woman with his partner and went on a search for the husband. One of the officers that had arrived first at the scene told my dad it was straight-forward what had happened, the guy had beaten his wife and was now handcuffed and in the living room, clearly regretting his crimes.

My dad found the guy sitting on the floor and crouched down next to him when the woman burst into the room shouting, kicking and spitting at her husband. ‘He’s been beating me for years, and I couldn’t take it anymore so I finally hit him back’ she cried.

Now usually if this sort of thing happened you would just assume that the woman was telling the truth. She was visibly hurt, clearly upset and had probably just snapped and lashed out at her husband after years of abuse – the only problem was the husband. He was calm and clearly petrified, something didn’t quite sit right with my dad so he separated the couple and helped lift the guy off the floor to sit him at the table. He winced as he stood up and said that he was sorry he has hit her and would go to the station and wouldn’t put up a fight.

This guy was just not acting like your usual wife-beater and my dad was suspicious of what was going on. Then he noticed the blood that was seeping through the guys shirt. He asked him if his wife had hurt him and he immediately started stuttering that it was her blood and he must have made her bleed when he hit her. Seeing as his wife had a bruised cheek and didn’t look like she was bleeding my dad asked the guy to stand up and pull up his t-shirt.

Turns out the guy was the one being abused. His wife had been beating him for about 6 years and he was too embarrassed and afraid to go to the police. She used to stab him in the stomach with her knitting needles and his chest was covered in scars and scabs. Apparently he had been the one to finally snap and when he said he was going to call the police she hit herself in the face, made the call and said she had been beaten – I mean really, what a bitch.

Soooo yes, thankfully my dad picked up on what was going on and arrested the right person, and she confessed to everything once at the station. I do wonder how often this sort of thing goes on and goes undetected because the guys are too ashamed to come forward?

Apologies for the length and seriousness, I have posted a funny one somewhere too!! :)
(Flim-Flam the Magnificent "You is talking loco and I like it!", Tue 19 May 2009, 12:50, 2 replies)

*deep breath*
Ok, I guess this is supposed to be cathartic, but I'm not so sure going over this will lead to a sense of relief. Still, time to man up and soldier on.

Way back in my childhood years I used to hang out with one kid (I won't name him, I still see him now and then) all the time, we were practically brothers. I say brothers, he could occasionally show a mean competitive streak on him, but he always looked out for me. We did the usual boy stuff, running around making noise, or building dens in the woods near the house, but during the cold hard winters of my youth I would always end up in bed with one bug or another.

It was during these bouts of illness that the differences between me and my best friend really came out. My Dad was kind and caring, always making sure I was kept warm, but my friend's Dad was a complete cunt. We weren't dumb kids, we knew his Dad was a drunk, and when he wasn't shouting at or threatening his wife, he'd be yelling or hitting his son. To be honest, it was frightening at the time, he could be so unreasonable and violent. There is nothing worse than a drunk coward who has to bully women and children to make themselves feel strong.

I've blocked out most of the details of the abuse that my friend and his mum suffered at the hands of this cunt, but the events of one night in particular keep coming back to me. It was a cold, December night, and I was ill once again (which had ruined me and my friend's chances of a bloody good snowball fight), when we heard shouting from downstairs. His Dad was drunk again, and yelling at my friend's Mum, but he was also yelling at my Dad! Sure, they'd traded insults before, but never before had he flat out threatened my Dad. Just as we left my bedroom, the shouts and screams were cut short by a loud noise.

I raced to the hallway, my heart pounding in my chest, where I saw a sight that shook me to my core. I feel nauseous writing about it now, but I distinctly remember having to struggle with every ounce of strength in my 9 year old body to stop from throwing myself on the floor and wailing to the heavens. My Dad was lying on the floor, barely moving, and that drunk, bullying prick of a 'man' was standing over him, laughing.

I saw red. I could feel every muscle in my body tensing as a primal rage came over me. I screamed aloud and threw myself at him, fists and feet flailing, images of my hurt father burned into my retinas. The details of what followed are fuzzy at best, but I do remember my friend picking me up off of his Dad, and looking down to see blood dripping from my hands and down the bone claws that now protruded from between my knuckles.

Turns out I'd just killed my real Dad, but thankfully my (now) brother helped me escape. Things were quite wild after that, but I've found that you just can't run away from your past. Still, things are looking up for me now, I've landed a sweet position in this school, and I've found a hot woman. Just need to separate her from her speccy-four-eyes dick of a boyfriend.
( Labia Majora You keep on talking but it makes no sense at all, Fri 15 May 2009, 11:24, 8 replies)

Not very funny.
and probably long. So if you're not in the mood for long and not funny - don't bother reading. Don't bitch - don't complain - just properly don't read it.

okay.

When I was a wee Vampyrekitten, only 7 or 8 years old, was when it first started. I was one of the "bright" kids who got to read the "big kids" books and thus was horribly unpopular because of it. I could read before I started school and some of the other kids didn't like that.
I was excluded from games and parties (which, while completely insignificant now - meant a huge deal back then. I'd hear everybody talking about Mollie's birthday and all the fun games they got to play and how Sam won a teddy bear etc, all the while being looked sideways and laughed at), pushed around and generally ignored.
I remember one particularly notable incident where we had show and tell and when I got up for my turn everybody laughed at my very loved and scruffed Humphrey (who has graced this QTOW before) and called me a baby. Then another boy (I think his name was seth?) kicked me in the back when I sat down, just because he could and he didn't like Humphrey.

I did what all "babies" do - I cried. I couldn't understand why they didn't like me so much. I was incredibly shy as a kid, had glasses, so naturally got called four eyes and such but I just couldn't grasp why they hated me so much. I never spoke much unless people spoke to me first, never hit anyone, never called anyone names, never did anything to anybody.

I moved a few years later, down from multicultural Melbourne where last names like mine weren't fussed over, to monocultural Warrnambool. It was cold. It was wet.
I was nine and still wearing glasses. I had a woggy name. I was pale and Dutch and I liked pickles and cheese in bread for lunch (still do!).
My shit of a brother decided to introduce a few of the choicier "nicknames" I'd had up in Melbourne into the school population to make himself look cool.
So it all began again, getting nastier and more vicious as I moved up through school. I began swimming - and I was pretty good at it. I began playing soccer - and I kicked the boys butts. I began playing netball and I was okay at it. But in every sport I tried to play - they already had their friendship groups - and they made it abundantly clear how much they *didn't* need me and how much I wasn't *wanted* around.
In my final year of primary school, I was still the oddball. I still had glasses, read stacks of books, ate woggy food. I was relentlessly bullied every single day by three girls who were determined to make me miserable. When I started growing breasts, they called me a whore. When I got pimples they called me pizza face. Nerd. Geek. Dictionary. Fugly. Freak. It. Every single day. I was asked if I'd ever picked anyone up, if I'd ever let a guy fuck me for money.

One day I cracked. I'd been in tears the whole day because people kept stealing my book, snapping my bra strap, calling me names, passing notes about me around the whole class and then "accidentally" showing them to me. When the end of the day came I slammed my chair on top of the table, except I gave it a little too much force and it went flying off the other side and hit one of my main antagonists in the back of the leg. And I didn't even say sorry. I just said "fuck you" and walked out, bawling.

Highschool was pretty much the same.
Went there, incredibly shy, in the accelerated program but even there I wasn't accepted. People still bullied me - my "best friend" (who has also been mentioned here before), bullied me to the point where I was pretending to be sick so I didn't have to come to school. We had a fight which culminated in her getting her 16 year old friends to threaten to kill me, bash me, break my nose etc etc.
I didn't cope very well. At the time I was also really struggling with my sexuality and the double stress just made me spiral down into depression. I did some very stupid things to myself.
I stopped playing sport because people on my own teams were looking for excuses to bash me up (from memory I suffered several blood noses, many dead arms/legs, quite a few net/basket/volley/soccer balls/hockey pucks to the face). I eventually refused to participate in sport classes altogether. I think I participated in maybe three classes in the last 4 years of high school.

Last year I was friends with a girl called Sheridan. I have no problems in naming her because, quite frankly, she is a bitch. We had maths together and became close friends. She was the first person I came out to. She threw it in my face.
One day we were friends - the next we were nothing. She hated me. She spread rumours about me, wouldn't let me talk to mutual friends, constantly belittled me if I tried to talk to her about it, completely did a 180 degree turn. I was confused and hurt and horribly gutted. She was pretty much the only friend I had - and on a single whim - a single, stupid, petty whim, she decided she hated me - literally over night.

Over the years I was systematically and deliberately bullied and bullied and bullied. I was their chosen victim. You know how there's always that one kid - that one person who is too shy to stand up for themselves, too scared to say anything, thus leading that one kid to be the vent for *everybody's* spleen?

I was that kid.
I was that kid and it still affects me. I am too shy to talk to people I don't know because I don't want them to judge me. I am too shy to say "Hey how's it going?" to somebody I want to get to know because I'm afraid they don't want to talk to me. I can't string a sentence together properly in front of people I don't know - because I get that nervous.

I don't wear glasses any more - I don't eat woggy foods - but I still get bullied. Every Day.
And I cope with it now. Don't say anything, don't react, just try to put it all behind me. I ignore the stares, the whispers, the outright bitchy comments.

But it still doesn't make it hurt any less.
(Poppet some assembly required., Wed 13 May 2009, 14:00, 31 replies)

Bullied by the council
I feel like I am being bullied by Surrey County Council. This is for why.

We have long been required to put recyclable materials into a recycling box. If we put recyclable materials into the normal bin, we get a fine. Fine.

Yesterday 4 new bins were delivered to my door. So I now own the following bins:

1 old wheelie bin;

1 general recycling bin;

1 indoor recycling bin;

1 new bin for cardboard;

1 new general bin;

1 new indoor bin to deposit food waste;

1 new outdoor bin in which to transfer food waste.

In addition to which, I am encouraged by my next door neighbour to share her hedge clippings (“green waste”) bin, so that makes 8 bins.

Any small area of greenery in front of the houses in my road is now completely covered in gargantuan plastic bins. Next door have encouraged their children to graffiti over every bin, to nurture their creative sides, so these environmental pursuits have left the road looking like moss side in the 90s (probably).

In the food waste bin, I am not allowed to deposit food wrapped in a plastic bag, so presumably when it has been collected, I have to scrape the old beans and bacon rinds and whatever from the inside of the bin, wash it, and then put it back outside. Additionally, I have to live with a week’s worth of leftovers sitting in my indoor bin. I had already been given a composting bin by the council (count them – that’s 9!) for my odourless vegetable peelings.

The final piece of good news is that all of the various bins are to be collected at different days of the week, so I have no need for an alarm clock any more.

If at any point I should accidentally put the wrong rubbish in the wrong bin, I run the risk of being prosecuted for murdering the environment.

It all seems a bit unnecessary as my household produces less than a small carrier bag of rubbish per week.

So for length of pomposity and radio 4-ness.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Tue 19 May 2009, 11:27, 7 replies)

I rather lost faith in the whole school thing...
I had to literally drag my very distressed children to school for several years, to leave them sobbing their hearts out with a teacher hanging on to them so they didn't run back to me as I left. I'd be telephoned several times a week by the school because they were "distressed" after breaktimes and lunchtimes. I attended meeting after meeting with the head and deputy head about the bullying. The advice given by the staff was the usual "ignore it", "go home for lunch", "walk away", "tell a teacher" type crap. They tried all of this - to no avail. They tried standing up to the bullies - only to get into trouble with the themselves. I was told by my daughter's head of year that nothing would be done about one of the girls bullying my daughter because "her parents would get upset" and would apparently cause trouble for the school - the HoY sympathised, she said, but my daughter would have to try and stay out of the other girl's way. Etc etc, ad nauseum.

After many, many incidents - both physical and verbal, the final straw for me came following yet another a rather nasty assault on my daughter by two girls where, this time, she was thrown on the floor and kicked in the head several times - surrounded by the usual jeering mob. My daughter finally managed to get to the receptionist and asked her to call me. The receptionist said she'd call the school nurse instead, who duly came and took my daughter to the medical room. After being told what had happened the nurse gave her a glass of water and then sent her off to her class. The teacher noticed she was white as a sheet and shaking so sent her back to the nurse, the nurse immediately sent her back to class. After much to'ing and fro'ing to the nurses room over the course of the day (the incident happened in the morning) the deputy head was finally called in. He questioned my daughter and the two girls concerned, who eventually admitted the whole thing and told them to shake hands and apologise.

My daughter came home from school that night still white as a sheet, still shaking, blurred vision, vomiting etc - I finally managed to piece together most of the story from her highly incoherent explanations while we were in casualty. She was concussed but fortunately no permanent or longlasting damage.

Obviously I had several questions for the school staff - why hadnt they called me when it happened, why hadnt they taken her to hospital immediately (which I would think would be commonsense after someone was kicked repeatedly in the head), why did the nurse continually send her back to class when she was quite clearly not fit to be in school after the assault, etc

No satisfactory answers were forthcoming, no apology for the nurse's total incompetence - instead I was apparently supposed to be satisfied with the punishment which the school had decided upon for the two girls concerned - they were "isolated" (not allowed to go outside at breaktime or lunchtime) for one whole day! Woo!

After the meeting concluded I marched straight up to the receptionist, requested a pen and paper, and wrote a letter to the school unregistering them - took them home. They've been home educated ever since.

After being out of the school environment for several years, my children have now returned to the well-balanced and happy people they were before the bullying started. They are respectful, kind and enthusiastic about learning, and are now much more social and friendly with other children (albeit older children rather than their peers) than they ever were whilst at school - something which, had I left them in that abusive and neglectful environment, I'm sure would have been knocked out of them.

Yes, education is necessary - school isn't.
(Freakmandu, Sat 16 May 2009, 4:17, 9 replies)

I used to work on a cattle farm,
and some of the farmhands were basically stupid thugs who were always looking for a fight. Thankfully I started work on a sheep station, and the place couldn't have been more relaxed. Most bullies are cowherds at heart.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 14 May 2009, 1:03, 3 replies)

I was getting bullied by guys at school, one was big and bald and one was small but had big hair.
They were taking the piss out of my house and I was “STFU NOOBZ!!!” and they were like “LOL MAYK US!”

So then I went like OMG and my hair turned yellow and all buzzweeoo buzzweeoo buzzweeoo and I was like “SUPER SAIYAN MOTHERFRUITERS!” and dey were like “OMIDAZE 9000?!?!?”

I gave them nipple cripples and den everyone else nipple cripples and then I hit myself in the chest with a broom to make myself feel ‘Mek’ and ‘Unbelievable.’

After I made all mums with buggies walking past headbutt their own chins I sat on a wall and ate TWO curly whirlies and did a sick in a bush from the excitement.

I then spun around a pole in the rain shelter and got rust on my jacket and a trouser tickle that made my willy hard.
( Donkey Gums @mattcomedy, Wed 13 May 2009, 14:56, 5 replies)

I once had to share a house with a few people.
Every single one of them was an attention seeking drama queen, even the guys.
This one fat bitch with a mouth the size of the channel tunnel decided to take a dislike to me, because I'm Indian and started calling me names to everyone and slagging off my heritage. She even got one of the other girls (a blonde tit who thought she could sing) against me.
I was called names like "poppadom" and "fuckawallah", food I had prepared wouldn't be touched because "you don't know where those hands have been" and told "to go back to the slums" and to "fuck off home if you can't speak English properly".
It was absolutely disgraceful but I choose to ignore it.

I later found out the gobby shit died recently and did her best to make as much money out of her death a possible, the vapid slag. Guess I came out tops after all.

Lots of Love. Shilpa Shetty.
( Maffers I flow kinda strange like Spina Bifida footprints, Mon 18 May 2009, 11:03, 4 replies)

Accidents will happen
This QOTW is a bit grim and depressing, so I thought I'd share a story about how things can go well. A few years ago I was feeling pretty low, I'd just had a miscarriage and my boyfriend decided to leave me over it. Within a few weeks I was on Prozac and was experiencing this strange wibbly-wobbly, rushy feeling you get when your on that sort of medication. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't do anything much.

And to make matters worse the bastards in suits who are the DSS stopped paying me unemployment benefit (I'm not a doley scumbag; I'd been unemployed for about four months after working for years and years in the same job and where I live out in the styx its hard to find new work). The reason they stopped my benefit was because they found out I was now signed off work through illness with my doctor. There was a new benefit I could claim but it would take about six weeks to sort out and would be less than I could barely manage on as it was - I thought I was going to be made homeless while I waited.

I was down at the local jobcentre pleading with the manager there to help me. There were some builders in as well and I managed to grab everyones attention. I must've looked really pathetic. And this manager man was just the ultimate bully; he made me feel worthless. He grinned down at me and told me as smugly as he could that there was nothing he could do to help. Fair enough. I didn't mind that. But I did mind the fact that he seemed to be getting a hard on at the thought of me squirming.

I left empty handed without a clue how I was going to get through the next few weeks. I was in tears. And then one of the builders came up to me and said: "Sorry to hear all that, love. We've been here all week and that bloke's done the same with loads of young lasses like you. He's a nasty man," then he stopped and pointed at a car. A nice car. Very flash and expensive looking. "Thought you might like to see this. That's his car over there." Then the builder whistled to his mate in a big truck that was loaded down with loads of heavy gear. His mate in the big truck reversed squarely into the posh looking car and smashed in its front, crumpled it up so it looked like a screwed up Coke can.

"Whoops!" said the builder and he smiled at me and walked away. "Accidents will happen!" He said.

Cheered me up no end!
(jellyfish wish, Mon 18 May 2009, 17:10, 3 replies)

Instant parental payback



what a total cnut that geezer is. I wouldve done the same.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Fri 15 May 2009, 14:02, 46 replies)

SUPERMAN !!!
Oooohhh!!! Dairylea triangles and crackers!!! I thought as I sat on the bench at breaktime, swinging my legs merrily as I contemplated the processed cheesy goodness I was about to receive.

Suddenly I feel an arm grab me from behind and yank me off the bench. My cheese triangles and crackers go flying, which made me cry a bit. Then I hear a gruff voice, its Dean, the designated thug of Class 4B, my form class:

"Spanky, you're a big gay! You wear glasses and that makes you a big gay!"

Being five or six, I didn't know what the fuck Dean was talking about, so, as I'm clambering to my feet and brushing leaves off my short trousers, I say:

"No I'm not... what's a gay?"

Dean starts laughing and thumps me in the arm: "You like kissing boys!"

With that I straightened my glasses, picked up my Transformers lunchbox (with matching Jazz drinks flask), planted both my hands on either side of Dean's cheeks, and gave him a big sloppy kiss.

Then I ran off.

And Dean never bothered me after that; he was too scared I might kiss him again, I think.

But this encounter made me realise something - I was different. There was something about me that made me stand out from the rest of the class, something I'd never really thought about before: I was a four-eyed little prick. This sense of being different was exacerbated a few weeks later when Form 4B went on their first ever trip to the swimming baths. It was scary. Particularly so for me as I had to get changed into my trunks, the strange and horrible smell of chlorine permeating the cold, harsh place, only to be told by the Nazi games teacher that I had to LEAVE my specs in the changing rooms. I then spent a confusing hour splashing about, walking into things and people, and generally acting like a drunken dwarf on account of not being able to see a fucking thing.

It was hard being a speccy twat.

Then I discovered something AMAZING! My dad bought me a comic on a journey over to my grandparents to keep me quiet - I opened it, and THERE HE WAS! AND HE WORE GLASSES! AND - MOST IMPORTANT OF ALL - HE WAS HARD AS FUCK!

Back in school on Monday morning Form 4B are sat round learning their two times table. I see that Dean and some of his cronies are knocking about at the back of the class. I'll show um. I'll put the fear of God into um. I put up my hand and ask if I can go to the bog. The teacher, harrassed and probably hung over with some strangers cum still dripping out her flange from the night before, agrees.

And I go.

And I come back moments later, running round the desks with my arms outstretched infront of me, making weird zooming noises. And I've put my Y-fronts on over my trousers.

"Spanky! What on Earth are you doing!?!" Screams the teacher, trying to catch me. The rest of the class are looking at me a little dumbstruck.

I stop, put my hands on my hips and declare: "I'm SUPERMAN, Miss!"

This'll learn um all! I think.

Then one of the other kids says: "Superman doesn't wear glasses. Clark Kent wears glasses and takes them off when he's Superman."

Shit - hadn't thought about that. So I slip my specs off my face, start the zooming noises again, and start running, arms outstretched-

-and being as completely fucking blind as the proverbial bat - slam right into the wall and fall back in a quivering little heap.

Silence...

Bullies? Didn't really bother with me. I was far too fucking weird as a child to be bullied.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 15 May 2009, 11:12, 2 replies)

How to turn things to your own advantage..........
*pop*
Hope this doesn't give the game away too much, but here goes......
~~~~~~~~

I worked, for a while, in a fairly male-dominated environment. It was also a lab. As is the way in these places, there was a fairly high level of office 'banter', which sometimes got a little out of control. I was asked by my boss (a good guy), to let him know if I ever felt myself to be a victim of bullying or sexism in the workplace.

I told him then what I tell you now - the banter was harsh but friendly, others took more stick than me for less easily-labeled reasons. And I never experienced any true discrimination on the grounds of gender. (On the grounds of being an idiot, maybe, but not gender.)

Nevertheless, sometimes things got a little too one-sided, and a little grating. One particular day, things got a bit out of control. Myself and a (male)friend decided we had to act. We invented -

Sexism Tuesday.

With that one idea, we reduced sexism by 80% in the office.
The best part of this was that people started to self-censor. Angry rants would tail off into '.......oh, shit, it's not Tuesday, is it?'. And everybody was able to keep joking, but to let people know when they'd had enough. Of course, it tailed off eventually, as these things do, but never mind.....


The moral? - Sometimes, being able to turn things into a joke stops a situation getting out of hand. It remains my finest achievement over those 2 years.


Be nice, its my first time....

spoons
(coffeespoons, Fri 15 May 2009, 10:07, 7 replies)

Walking to a friend's house the other day
A car slowed down next to me and a child, no older than about 8, leant out the window to tell me that I’d 'dropped my gay card'. I stupidly looked down as the car sped off, child laughing.

The worst part was that the mother driving the car had agreed to take part in my humiliation. And I never did find that darned card.
(spavywavy, Wed 13 May 2009, 22:07, 5 replies)

Jordan McBitchtits
I was a right hippie at school. Long flowing hair, bushy sideboards and a goatee (okay bushy may be pushing it a bit. I suppose bumfluff would be a better descriptor, after all I was but a bairn).

This endeared me to the small clique of rockers and weirdos, who were to become my close friends, and provided me a small measure of success with the ladies.

It did however have the effect of making me a prime target for the radge packet charvers and thugs whose ranks provided a fair percentage of my school's pantheon of pupils.

Now one of these genetic misfires was Jordan McBitchtits* a lumbering tower of inarticulation and aggression housed within a mountain of beef a Wagyu bull would have been proud to possess.

*Name changed to protect me in the, admittedly, unlikely event she's since learnt to read and use a computer.

She was naturally the de facto leader of the group of bad girls in our year. You know the sort. The ones that made a concious decision to never show any sign of intelligence. The ones with the harsh chemically treated hair and vacuous stares. The ones that traded their infinite potential for a blokey yobbishness and threw their scarily fertile bodies at anyone who could get served booze at the Happy Shopper.

Obviously she found my appearance, bookishness and sarcastic wit distasteful but generally left me pretty much alone.

Until, alas, one day while I was lounging around in class, shooting the shit with Foz and paying little attention to the banal wafflings of our teacher, a shadow crept over me plunging me into an ominous pool of darkness.

I looked up to find Jordan looming threateningly over me. Obviously some broken neuron had flickered into life and I had been promoted from irritant to target in her wildly damage psyche.

No preamble for she, instead she raised a pudgy arm and slowly, oh so slowly, sent it swinging toward me.

"Aha!" I thought "I see she wishes to punch me in the chops" and promptly batted her paw away from my nose to prevent bloodying.

Apparently no-one had ever tried this technique on her before as her eyes widened in shock as if I'd just waggled my willy at her.

"How dare you lay hands upon me you bounder" quoth the psychotic hose beast, "I believe I shall have to take you to task come our repast"

Granted those may not have been her exact words but the gist is there.

In a smooth placatory manner I replied "Fuck off you fat bitch, I didn't hit you I just pushed your hand away"

Bizarrely this seemed to incense her further and she appeared ready to get pugilistic on my face again until the teacher noticed the affray and told her to sit down.

All was well until the lunch bell rang. I, the incident already out of mind, strolled happily out of the gates and began to make my way home.

As I passed the bus stop (bus stops... this shit always happens near bus stops) Jordan and her phalanx of harridans hove into view.

A cacophonous cackling began and, amidst accusations of being a women beater and a puff, I attempted to push my way through the group.

Unfortunately this wasn't to be and Jordan unceremoniously grabbed my flowing locks and swung me round in a wide circle while blows began raining upon me from the half dozen hell bitches surrounding me.

This presented a Catch-22 situation in my mind. I was here receiving a hiding for supposedly laying fists to a women and my only two options were to A: punch their stupid faces in, therefore incurring more wrath or B: give up and hit the ground and adopt the fetal postion.

I couldn't choose between the two with the distraction of fists and feet striking me so I just kept my feet under me as I was whirled around and beaten.

This continued for what must have been no longer than 30 seconds but felt like an hour before I managed to extricate myself and strode purposefully away to my mother with blood, snot and tears adorning my battered face.

And the worst part is now I have to pay hundreds of pounds to receive the same treatment.
(Rotimer was micturating windward at, Wed 13 May 2009, 15:04, 6 replies)

Apologies for the sentimentality
I've just spent five hours re-reading through this QOTW. Every single post, every single reply. I didn't think I had any tears left to be totally honest. One thing in particular has struck me. In those tales that show the some of the depths that people have gone too, where people have dredged up painful memories and been brave enough to share them with us, there have been b3tans everywhere who have come out in the replies with offers of help, kind words of support and encouragement. In particular, there are three people who I have seen pop up time and time again. This may be particularly noticable to me, as after I posted my tale all three of them gazzed me with words of help, for which I am extremly appreciative. I won't put up their names so as not to cause embarassment, but I hope they see who they are and I want them to feel proud for the help they have given to me and many others.

From myself, thankyou to those who have shared their stories. I hope that the telling has helped you.

On behalf of all those who have posted here with their tales, I wish to thank those people who have replied with words of help. Some of those have helped more than you'll ever know. You make me proud to be a member of this site.
(Potty Jag har smör i min rumpspringa, Tue 19 May 2009, 23:33, 12 replies)

Becoming a legend
Let's see. I devloped a mental illness around age 11, and it wasn't diagnosed until I was about 30, because everyone knows the real cure is to "Smarten yourself up." Or in severe cases, "Pull your head out of your arse!"
So you could consider my high school self to have been a bit of a soft target. The rest of the school certainly did.

One lunchtime though, I managed to tip things into Lord of the Flies territory.

It started with the usual, getting bits of lunch flicked at me as I was walking around the school. (Sitting in one place made me too easy to get hold of.) I dodged one guy, who decided that I needed to be put in my place, and started chasing me, with his friends following for a laugh.
Now I was always good at running, from necessity. Unfortunately, I picked the wrong direction, and picked up another group, who decided to join in. And another. Then, dodging through one of the locker bays, another. Once I was outside the school quadrangle, I looked back, and had over a hundred screaming, jeering boys, all following me, the ones in the lead yelling about what they would do to me.
At this point, I did what anyone would do. Damn near pissed myself and ran like hell. There was one small corner of my brain still functioning, and I realised I had to get back into the quadrangle, because otherwise it would be just me and them. I had to cut across, which let them gain on me, but I'd managed to get just enough of a lead that I got into the doorway by the canteen about a foot in front of the leaders, and the bottleneck slowed them down.
Of course, by now they were picking up followers who had no idea what was up front. So imagine the scene when I ran past the staff room windows, with about 200 boys in hot pursuit. *All* of the teachers poured out of the door, some of them still holding their coffee mugs, and a couple of the male teachers who often played footy with the year 9/10 boys slammed into a couple of the leaders. At that, the entire crowd just evaporated, suddenly looking at terribly interesting things that just happened to be in the other direction.

I ended up in detention for a week. Really, it was protective custody until the teachers were sure it wasn't going to happen again. One of the maths teachers estimated there were 200 boys when I passed the window, and said that he'd never seen anything like it in 40 years of teaching.

And the legend part? Years later, at uni, I was chatting to someone who's younger brother happened to have started at that school. They were worried about him, because he'd been bullied a bit, and there was this story about how once there was a kid who ended up with the whole school of 1000 kids chasing him, who'd been beaten so badly he was never seen at the school again.


(Excuse me for catharting in public, at least this time I didn't follow through.)
(ShowPony, Tue 19 May 2009, 14:08, 3 replies)

Pearoastery
I went to a grammar school in Newcastle because for some god-knows-what reason I was supposedly intelligent enough to win a scholarship. Well, who was I to argue? Unfortunately for some pupils there, money spoke louder than brains. Although the school had a fairly strenuous entrance exam, there was no doubt that for some of the rich kids, the wheels had been greased ever slightly. With huge fucking wodges of cash. Thus stupidity perpetuates itself etc...

I had 2 major disadvantages: 1, I didn't go to the junior school (which is where the little Quentins and Theodores and so on went prior to the main school, presumably to have their chins removed). 2, when someone asked me "so what does your Daddy do?" and I answered honestly "fuck all at the moment - he's been made redundant." it became fairly obvious I wasn't one of Northumbria's landed gentry.

Soo, considering my surname as well (let's suffice it to say that it's....bad. And I've heard ALL the jokes) I learnt to fight at an early age. I didn't enjoy it, and still don't, but I was at least able to hit someone hard enought that they didn't just laugh at me. One day in year 9 I'd had about enough, when one chinless wonder called Veevers (still can't remember his first name, but by his facial appearance, it may have been Shergar) had basically spent the day tormenting me about my parents.

"Carrot, your family are poor. They can't even afford you a proper school blazer. My daddy bought me two and we're going to Barbados for the weekend in Daddy's private space shuttle...." etcetera all. fucking. day.

Anyway, it came to the stage where I suggested that a full and frank discussion and exchange of opinions may be required after school at the generally approved location for such debates(the hill behind the sports hall). I propsed the motion, and it was seconded by fuckhead.

I turned up late. I ws unaccountably held back with an attack of the "you boy, tuck in your laces/tie your shirt/brush your tie/iron your face" from a random teacher. So I was in a less than happy mood when I arrived at "the kicking hill."

"Right Carrot" brayed Veevers. "I'm going to teach you a fucking lesson for wasting my time." He walked over, pulled his fist back...

...swung...


...overbalanced....

...and fell.

Luckily, a bench broke his fall.

Unluckily it was the corner of the bench that broke his fall.

Unluckily still, he broke the fall with his nuts.

EVERYONE who saw this winced. I actually believe that Veevers passed out for a moment, and fair play to the fucknugget, I would too. When he came to, he folded into a foetal position (as you do) and unfortunately decided to lose his lunch. Being doubled up, it went all down his front. He limped home crying.

So, that's how I overcame a bully, thanks to my secret ally, Mr Bench.

The next week at swimming, Veever's scrotum was about the colour and size of a ripe aubergine. Hence his nickname for the rest of school of "purpleplums."

Ta for that one, Jeebus!
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Tue 19 May 2009, 5:06, 5 replies)

Short tale of woe.
The five year old me was your typical happy go lucky chap. I'd started school and I was popular, intelligent, witty and stupidly self confident. Then my Dad left my Mam and all of a sudden I realised life wasn't always a cake walk.

Now I didn't wither and become a social retard like so many people would. I just showed the occasional glimpse of weakness usuaully in front of everyone at the worst possible times. This included breaking down in tears for no apparent reason, wetting myself etc. which obviously opened myself up for a bit of flack but I was still sociable and smart if not a lot softer.

By and large my peers were fine but a lad in the year above thought he'd seize on the fact I was having a tough time of it and make my life hell. He'd beat me up, call me names, push me around, threaten me etc. Because I was emotionally fragile after the divorce my immediate reaction was to sob like a girl whenever he punched me or said anything out of line. This obviously gave him a huge bully hard on as it just poured fuel on the fire and his taunts and attacks became more frequent and sustained. The more he had a go at me the more emotionally fragile I became. It was a vicious circle.

My Grandma knew there was something up and one day I confided in her (as much as a 5/6 year old can) that I was being bullied and by whom. She went straight to the school and told the headteacher.

The next day we filed in to school and it seemed as if nothing was up until it was time for assembly when we were told my year and the year above would have a special one in one of the classrooms. We all sat down and the teacher who was taking the assembly, a big burly ex-Rugby player called Mr. Moyes, dragged up the lad who had made dinner and breaktimes hell. He called a spade a spade. This lad was a bully, a nasty piece of dirt who should not be consorted with on any level by anyone in the school. He was scum.

The dressing down was legendary and as he stood, blubbering, I didn't feel vindicated. I didn't particularly want to see him humiliated as I knew what it was like myself. However, said dressing down worked. I was never bothered by him again, in fact he was more than civil to me after that.

Not all teachers are useless. Some are very bloody good at what they do.
(Peter Sutcliffe's Right Bollock, Mon 18 May 2009, 20:23, 2 replies)

My teenage daughter was hounded by just one nasty bitch in high school
for a couple of months, by which time she was a nervous wreck.

Her father was a teacher there, so it seemed that for the school to intervene would be seen as favouritism.

I wasn't a teacher though, so I steamed into school and told a deputy head very firmly that if the girl even looked at my daughter again I'd wait for her outside school and punch her face in myself, and I'd ring the local paper first to tell them I was doing it.

The deputy was horrified - 'You can't do THAT!'

Schools HATE 'trouble', but only if it makes them look bad. Individual kids don't matter, not even bright, pleasant ones.

My daughter had no more problems and the bully went on to a successful heroin-and-breeding career.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Sat 16 May 2009, 3:21, 8 replies)

I've hesistated about posting in this QOTW, not because stories about bullying put me in an embarresing position.
But that it puts me in an extremely guilty position.

See, I was the bully.

I'm not really sure what else to write. Suppose i'm a typical case, Parents divorced when i was 10 which fucked me up no end. My sense of humour was so majorly broken that i genuinely thought pointing out peoples' shortcomings would earn me friends. I never physically hurt anybody, i never teased or picked on anyone in particular. But every time i look back at the way, for example, one of the first days at high school a guy comes up to me and tries to strike a conversation and i echo his squeaky voice back at him, the way i intentionally went around with stickers printed off my gameboy camera asking people to join the "hate reginald club" (name changed, who calls their kid reginald?), makes me cringe.

Listen to me try and victimize myself. I deserve no pity. I was a wretched little bastard with a behavior problem and a child psychologist. My twisted sense of humour earned me nothing but what i deserved, leading me to become that wierdo who does nothing all lunchtime but walk around the playground all alone. I was an idiot, and ended getting the piss ripped out of me by the 'cool kids' (karma anyone?)

Not a day goes by i don't regret all those nasty, hurtful little things i've done. I was mainly friendless in high school because of my actions (That wacky karma). I've apologised to everyone i can find who i picked on and made fun of, and even though i can't say i've fully escaped the vicious circle of self destruction that makes me push people away in such a manner, i hope i'm well on my way to functioning like a normal human being.

So, on behalf of bullies everywhere.

Sorry.
( Willwillwritehiswill An arse like a slapped face., Fri 15 May 2009, 16:18, 19 replies)

Knock knock!
Who's there?

Bully!

Bully who?

Bully Jean is not my lover...
( jim_bob can herd cats., Thu 14 May 2009, 21:54, 4 replies)

probably one of my more memorable ones.
/unlurks

I was 'bullied' by this guy, named Paul. Looking back, I'm surprised he was successful as a bully. He was tall, skinny, ginger, and really quite thick. I was in Year two. I can't remember how old that made me, but I was just a yoof. Anyway, like I said, this guy Paul kept annoying me. Generally calling me names, and slapping me when I walked past him. See, it probably wasn't bullying, in the traditional sense of the word, but he always seemed to do it to me, nobody else. I told the teachers about it, but they never bothered saying anything. I wanted justice, damn it! So, one day, I walked past him, and naturally, he slapped the side of my head. I turned to him, and grabbed the collars of his shirt. "That's... It." I whispered to his face.

I picked him up, and started throwing him into the wall, repeatedly. He started to laugh, nervously, in a "Hah. Is that all you've got?" kind of manner. But, the more I kept slapping his bony back against the wall, the laughs started to gradate into crying. A Teacher must have heard this, and ran over to separate us. Obviously, I turned out to be the bad guy. I was caught in the act, and since they didn't give a toss about him picking on me, I was the one who had to talk to her "after class". Obviously, I was a little nervous, although slightly proud of myself. The teacher sat me on the chair opposite her desk, and after we had a little chat, she phoned my parents. When they came in, my mother was furious. She told me how I should never hit another person, no matter what they've done to me, and other related things. I'm sure you've heard it all before. Suddenly, though, she looked at her watch, and said "Okay, I have to go to work, but once you get back from school, you're grounded!" She slammed the school doors, and my attention turned to my dad. He looked to me and said, "No, you're not, Son. Good Job", and slipped me a tenner.

I love my dad.
(almightyjoey is most likely listening to Electric Wizard on, Tue 19 May 2009, 19:06, 2 replies)

Lack of funnies again.
I used to teach in Primary schools until I fell out with a headteacher who refused to support her staff in front of pushy parents, but that's another story.

My first year of teaching I had a class of five and six year olds; most of them were lovely kids who came from typical middle class homes and hadn't a care in the world.

One child in the class, Adam, was from a large family known to be 'troublesome' but still very much middle class - mother worked in an office in town, father was no longer on the scene due to mental health problems. Adam was probably the brightest child in the class - he was also the worst bully the school had ever seen.

Each morning when the children trooped into class I'd have to ask Adam if he'd brought anything to school 'by accident' - he'd turn out his pockets and hand over chains, screw drivers, nails and similar items.
He was disruptive throughout the day - calling out, jumping up and down, running across the room hitting others as he went - a royal pain in the arse...unless he had one-to-one adult attention, then he'd outshine most of the class in his academic achievements.

Nonetheless, I would loved to have had him out of my classroom so my job would have been easier and the rest of the class could get some peace.

Things came to a head when Adam decided to turn his attention on Sam - Sam was a year older than the rest of the class but because he'd had open-heart surgery as a toddler and his chest wall remained somehow stapled so surgeons could reopen his chest if necessary. He was very delicate, small and quite slow in all areas - but he was very much a fighter and a happy little soul to boot.

Adam, in his slightly twisted way, wanted to be Sam's friend. Unfortunately this involved intimidation - both physical and mental. They were kept separate during class time but the real problems surfaced during playtime.

One lunch break Adam cornered Sam away from the watchful eyes of the midday supervisors (dinnerladies) and punched him squarely in the stomach.

Two inches higher and he'd have broken through the staples and in all probability killed Sam.


At 3.15 when the parents arrived to collect their children Sam's parents were sent off to see the headteacher (not the same one I had a run-in with - this one did support stuff).


I'd already had discussions with my head of department about Adam - in fact we'd had numerous visits from the Educational psychologist who always suggested rather wishy-washy ideas and never saw Adam acting up because Adam was extremely clever and realised the Ed.Psych was there to see him! My HoD was adamant that *all* the children had the right to come to school and remain safe and if Adam couldn't adapt his behaviour then he should leave the school for the sake of the others. The Ed.Psych was adamant that the problem was minimal and we should be able to contain it within the classroom.
All the staff were instructed to keep detailed notes logging all incidents in which he was involved in order to provide evidence for further panel meetings with various outside agencies.

So the educational establishment bureaucracy was on this one.

I was left to call in Adam's mum.

She was a tall attractive woman in her mid forties, very smartly dressed and clearly a strong character. When I called her over as I held Adam's hand her face fell and she began to give him filthy looks. She sighed as she reached me and asked what he'd done now. Rather than discuss it in the playground I led her into the classroom.

As she and her son followed me she shoved him into the building and said, "Why the hell can't you stay out of trouble? Who've you been hitting now?"

At that point I had a considerable amount of sympathy with her - this child was a little shit for most of the time.

When we got into my classroom before I'd even begun to tell her what he'd done she launched into how he was a 'bad'un' right from being tiny.

Apparently at the age of around 2 he'd just stopped wearing nappies. She'd washed the kitchen floor and to 'spite' her he wet himself, the pee going all over the clean floor. To 'teach him a lesson' she'd rubbed his nose in it - splitting his lip in the process. He'd got up, no tears, wiped his lip and asked if he could go and watch television.

She told me this to make me feel further sympathy with her.

To be fair, she'd not had an easy time bringing up her family of four or five children with the added pressure of her partner's mental health problems.
All the children were clean and well presented.
She worked part-time and looked after herself - this was no scummy mummy.
Bringing up bright challenging children on your own is hard (not that I realised it at the time - I didn't have kids then).

But rubbing a two year old's nose in pee to teach them a lesson?

Hardly any wonder he'd gone on to pick on someone else smaller and weaker than himself.

That said, not all abused children bully others.


So what's the point of my post?

None of it is black and white.

Sam was blameless - illness had caused his status as ideal bully fodder.

Adam was a thoroughly screwed up kid who, with the right type of care and attention could have gone either way.

Adam's mum was a thoroughly screwed up adult who was at the end of her tether - but she was an adult and therefore there was no excuse for her behaviour.

I don't have the answer.

I can say honestly that when I came across bullying - and it's in *all* schools - I tried to prevent it but like any form of abuse it goes on in secret, hidden away in locker rooms, dark corners, whispers, sly punches - we all know the drill.

How bloody depressing.

Roll on Thursday and a new qotw.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Mon 18 May 2009, 17:26, 5 replies)

Man, this one is a crazy story that changed my life forever.
I was playing basketball in a playground and a couple of guys came up to be and said that I was 'Up to good'...

They were the same two guys that had been making loads of trouble in my neighbourhood. I got into a fight with them and my mum got scared and she said 'You're movin' with your auntie and uncle in BEELLL AIR!!!'

I wore my blazer inside out. It was epic.
( Donkey Gums @mattcomedy, Mon 18 May 2009, 17:10, 5 replies)

What ya gonna do brother?
I'm walking to work the other day when three lads are walking towards me on the same side of the road.

Two are dressed in a not too stand out kind of way while the third is dressed in a shirtless shirt, shorts and a bandanna. He also has long blonde hair.

As I get close the stand out guy says to me

"Oi mate, don't you know the rocker look went out of fashion five years ago?"

I look up and with a raised eyebrow reply

"I'm sorry but I'm not going to take fashion tips from a man wearing Hulk Hogan's cast offs!"

With that I continued walking happy to hear the cacophony of giggles from his friends.

Does that make me the bully or him?
(Dangerous Disco Trev Isn't my real name, Sun 17 May 2009, 23:42, 4 replies)

One of the bigger boys
had decided that it was my turn for some physical abuse in the playground that day.

"Leave me alone or I'll kick your head in" I warned him.
"You couldn't reach that high" he replied and he and his mates fell about laughing.
"I could" I insisted.
"Go on then". He invited me to try standing tall and erect in front of me.

Hmmm, what to do? I clearly couldn't kick him in the head as he was about 5'6" whereas I was about 4'6" so I decided to suprise him by kicking him somewhere else. I planted my foot into his pubic area with all my might. He let out a shriek and was soon hobbling around, bent double, nursing his throbbing manhood.

"You were right" I said, "I couldn't reach".

He muttered some threats but never troubled me again from that day on.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 14 May 2009, 10:42, 2 replies)

Matt, Traps & Raging Hormones
I was always too fucking weird to be bullied at school.

The bullies tended to leave me alone; they didn't like dealing with the kid who would spend his lunchtimes talking to trees, eating bird poo (yep, I actually did this - good source of berry goodness, your average starling turd), or standing in the middle of the playground singing Private Dancer by Tina Turner at the top of his lungs.

Fuck that, they'd rather go and pick on the weak kids who'd give them a reaction. I was an unknown quantity, they didn't know if I was incredibly hard or just a little bit slow, so they left me alone. (It also probably helped that my cousin Gino went to the same school, was a little older, had been shaving since he was eight, and looked a little bit like The Thing out of the Fantastic Four).

The real hardnut in my year was a lad named Matt. Big ugly fucker who liked nothing better than whacking kids and pocketing their lunch money - he told me once he was saving up for a swish pair of LA Gear trainers with the flashing lights built into the souls. Industrious little thug, this Matt was.

And one time I saw a group of kids I'd occassionally hang round with getting the full Matt treatment. After the Matt-attack and when he's a safe distance away - what with me being an innate coward from an early age - I saunter over to the kids with a plan.

I tell the kids my plan and the lead kid, Simon, says: "That's not gonna work."

"Oh yes it is!" I say. And then I add: "I saw it on a program on the telly."

Well, that had this little group sold - if it was on the TV it must be a fucking great idea.

So I go and find some cardboard from outside the school block, go over to the sandpit, and start working on my scheme with the help of the trodden down masses. Excellent. Fucking marvellous job! This is gonna work a treat!

With the trap set, I go and find Matt.

"Oi, Matt!" I holler across the playground. "Has anyone ever told you you're an ugly bugger with a nose like a pig and ears like a donkey?" I'd like to point out I was only six or seven - this was about as eloquent as my abuse levels got back in those days; I've improved tremendously since then.

This got Matt's attention, though. Nostrils flaring, he legged after me in the playground while I ran off towards the sandpit, hooting like a fucking gibbon.

Unfortunately Matt was bigger than me and quicker. And I had a close encounter of the brown trouser kind as he very nearly caught up with me. But I made it, bursting onto the sandpit and vaulting over it I stopped and turned to see-

-Matt step ONTO the sandpit and set off the trap we'd set, having scooped out the sand and lobbed it over the hedge, placed the cardboard ontop and then covered the cardboard with a little more sand. He fell-

"YES!!!" I proclaimed in my squeaky voice of David-over-Goliath triumph. "LET'S SEE YOU GET OUT OF THAT!!!"

-he fell about half a foot. Oh, bugger! Really should've dug that hole a little deeper...

And now he was fucking ANGRY.

Matt stepped out of the hole and proceeded to close me down. My comrades in arms, the kids who received a beating from Matt on a regular basis, scarpered.

I was alone with the beast of Coventry.

"I'm gonna fuck you up, Spanky!" growled Matt.

And I very nearly shat myself.

And then, as if from nowhere, as if delivered by an angel from upon high, a wall of Italian-English prepubescent muscle descended on Matt and squashed him like the bug he was. Ahhh, Gino! Bless your holy Bic disposable razors and raging hormones!

My cousin grunted at me and strode off, explaining that one of my little mates had come running to find him when he found out what I was up to. I thanked Gino, gave Matt a friendly kick up the arse, and went about my business, doing some quality tree-talking and starling shit eating.

And I took a mental note that if I ever decided to set an ingenious trap for a bully in the future, I should make it a little deeper than half-a-fucking foot deep.
( SpankyHanky, Wed 13 May 2009, 14:49, 2 replies)

Bullies are like a box of chocolates
Some are hard, some have soft centres.

But they all have something in common.

You feel really guilty after you've eaten about ten of them in one sitting.
(Big Grant, Wed 20 May 2009, 10:40, 1 reply)

Getting jumped...
...is not fun.

I'm from Bradford, it's a shithole, but it's my shithole.

I'm going to tell you a story now which very nearly turned me into a raving racist... nearly...

~~~~~~wavy lineage~~~~~~~

It's the summer of 2003, it's a fairly average overcast day and me and a friend were on a training course at a school, which I won't identify because undoubtably any Bradfordians will be trying to figure out what more I actually expected from such a hole... the following story is a recollection pieced together by myself, my fellow victim, hospital staff and the police (the actual police, not Sting and his cronies), because with severe cuts to my shoulders, neck and head, black eyes and a concussion, it's not easy to remember the sequence of events accurately. However, I would like to give you some background knowledge first..

The 2001 census states that Bradford has a 19% asian population and whilst I have never made any effort to berate, judge or indeed bully anyone, ever, for their ethnicity, being white in this city, apparently makes you an instant racist. You will be looked up and down by every old, traditional Pakistani man, as they shake their head and tut at you like you're burning the Qu'ran and deploying troops into their hometown, and stared at by young asians in expensive (rented) cars and oversized fake designer sunglasses whilst they pretend to be better/richer/harder than everyone else. If I had a pound for every time I had been told to 'stay the fuck away' from someone's 'turf' because 'whiteboys don't belong there' or systematically ignored by every single employee of an asian restaurant until every asian person had been served first, I would be considerably richer than i am now..

Anywhoooos, back to 2003. I was 16 or 17, on the aforementioned training course. It was lunch, me and my mate went to get some chips from the local chippy, and whilst I waited outside for my mate to be served, I started to feel the burn of dozens of pairs of eyes fixed in my direction.. I turned to find 25 or 30 asian lads aged between 16 and 19 staring directly at me. A bit unnerved, I willed my mate to hurry the fuck up. when he turned up we crossed the road and began the 3 or 4 minute walk back to the school. about a minute in, the burn started again, I glanced behind me to find about 4 lads following us back. 'must just be off back to school' thinks I... wrong. I then hear the pound of Rockports on tarmac, and turn to find that the rest of their cronies from before had run across the road to join them, still staring. The pounding of chavvy shoes starts again and gets increasingly louder, and closer.. me and my mate throw each other a look that says 'leg it'... but it was too late. As I lob my chips and start to run my collar is grabbed and blows from four or so pairs of fists rain down on the back of my head for what felt like an age. My face is slammed into a car window and the punches start again.

Now, I'm no weakling. 6 foot 1 ish and 17 stone in fact, and no stranger to a scrap.. but a fair scrap, not a kicking from a crowd of people with no motive. I decided that I was gona end up in a wheelchair if I didnt do anything about the relentless shower of blows, so I swung once, blindly, as hard as possible, and clocked the guy who had had hold of my collar. Lucky shot really, completely shattered his nose clean across his face. All this time, my mate had been battling away with a few of em aswell, he'd come off better than me but still had a few bruises and lumps on his head.. a group of onlookers broke it up, and managed to walk me back to the school reception, a total of 8 huge lumps on my head, a gash to the back of my neck, two to my shoulders and one to my head, two black eyes, concussion, a bloody nose and 3 broken knuckles from my lucky shot.. we went to the hospital to get sewn up and sorted out, when in comes my attacker with his shattered nose, crying like a bitch and being comforted by his (very traditional muslim) mummy and daddy.. I was dying to go over and leather seven shades of shite out of him but due to the fact I was seeing double and too dazed to walk, I was encouraged not to.

The next day I am visited by a policeman so they can take pics of my injuries and work on getting him prosecuted, when he gets a call over his radio to tell him that broken-nose-boy had filed for racial assault against me... the policeman goes about explaining for the next 40 mins or so how, even though I obviously have very serious injuries, he will have no choice but to take me to the station for questioning. Just before we're about to leave he gets another call on the radio to say that they have CCTV evidence that I was obviously not a suspect and they only shot i got in was in self defence, and a very good one!

The police did him for assault or GBH or ABH or something similar, and word is that once his old fashioned, traditional parents heard that their devout muslim, kind, peaceful son was actually a cowardly thug, they gave him a good hiding aswell, he had told them i had attacked him for no reason and tried to nick his phone, all along calling him racist names... Karma ftw!!

Apologies for length... I cut it down as much as poss...
(InkyFingers, Mon 18 May 2009, 19:02, 14 replies)

The whole town was out to get me (well not really)

As I've detailed this week in a previous post I was a bit of a hippie at school. I was fairly popular but my mode of dress, habit of speaking in overtly convoluted language and general interest in furthering my knowledge meant I attracted a decent amount of detractors.

Combine this with my pig headed inability to avoid confrontation and you had a recipe for the odd bit of bullying.

Normally these scuffles were passing affairs, for a few days at a time some cunt or other would call me a girls name or throw shit at me in class. I'd take the bait and heaps piles of verbal abuse upon them and more often than not that'd be the end of it.

However there was a guy 3 years older than me (let's call him Discarded Spunk Sack or DSS) who I obviously disgusted so much he couldn't bear to pass me in a corridor without a sly dig or bit name calling. I'm tough skinned so this didn't bother me and I'd generally chuck a half hearted put down back his way.

This low level of bullying was escalated one day when I made the unfortunate decision of spending my lunch break in a younger friend's form class. As I was chatting away, showing off my knowledge of bands and making all the nubile young ladies froth at the crotch with my flowing locks and fledgling beard / boards combo, a young lad I had never seen before in my life looks me up and down and proclaims "You've got girls hair. You must be a right fag"

Unfazed I glanced round, locked eyes with him and told him to "cunt off, you chubby little fuckface" before returning to letching over Joanne Stoker and her horde of jailbait lovelies.

Unbeknownst to me this fellow (who appropriately was known as Chubby) had taken umbrage to my casual reply and had reported such to his biggest hardest friend, and you can guess who that was can't you.

So I'm sitting in the Design and Technology department later that day, cackhandedly failing to produce some item of woodwork, when I hear a knock on the window behind me. I turn to find DSS gurning wildly at me and yelling words of aggression.

Apparently I was to be “seen to” outside the gates come the end of school. He lurched away from the window and went on his way whooping and howling threats over his shoulder while his minions roiled around him cackling.

After school I ambled out to meet my certain doom, refusing to take the easy option of running out the back gate as my friends suggested. As I passed the DSS and his group of little Spunk Sacks they eagerly followed forming a loose circle around me.

After a moment or two of verbal sparring, it became clear that he was a fucktard and I could talk circles around him so he launched a blow causing a hefty bit of lip splittage. Naturally I was a little surprised and annoyed by this fist interface but I am a fairly non-violent fella so I responded in the only manner that seemed fit and spat a nice phlegmy glut of blood onto his pristine white trainers and walked off.

Behind me, and over the barely restrained chortlings of his cronies, I heard him vow that all of the town would be out to get me. It would appear his loss of face in front of his friends due to the besmirchment of his trainers was to be repaid in full.

Strangely enough he ceased to bother me in any physical sense but he did keep his promise to some degree. Over the next few months I had to be on my toes as occasional groups of thugs would wander up to my usual haunts and enquire to my whereabouts. I was a nimble little fucker though so I tended to be well out of the way but this couldn’t last for ever and indeed one day I turned around to find I’d been caught.

Let us call him Matty (for I believe that was his name), I’ve no idea how he’d become involved in this bullshit as he went to a different school and although I’d heard tales of his exploits (the usual knuckle dragging list of achievements; stealing cars, punching people younger than him and taking loads of drugs) as far as I know he didn’t associate with anyone that I had so far offended.

He took a moment to identify me and then started lumbering toward me offering me on for a fight for “what I’d done to that Chubby kid”.

I backed away for a while assuring the gentleman I had done nothing unwarranted to the porker in question and had no desire to enter into fisticuffs but this did little to placate him and he brought out his right hook for me to admire.

Admire it I did, admittedly only briefly but as closely as I could as once again I found my delicate face receiving a battering. Now to save further ruination I realised I would have to take some positive action and when he swung again I ducked underneath his parabola of destruction, locked my arms around his ample frame and lifted.

I now found myself with around 15 stone of enraged bully gathered in my arms like a father scooping up his child for a hug. I quickly toyed with my options and unceremoniously chucked him over the 4 foot fence which ringed the park in which the assault had taken place.

As Matty tumbled helplessly over the fence and, I hope, landed in a large pile of dogshit and nettles I briskly walked home which was handily just around the corner.

My mother, upon spying my blackened eye and bloody nose, forced a condensed version of the story out of me (don’t you wish she’d been here to make me condense this version) and before I could protest that I didn’t want her to get involved she screamed “That’s Matty Goatfelcher, I used to be good mates with his mother at school, I’ll get on the phone to her” and in her mind that was the end of it.

I had a feeling there would be further repercussions for grassing on one of the supposed hard lads of the area to his Ma so you can imagine my dismay when the same group of lads came sauntering up to me the next day.

Bracing myself for more facial punishment I was surprised when he held a hand out to me that wasn’t clenched in a fist.

“I just wanted to apologise for hitting you yesterday” he said, “I’ll not bother you any more and by the way I didn’t expect you to be strong”

Stunned I shook his hand and muttered that it was no problem and I’ll catch him around.

Turns out not only did my ma’s phone call to his gain him a tongue lashing from his mother when he got home but he’d actually perpetrated the crime in front of his granddad’s house who’d seen him and grassed him up to his father too. Apparently his father gave him a sound thrashing and threw him out the house saying he wasn’t welcome home until he’d found me and apologised.

Good times.

Jesus, apologies for length: no, really, I am sorry
(Rotimer was micturating windward at, Mon 18 May 2009, 16:05, 3 replies)

If my son gets bullied
I'll kick the fuck out of everyone. Especially my son for being such a poof.
( wotofco pissing in your swimming pool, Fri 15 May 2009, 16:36, 1 reply)

Closed Question Bullying
Reasonably clever piece of bullying invented by a mid-level git in my school:

"Have you ever sucked on your Mum's tits?"

Answer no and you are bullied for not being breastfed; you're Mum is an alcoholic, your Mum's got no tits, etc.

Answer yes and the obvious "HAH, YOU SUCKED ON YOUR MUM'S TITS!!" is all you can expect.

The dickhead who came up with this little gem found it to be his downfall however. Buoyed up by the success of this question on the weaker kids he decided to try it out on one of the harder kids. The response was: "No, but I sucked on YOUR Mum's tits." They then put him in a headlock and locked him in a cupboard.

Karma, dude. Karma...
(Chexworth will one day make Yoko Matsugane his bride..., Thu 14 May 2009, 13:20, Reply)

I was forced by my parents to attend a private school
For the 4 years of lower school, I was systematically victimised by Ffoulkes-Ballard and Shuttleworth Major.
I had to do their latin prep before high tea or they'd burn my pyjamas and make me endure the horrible ritual that was 'Dutch Steamboating'.

One summer night after evening prayers in Big Hall, they ambushed me on the quad and tied my underpants to the school cormorant, leaving me 'tackle out' for the boys of Hawtrey House to throw eggs at my tallywhacker.

I got my revenge though. At the end of Michaelmas term in our first year at Upper School, I bludgeoned Ffoulkes-Ballard unconscious with a stale haddock I stole from the tuck shop with such ferociousness that the assault left him with a permanent priapism and the inate inability to hear anything over 100KHz.
(LunarJim, Wed 13 May 2009, 20:49, 4 replies)

Oh god, not this one.
Bullying is a hard thing to handle when you are young. I put up with my fair share of it. I was born in a small Scottish town called Paisley (near Glasgow) and went to several schools which I had to leave in the end due to bullying. I believe I had turned out fine, but when I think about my past now, I still feel the anger boiling inside of me. I now know that a lot of the perpetrators are now dead, either by suicide or they have been murdered by some means. I now realise that most of these people came from pretty broken families and took their frustrations out on me which I reacted to very badly.

Various memories:

Having my hand held down on a desk and having a compass stabbed right into the back of it and the teacher turning a blind eye due to the claims of every pupil in the class that it was my stupid fault and I shouldn't be playing with it. In reality, the teacher was terrified as our school was right next to Ferguslie Park where the scum of Paisley reside.

Thrown out of a 3rd floor window during a free period and cracking my head on the concrete below requiring stitches and STILL getting the blame for it from the teacher. once again, terrified of repercussions should he punish the perpetrators.

being accused of murdering my best friend (who commited suicide due to his choice in sexuality when he was 14 and it being spread like wild-fire round the school). Apparently I pushed off a high building and he died (I didn't). However, we were very good friends and I was really his first boyfriend and it devastated me that he was killed.

Being absolutely terrified of leaving in the morning to go to school as every morning, there would be pupils waiting to kick the crap out of me if I even dared to leave the house. My parents/teachers advise - "oh just ignore it". Stupid cunts.

Being chased round the school...one of the pupils slipped on the floor and cracked his back..ended up in hospital...got screamed at by head and being called a useless liar by the headteacher and being taken home and beat up by my father despite my protestations that I was innocent on this.

Being chased from the Big Apple pool hall in Paisley West End and getting caught and having several people repeatedly hitting me over the head with pool cues (one of them even broke).

Being chased when I was in the scouts. Woke up lying on the ground with my head bleeding profusely. Apparently I was caught and the perpetrators had smashed my head several times against a brick wall however, I remember none of this. Spent some days in the RAH in Paisley.

Through all this. I learned that a lot of our thoughts in later life come from our youth and I took a lot of anger into my adulthood. I've only now realised that this was the cause of my own unhappiness in later life and I've put it all behind me in the satisfaction that I now have a well paid job with the BBC in London, in a comfortable gay relationship with a man that I love to bits and most of the people who done this are now dead, in jail, or constantly on the dole.

Remember, when we take our anger from our schooldays into our later lifes, it hurts us a lot. We must remember that sometimes the only way to be happy is to forgive and forget the people who are responsible and take satisfaction that they are probably worse off than us, deservedly or not.
(scotsbloke, Wed 13 May 2009, 15:10, 9 replies)

Well, this is going to be the most cheerful QOTW ever!
This is cathartic, but bloody depressing. Best read while listening to something cheerful.

Hrm. My story. I actualy didn't get too much greif at primary school. To this day I still do not know why. I was an awkward kid. But that all changed at secondary school.

To start with I was smart, but not smart enough to know to hide it. I could be pretty gobby at times, and I still can be to be honest, and worst of all I was poor. Being poor in a school with a fairly well off catchment area sucks. It realy does. I never had a decent PE kit, or uniform for that matter. So yes. All sorts of bullying, from getting a girl to ask me out then arranging it so she stood me up - verbal bullying, nicking my stuff, hiding it and then laughing, standing in a circle round me and knocking me about, beating the shit out of me after school (I especialy enjoyed the way that they'd tell me what was coming during first lesson, so I'd have all day to stew over it). Oh, breaking stuff then claiming I'd done it, which got me banned from art, one of the few lessons I enjoyed. Oh god, to be honest it wasn't much fun. Until 6th form I don't think I had one friend.

You see, all this bothers me, obviously, and still does, but what realy, realy fucking hurts is that it's around that time I learnt never to rely on authority figures. You see, my parents noticed this, probably due to all the torn clothing, and self harm and that - and did what they should have done, they notified the teachers. The teachers pushed it under the carpet. They claimed that I was often the instigator, that I bought it on myself and I had to learn to stick up for myself a bit more, be more friendly, less "odd". Mostly because the claim that bullying was "not realy a problem" at the school was more important than actualy dealing with bullying.

Well, I learnt that important lesson regarding authority, and decided to take things into my own hands. Literaly. One day, after years of this I snapped and smashed one of the cunts round the head with a chunk of brick. So yeah, after all the blood and fuss and that it was decided I had "emotional" problems. To this day I don't think I did, I'm not a violent person, it's just everyone has their breaking point. So yeah, that solved nothing and I just managed to get more shit for being a mental and having to go see the school counceller.

To this day, what angers me is not that I was bullied (hell, I was probably asking for it a lot of the time) It's the fact that the teachers I was supposed to trust, and who where supposed to look out for me did nothing. They shifted the blame and ignored it until something so bad happened that they couldn't. Then they blamed the victim. And having worked in schools since then, I've got to say I've seen this happen to others more times than I can count.
(Fredz A graveyard of hopes, a dump of ambition, Wed 13 May 2009, 14:47, 7 replies)

Story Number 2, Private School Again.
At my school, one of the most feared teachers was a P.E. teacher by the name of Iain McKie. He measured at about 6'5" (I think). Now bear in mind he always taught 1st years, so he looked like an absolute giant.

He had a son, who due to Daddy's status as a teacher, thought he was untouchable, and sadly was. No matter what he was accused of, as long as he wasn't caught in the act, he'd get away with it. Several people were given detention for 'trying to get him into trouble', because he'd lied his way out of it.

Simply put, he was a cunt.

I was a year younger than him (year 7/aged 11), and he decided he didn't like me, after I kicked his football away, after it had hit me in the face. He decides this isn't a good enough reason, and takes it upon himself to take a run up, and kick me in the nuts so hard I vomited.

Ben, my elder brother (aged 15, year 10) has seen this happen, and is not happy. As a result, the cunt ends up flat on his arse with a black eye on it's way.

Due to a teacher seeing this punch, they both get dragged in for a bollucking. Once again, it's my brothers word against his. For this reason, Ben gets given an after school detention, while the cunt gets off scott free.

For his detention, Ben was in a classroom in the language lab for his detention. This classroom is important, in that it faces out onto the parade ground from a second floor window. Ben looks out the window, and sees the cunt pissing round, waiting for a mate. He decides to open the window, and tell him to piss off, or he'll throw a chair at the cunt. The cunt says "Go on then".

5 seconds later he's running for his life, as a chair thuds into the floor behind him. Result? A saturday detention* for Ben, but he still says it was worth it.

The cunt decided to make my life a misery for a few months after that, knowing that Ben couldn't touch him.

Luckily, he was dealt with for us in the summer months. He thought himself as a good cricketer, and was bowling in the nets. He took a run up, and decided to do a fast bowl. He threw himself too hard into it, leaving his face far closer to the ground than it should have been. That's why the teacher turns after hearing a collective "Ooofff" from the gathered crowd, to see Cunt lying on his back, knocked spark out, with about 6 missing teeth.

Karma, how I love thee.

*Saturday detention meant that you had to go in at 9am on a saturday, and sit in the headmasters office with no work to do, and nothing to distract you. You just had to sit there for 3-4 hours.
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Wed 13 May 2009, 13:47, 1 reply)

Past and Present - and apologies for the lack of funneh
*Past*

I was the stereotypical wimpy kid, apart from not wearing glasses. I also had the misfortune to be an intransigent little git and if I was able to reach back in time and give him some advice now I'd tell him to use his two ears and one mouth in proportion.

Naturally, my "standing up for myself" to the school bullies resulted in my being on the receiving end of an utter, utter shoeing at the hands of Simon F and another kid whose name escapes me. I do remember returning home with a severely blackened eye, cuts, bruises and wanting to go to another school.

Parents decided that this just "wasn't on" and that I'd go back to school the next day and face them down. My mother was a big John Wayne/Western films fan and I think that it was a fantasy she was having from having recently seen The Good The Bad and The Ugly.

Take a wild guess what happened? Utterly well-deserved shoeing, take two.

Arriving home that night (a Wednesday) Dad was back from work early and wanted to take me to school personally the next morning so that he could have a chat to the bullies in question and, knowing his sporting prowess (rugby / boxing), beat seven shades out of them. I pleaded with him not to do so and he eventually listened when I pointed out that his arrival on the premises might lead to (a) shoeing, take 3 and (b) the local police being called and him going away for a while (not to mention the end of his RAF career (that he hated anyway, but that's a different story)).

Went to school on the Thursday morning and was seething with anger, shame and embarrassment. I felt that I was fizzing with anger and that I wanted to go to my redoubt to compose myself and went through the school gates, into the building, upstairs and into the library (I was the full-on geek, including being a school librarian).

Simon F came into the library and started giving me a hard time and I ignored him as with the benefit of information asymmetry I knew something he didn't. At the apogee of his abusive commentary and his muttering about how much of a shoeing he'd led the two days previously and how much I was going to get that very evening the headmaster walked out of the cupboard and, without saying a word, grabbed him and took him down to his office, where he was suspended for two weeks.

In that time I kept a low profile; within a year of that incident I'd been instrumental in setting up the school rugby team and been appointed captain, leading the team (including Simon F) to victory in the county championships and eventually taking myself to sub-national team not-quite-glory.

*Present*

As some of you are aware, my second marriage lasted sixteen days. Since that time my ex- has decided that she wants to destroy me through a campaign that has, thus far, comprised:

1. Having me arrested for bigamy and assault, amongst other things (released without charge in both incidents), leading to a complaint by me to the IPCC

2. Making sure that contracts have canned me on the basis of her behaviours, not mine (including her being mentally ill), leading to me being tempted (but not brave enough) to sue her

3. Publishing both on the internet and via a couple of tabloids stories of how much of a twat I am - both of which newspapers will be sued when I've got enough money together to be able to support the action; sued for (a) gross violation of privacy (b) factual inaccuracy

In all of this, I've not reacted *once* direct to her. I've wanted to and, as some of you know, I'm still madly in love with her, but having fought SO hard to take the moral high ground thus meaning that I can watch as she slowly implodes on herself and then - when this has happened - I can then deploy heavy artillery to those sycophants around her who have failed utterly to consider that there may be two sides to every story and that hers is not the truth.
(Eds Meds Mathskillz=1,Socialskillz=0, Wed 13 May 2009, 12:54, 4 replies)

*wavy lines*
Me and my ex-mate who we shall call Stephen (or Stevo as he became known) used to be good friends up until the age of 11. But like most friendships we kind of grew apart over time and made new friends. The fact that Stephen started smoking at the age of 12 didn't help.

Anyway seen as how we were the only two kids our age in the village were we lived we still hung around together during the summer till we were 15 as there was nothing else to do. Then he got friends with cars and I got left behind.

So it was one of those endless hot summer days and we walked down to a field full of cows.

"Come on Steve, let's go somewhere else. I'm bored." I turned to walk up the hill but he didn't follow. I'd noticeably seen him change over the years, becoming less responsive and increasingly drugged up.

"Hang on a sec." He reached into his pocket and pulled out some pills.

Ah shit not again. He was okay sober but tripping Steve was not fun to be around. "You're taking again?!"

"No." he said. He then nodded towards, what I maintain is the biggest cow I've ever seen in my life. "he is."

Shit. Not good. I tried to talk him out of it. I told them that they would have no effect on something that size. He told me that they were super strength MDMA. He emptied the WHOLE packet into some hay on the ground and fed it to him.

So we waited. transfixed. Needless to say nothing happened for at least half an hour. I felt my point proved I could gloat. Mistake. Steve was pissed off that he'd just but £40 worth of drugs into a cow and I wasn't helping. As he was about to punch me the cow began to freak. Spinning and looking around. I think my life (or at least my unbroken nose) may have been saved by a drugged up cow.

Sure enough it started tripping. Head butting, charging and biting the other cows. It tried breaking the fence. I was quite happy to run away but Steve stood taunting it! It calmed after a while and then started trying to mate with anything, including the other males.

After an hour of this it stopped and fell straight on it's side. It would have been comical if I didn't think I'd just killed Farmer X's prize cow.

We wandered up, very slowly and poked it with a stick. Alive, phew. It was having one huge comedown. Unfortunately I don't think Steve learned anything. But I did. Don't hang around with Steve.

Bull-E's are bad. Don't do it kids.
(Ginger_Whinger got in the newsletter!! =D, Tue 19 May 2009, 13:02, 1 reply)

Towards the end of secondary school
I never really got bullied, as a few run ins and punch ups with bullies had somehow gained me some respect with the popular crowd. I was friendly to them, even though I thought they were twunts.

Anyhow, once such incident which gained this approval and subsequent lack of bullying for my last years at school, went thusly...

~~wavy lines~~

In year 8 I went through a period of bullying, courtesy of a lad 3 years my senior. Let's call him Corey Cockface. He lived near me, and thus we shared the same route home. One day I was walking home, when it began with the usual name calling, pushing and shoving and general 'make Sir General's life a misery'. I tried altering my walk home. Corey Cockface altered his route. He actually went out of his way to increase his walk home by 20 minutes so he could improve his own ego by making me look small.

Anyway, this went on for a few weeks in a non-violent way. I was pissed off, but kept my cool. Until one day, Corey Cockface decides it would be a good idea to slam a strawberry yoghurt into my face, covering me and making my eyes water. I saw red (well, pink with red bits actually). I grabbed Corey Cockface by the tie, pulled his head down and drop kicked his face, sending him falling backwards into someone's rose bush. I took great delight in watching his shocked mug turn to horror and pain, as he writhed around in the thorns, scratching his arms, neck, face and legs. I laughed at him hysterically and walked on, paving the way for 3 further years of pleasant, bully free walks home. If someone tries to tell you that violence solves nothing, they are talking bollocks. It does.

Anyhoo, fast forward a few years. I suppose I was 17 or so, was out on a night with some friends, underage drinking in a local dive. Who was there but Corey Cockface and a new girlfriend of his. I tried ignoring them, as I really had no time for the twat (am not a grudgebearer but somehow childhood events are different). Corey Cockface came up to me and offered to buy me a pint. Well, who could refuse that? He and his girlfriend moved over to join us, and copious amount of beer were consumed.

I had been getting along rather well with Corey Cockface's girlfriend, and towards the end of the night, yours truly and Corey Cockface's lady stepped out for a cigarette. To cut a long story short, dear reader, I ended up fucking her against a wall in a dark corner of the beer garden, after which we both returned to the pub slightly flustered and carried on as if nothing had happened. I was nervous, in fact I was sweating like a blind lesbian in a fishmongers.

So to summarise, my revenge was complete. I'm not a vindictive character, but I really am chuffed with that. Not so much the fact that I administered his lady a 5 minute injection of veiny throbbing goodness, but the fact I (and she) will always have one over on him.

As far as I know, Corey Cockface is still with his girlfriend to this day, I think they may even be engaged. Hehehe....
(Sir General ***WoW***, Mon 18 May 2009, 14:07, 3 replies)

My Ex was a Bully
I have had two major bullies in my short life so far: one was the slutty girl in middle school (true sluts start at a young age) and the other was my ex-boyfriend.

He was no Mr T: in fact, he was a good two/three inches shorter than me. But he was an ex-boxer; in bantamweight (I think that's between mid- and heavy-, correct me if I'm wrong). It wasn't professional by any means, but he ended up getting banned from the club on account of the street fights he used to get into.

When I met him he was nice enough....had a bit of a rep as a "Ladies Man" (oh how I laugh bitterly at that now) but otherwise all our friends thought he was a good guy.

Then about six months in it went tits-up. Just little things, such as turning up at my house demanding sex and then fucking off afterwards to go beat up some kids, before turning up again, shagging me again as an encore and then promptly going to sleep.

Not so bad? OK yes, I admit it wasn't nice. But then came the cheating. He blurted out one night (during sex I might add) that he'd slept with his best friend. MALE best friend. And this from a self-confessed homophobe. When I demanded the truth, he just kept repeating "I don't kiss and tell." Until I shouted "YOU FUCKING TELL ME". Which he did.

Only to tell me a week later that he'd "got his dates mixed up" and had actually shagged his mate a month before we got together. Of course I was still going through the kind of emotional causeway that you go through when your lover cheats, to which he responded "Yeah well you're just dragging it out for sympathy" and "Stop resenting me for something I haven't done".

At the time I was also having trouble with my periods: namely that they hadn't started. Long and short of it was that the doctors INCORRECTLY told me I couldn't have kids, full stop. (LONG STORY.) His response when I finally plucked up the courage to tell him? "So why are we still using condoms?"

Then came the blatant, obvious cheating, the verbal abuse, the put-downs in front of friends to the point where they would dread going out with us because I would always end up crying. Whenever I finally plucked up the courage and stood up to his put-downs, it'd be "Quit your bitching, bitch." Even in front of my parents.

So I stopped sleeping with him, on the grounds that I couldn't bring myself to sleep with someone I hated. When he realised I was withholding it deliberately, he waited until I fell asleep and then forced me. Several occasions holding a pillow or his hands over my face, and once threatening to break my arm because I was banging my fist on the wall, hoping to alert my parents. My current boyfriend hit the fucking roof when I told him this, and told me it constitutes rape. I don't know if it does or not. I haven't really been able to bear thinking about it.

He dumped me by answerphone after about a year and a half, a week before my 18th. He then came crawling back a few weeks later, after hearing that I was getting better offers and had been on a few dates. Being the complete fucking airhead I was I took him back, believing his promises that it'd be better.

A few months later and I finished with him. Boy, did he not see that coming. A week later he was nearly killed in a car accident, and pulled the "It made me realise how much you mean to me". He even went to my current boyfriend's house, begging them to help get me back; Dante (current boyf) refused but his stupid at-the-time-girlfriend took pity on the bastard and tried to help convince me to give him another chance.

That was well over two years ago. I've been with Dante two years, and I'd like to say I got over it but I never did. I'm much better now of course, but I used to live in sheer terror. I defy anyone who says they could get over that. I like to think it made me stronger person: not a BETTER person, I genuinely don't like my sheer hatred of him, I think I'm more bitter and it does cause the odd problem with Dante, which I hate myself for.

I'm not fishing for sympathy - I just want to say that if this sounds at all familiar to something you're going through now, GET THE FUCK OUT. Don't even stop to deliberate.

Apologies for massive length and dour seriousness. More silly maybe next QOTW.

PS: He's now jobless, kicked out of his house, lost his driver's license for 18 months and had to sell his beloved car AND bike, has contracted chlamydia, has been rejected from the Army and can't join the Navy. And still I don't think this is vengeance enough.
(theneet began to cut her hair and long for balls, Mon 18 May 2009, 13:10, 18 replies)

Revenge is sweet...
...but not fattening, as the joke goes.

OK, I was bullied at school. And I'm not underestimating the impact that it's had on my life for a moment. I was bullied from about the age of 10-11 till I was 18 - long after it's normally finished for people. Physical abuse, being called "gay" constantly, and so on.

Not nice.

I suppose I was fortunate at 18 to go to Uni and find people who like me for who I am. I was suddenly popular, and to this day I think / hope / realise that I have lots of people in my life who love me for me, warts and all.

However - and here's the point of the post - I bear no malice whatsoever to the people who made my life hell. Who brought about the first of many (obviously unsuccessful) attempts at suicide. And so forth. Nor do I have malice against those people who in "grown up" life have done me harm, whether intentionally or not.

Because to still harbour feelings of any kind for the bullies / your ex / anyone who's not having a direct impact on your life *at this moment in time*, as opposed to having an impact because you are thinking about past events - anyway, to still have those feelings is to still be trapped in that place, with that negativity.

Sorry if it's psychobabble, but seriously...let go and move on...if you have people now in your life who love and value you for who you are, then major on that, and let the past go rot. In peace, and undisturbed.
( I_Was_Mordred, Sun 17 May 2009, 14:09, 12 replies)

This swot got me chucked out of school because her dad was an overbearing cunt.
Then to cap it all I was put into a care home and raped by one of the carers in the back of his Honda Accord.

I might end it all.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Fri 15 May 2009, 12:10, 27 replies)

My teacher
was a real cunt, a really nasty little bully. If he didn't have me running round doing pointless tasks he'd be hitting me with his cane and generally whinging on like the little pussy he was. I suppose he was just pushing me hard because he wanted me to succeed, but fuck me, he used to get on my nerves. And as he was only a little fella I knew I could fuck him up if I really wanted to. One swift punch in the face and it would've been all over. Somehow, I managed to control myself.

Then I got a message to say my sister was up shit creek without a paddle. I had to go and help her out but the old cunt wouldn't let me go. We had a bit of a set-to and eventually he let me leave my classes early. But even then all I wanted to do was ram my fist down his croaky old throat and rip out his lungs.

Mind you, he did help get my x-wing out the swamp. So he wasn't all bad, I suppose...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 14 May 2009, 15:34, 4 replies)

Dowson
Highly unlikely the evil twat is still alive. If he is, he'll be in his 80's.

He was my physics teacher at school and the 2nd most feared teacher in the school. (Oddly, the most feared teacher was the music teacher. One day I'll tell his story...)

Dowson was a beater. "Spare the rod and spoil the child" was his personal mantra. He must have caned me at least a dozen times - but not this time.

This particular lesson I was at the back with my usual mates. Dowson was droning on at the blackboard when some farted. Loudly. Everyone started sniggering and Dowson's head whipped round.

"LEGLESS!!! - get your books and sit here in front of my desk “he boomed.

"Sir! Why me? I haven't done anything?" I squeaked.

Dowson strode to the back of the class and grabbed the hair just in front of my ears and twisted it. (Try it. It fucking hurts.) Then he dragged me to the front of the class and threw me against his desk.

"Because I say so" he hissed "Every time there's a problem with this class, you're at the bottom of it. Now sit there, you pathetic moron, and don't say a word unless I ask you a question. UNDERSTAND?"

Well the devil came and took me. I looked him straight in the eye and asked..

Ïs that a question?"

He went puce.

"GET UPSTAIRS AND ASK MR SCRIVENS FOR THE PUNISHMENT BOOK AND THE CANE" he bellowed.

And the devil was still in me.

"No."

"WHAT?" He shrieked. "What do you mean "NO"?'"

Ï mean no. I'm not getting the cane" I said calmly.

Inside I was thinking I’m dead, I'm dead, I'm dead....."

"Why not?" Dowson demanded.

"Because you're going to hit me with it and I've done nothing wrong"

I was deep in trouble now but I wasn't going to back down. I wasn't scared of being caned - I'd been caned dozens of times by lots of teachers and, usually I deserved it - but not this time. I hadn't done anything wrong and I'd be buggered if I was going to be thrashed for something I hadn't done.

"Tony" (my best mate) Dowson bellowed "Go upstairs and get the punishment book and the cane!!"

"No Sir" said Tony

My rebellion seemed to have taken root.

"WHY NOT?" shrieked Dowson who was rapidly losing the plot

"Because you're going to hit Legless with it and he hasn't done anything wrong"

"Dent?" asked Dowson looking bewildered

Denty just shook his head.

"Welsby"he roared looking at the cowardly little shit.

"Yes sir. Straight away sir “ and off he scuttled for the punishment book and the cane. For the five minutes he was away you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. I was at the front, shitting myself but determined not to back down. Tony and Denty were likewise dreading where all this was leading and the rest of the class was fascinated at this clash of wills.

Wellsby scuttled back into the classroom with the BOOK and the cane.

"Put your hand out" ordered Dowson sternly.

"No."

"Why not?""

"'Cos you'll hit me with it and I haven't done anything wrong"

I was beyond fear by now. I was, at the least, going to be expelled and would probably end up being beaten to a pulp by Dowson as soon as there wasn't any witnesses.

So we had a stand-off.

"Sit there and I'll deal with you at the end of the lesson"

So I sat there, in misery, waiting for the axe to fall. Whatever he did, whatever he threatened, I wasn't going to back down.

The lesson eventually ended I expected the worst. The bastard disarmed me...

"Legless, Legless, Legless - what are we going to do with you?"

He looked tired.

"You have to understand that discipline has to be maintained. By defying me you're threatening the very fabric of the school. Now will you accept your punishment?"

"If I'd done anything wrong - yes. But I haven't, so, no"

"OK. You can go. But this isn't over. You *will* be punished and discipline *will* be maintained."

And I went.

Later that year I sat my mock physics 'O' level and achieved 83%. A few months later I found that I wasn't allowed to sit the real Ó' level as my teacher had stated that I wasn't a suitable candidate. I sat the mong level, the CSE.


That vindictive decision stopped me gaining an engineering scholarship. I aced the competitive exams, coming third out of 2000 candidates, but was refused a place because, even though I CSE grade 1 was supposed to be equivalent to an O'level, the rules stated that you had to have an Ó'level in Maths, Physics and English.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 14 May 2009, 13:55, 2 replies)

......And now he's washing cars for a living
I’m not really the type of person to be bullied as I have a decent social life, have a girlfriend and also play the guitar in my spare time (This isn’t a dig at anyone on the board who has posted so far about themselves being bullied- I’m just trying to explain that despite the fact that I hang around with a few people that are a little odd I never do anything to leave myself look vunerable and a target for bullies). I used to see bullying regularly in my life thanks to my Dad.

Before I start this I’m not saying my dad used to beat me up or anything it’s more to do with the fact that he was bullied at work and I got to see it- A LOT.

This bullying was done by a work colleague who was a total ass and believed the world owed him. He would turn up at our house and act like he owned the place, including making a couple of remarks about my mum which really riles me. During this time my Dad would just stand by and let this happen, I could tell my old man would be pissed off too he just did sod all about it.

To cut a long story short I found out that my dad has been bullied by the same bloke for most of his life, even back when he was a kid, and thanks to my help my Dad overcame the bullying twat by standing up to him and punching the bully square in the face.

This was after an incident involving a time travelling DeLorean and me changing my past.

(Apologies for lack of hoverboard)
(mon bison powered by magnets, Thu 14 May 2009, 12:54, 3 replies)

In which the bullies get their come-uppance
Bit of a pearoast - a cautionary tale from my home town.

There was a family. The kind of family that every town has really. A thoroughly nasty and antisocial bunch of turds with a predisposition for glue sniffing, violence and petty thievery. A distinct lack of brain power characterised this unholy bunch of scrotes, and the petty thievery usually involved stealing from their own neighbours - they were so lacking in scruples that they had never abided by the petty criminal's unspoken mantra that you never shit in your own nest.

The three siblings of the family - all brothers, with about a year each between them, so quite close in age - had finely honed their behaviour at school, as they ran the gauntlet over the nerdier kids like some kind of mini-mafia; mercilessly bullying them into handing over dinner money with the threat of having their heads flushed down the toilet if they refused to comply. They made school a misery for a lot of kids there. Fortunately I wasn't one of them for some reason; possibly because my Gran was good friends with their neighbour.

Now, those of you with a dislike for extreme violence I would advise you to stop reading about here...

This acutely developed antisocial disregard for anything and anyone ensued for years. The brazen swagger they had at school continued as they graduated from education to the dole queue, and strangely, as often happens with bullies, they didn't find themselves on the receiving end of a good hiding from blokes a few years older than them and a great deal harder, pissed off that 'new blood' was trying to muscle in on their turf.

Oddly, they also had very little, if any, trouble with the police, who repeatedly were unable to pin anything on them in order to put them away. The neighbourhood lived in abject terror of the fact that next time they were targeted it could be a lot worse, and so tended to say nothing so as not to provoke any kind of response.

The three brothers were each blessed with an abject cluelessness as to what was considered acceptable in the world. They followed the family pattern of bullying at school, substance abuse, violence and thievery, but the eldest was particularly unpleasant and had spent his years making various 'points', usually with a sharp object. And several blunt ones too. This particular error of the gene pool had also developed a little sideline in selling drugs, and it was this that proved to be especially irksome for some people in the town.

So, one evening, a couple of local hardmen who'd had enough of this family riding roughshod over their fair town followed him, being careful not to be seen, and waited for an opportunity. Armed with a baseball bat, a stanley knife and a pair of pliers, they followed him to a not altogether remote spot on one of the estates, but one which consisted of a large expanse of grass leading down to the railway. An expanse of grass that after a certain point wasn't lit by streetlighting.

What followed was, even by his standards, pretty nasty. As he was sitting on a bench with his head in a bag of glue, the two hard men crept up behind him and smacked him squarely across the back of the head with the baseball bat. Being utterly off his box on Bostik, he wasn't in any fit state to defend himself as the blows rained down on him. Once he was rendered suitably unable to move, they then set about removing his teeth with the pliers, and for good measure also broke both his kneecaps with the bat, before (reportedly) slashing the tendons in the back of his legs with the stanley knife. Then they left him lying there.

About an hour later he was discovered by someone walking their dog. The police were called, but the beating he had received was so severe that it had rendered him permanently brain damaged and unable to speak. He now spends his life being looked after 24-7 by his family, nothing but an empty shell of a dribbling vegetable, which has in some small way been instrumental in keeping them out of trouble. Fortune smiled once again on the town when the middle sibling died of a drugs overdose, thus removing the world of another genetic abhorration. Perhaps seeing that the lifestyle he had adopted wasn't going to do him any favours, the youngest apparently became a bit of a reformed character, although his by now established reputation as a troublesome little cunt meant that opportunities for anything in the town were scarce.

Apologies for the gruesomeness of this tale, but honestly, the family got what they deserved after over 20 years of getting away with everything they had ever done to the people of the town.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Wed 13 May 2009, 14:49, 7 replies)

A few from me this week...
I went to a private school with my brothers. We all had problems with bullies, although only two of us were actually bullied, the other two just got in trouble for standing up for us.

When we were at the school, lunches and buses were paid for on a term basis, so we never needed to carry money with us. As a result, if we did have money, it would invariably go into the chocolate machine. My brother Ian did this one day, and had a pack of fruit pastilles, or something similar.

At breaktime, a lad 2 years above him (year 10/15 years old) decided that he wanted one, and demanded as such. Ian quite fairly told him where to stick it. This incensed the bully, who decided the intelligent thing to do would be punch Ian very hard in the face, kick him in the stomach while he was on the floor, and steal his sweets.

While Ian was getting seen to by the nurse, word reaches my eldest brother Andrew (Upper 6th/18 years old), who decides that the teachers reaction won't be satisfying enough, decides to teach the bully a lesson.

Which is why, when people were queueing up for lunch, they heard a girly scream, to look up, and see the lad being held over the bannister of the stairs by his ankles, by Andrew and one of his friends, wanting to embarrass him.

The head of 6th form comes along, and sees this. "Lads, why the hell are you dangling him over the edge of the stairs?" Quoth he.

"He smacked Ian and stole his sweets, Sir" replied Andrew.

"OK, just make sure you don't drop him" says the teacher, and walked away!

Unfortunately, when the lad told his parents that night, they weren't as forgiving, leading to Andrew getting a Saturday detention.

Strangely, the bully never bothered Ian again.
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Wed 13 May 2009, 13:13, Reply)

Payback
Got bullied for no reason I could work out by two scrotes. Said bullying included one time one of them held my arm down onto a plank they'd threatened me with while the other slowly drove a Stanley knife blade into my wrist.

When my wrist was better I skipped school and waited down the brambly path one of said scrotes used to get home. When he walked past I stepped out and hit him over the back of the head with a short length of scaffolding pole I took from a building site. When he went down I stood on the back of his neck and got to work with the pole on his right arm. He never fully regained the use of it, and probably still sets off airport metal detectors.

He didn't know for sure it was me because he never saw me, but funnily enough neither of the twunts ever hit me again.

All this happened when I was eight.

One of said scrotes got stabbed in borstal, I later heard. Good.
(SonofRojBlake, Wed 13 May 2009, 13:09, 4 replies)

Big Brother...
Been deliberating whether to post this as a) its lacking in the funnies, and b) it doesn't involve spunk.

And its also deeply fucking private...

I've posted on here before about my sister, but I've intentionally left out the fact that I also have an elder brother. Why? Well, because the first eighteen years of my life before I escaped and fucked off to university were made pretty fucking unbareable by this bastard.

He would beat me. And I don't mean in a playful brotherly way. He would literally kick ten barrels of shit out of me. Thinking back, I was hospitilized at least a dozen times. One time after he'd watched V for Victory (that footie film with Rambo twatting about in a beret), he forced me to recreate the scene where the fella had his arm broken by bracing it between the slats on a bed and applying the foot. That one got me a couple of days in hospital with a compound fracture with complications. He also punched me so hard in the face once that my teeth came through my bottom lip. Another time he chucked me down the stairs.

And my parents did fuck all about him - I had a heart to heart with them a few years back to ask why they'd let it happen. And they couldn't answer. They said back then there wasn't any support for this sort of thing and they just didn't know what to do. At the moment we've got a shakey truce. We just don't talk about my dear big bro... at all... ever...

Don't get me wrong. My childhood wasn't all bad. I had some great times. But, unfortunately, I seemed to take it for granted that at some point or other I'd receive another unholy kicking for, basically, being in the way. It was just normal to me and its only now I'm an adult I realise this is totally ab-fucking-normal.

So, at eighteen I fucked off up to Manchester to study Economics. Not because I particularly wanted to - it was just as far as possible away from home as I could get. And as I left that day in my mum and dad's car that's the last time I ever saw the evil cunt. I'm thirty-four now. A long, long time ago.

He moved to Finland while I was at Uni after a big falling out with my parents. Thank fuck. And I've never thought about him since. When people ask me if I've got any siblings I only ever talk about my sis. My brother is - and always was - dead to me.

Only something fucking terrifying happened recently. He's been in touch with my parents wanting to reconcile, admitting what he did to me was wrong and that he wants to meet up and start over.

I'm afraid I said point blank "No..." And that's the last I've heard about it. And now I feel bad. Ever notice how its always the victims of violence who are left feeling guilty when being magnanimous goes out the window and they just want to be left alone by a past tormentor?

I can't forgive and I can't forget. Only in this. Otherwise I'm the most easy-going bloke in the fucking world. But not for this.

I consider myself to be a pretty well balanced individual - I've got a great partner, I'm in a loving relationship, I interact with my social peers without getting my cock out (well, most of the time). But a part of me is still incredibly angry. That cunt took away my childhood. And I'm never gonna get that back. And here I am now, at the age of thirty-four, being made to feel like I'm the big fucking villain for not wanting to patch things up...

Fuck me, its been grim this week. Here's hoping for the usual smut and filth next week.

Cheers for listening...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 21 May 2009, 0:20, 20 replies)

Repost...
...from another QOTW long, long ago, and not exactly bullying but relevant by a gnat's knacker and quite funny. Oh, but we need a few more of the latter in this one.

When I was halfway through high school in what was then Third Year (age 13 - would that be Year 9?). I was just walking away from the canteen with a couple of my mates and rounded a corner to a rare sight.

One of the fifth Year boys was pinned against the wall by a first year girl who was repeatedly twatting him with her schoolbag whilst shouting things along the lines of 'You're a senior pupil here!', 'Can't believe you did that!', 'You're supposed to set an example!' etc etc. Each syllable the girl spoke was punctuated by a whack from the bag. We had no idea what he had done, but the girl had certainly taken exception.

Understand that in my school, the fifth years were a law unto themslves to pupils and teachers alike, and the rule was that whatever year you were, lower year pupils were given no quarter and shown no mercy. Think prison society, only with more snot, less bumrape, and you got to go home at 3:30pm every day. My brother was a Fifth Year at the time and had all but ignored me the entire time I had been there purely on this principle. So we just couldn't not stay and watch while this (to us) huge lad, who was already known to us as a mid-range cunt and worth avoiding, getting his arse whipped by this 11-year old girl who was barely two-thirds as tall as we were, let alone him. He wasn't getting hurt but just watching him with his hands in front of him and an expression of bemused amazement was a sight that has stayed with me.

I think now that it was the most rewarding entertainment I ever experienced at that school. I would have congratulated her but being the principled young lady she so obviously was, I may have come in for the same treatment for condoning such behaviour :)
(thatblokeoverthere not quite as much an arsehole as I thought, Tue 19 May 2009, 15:21, Reply)

Revenge is sweet.. well more chilli tabasco actually.
I was undoubtedly not the coolest kid in school.. blonde, acne, actually into learning stuff, listening to what people said and one of the few normal people in my class which had the reputation of being the "worst behaved in the year" as the teachers always kept reminding us.

As a result of learning to deflect the general shit that came with a class of nutters I had an okayish time at school.. I got along with the class bully (who's family was pretty messed up) and even learnt to laugh off and avoid the enevitable conclusions of his favourite catch phrases such as the mirthful "Doo yoooo WANNA PUNCH?!" and the classic, slightly more rhetorical "Doo yoooo want ANOTHER PUNCH?!" Basically you kept him sweet talking about making bombs and anything else that he found appealing and you just got along dandy.. For all his "little faults" I actually got to like him by the end of school. I saw him a few years back and he had a stunning wife who didn't even look bruised. - Though her shirt did cover her upper arms and the ever favourite "BCG" target point. (Maybe he'd reformed or maybe some women just love a violent nutter.. the world is a strange place)

Anyway I digress from my only real pinacle of fame while at school..
I used to hang out with the other quasi-normal members of my class in a maths room where you could get away from most of the nuttier side of our year and play games on the old BBCs. This was great until a nasty piece of work from the year above (who we nick named "psycho kid" (behind his back for obvious reasons)) started to make our lives hell. He'd turn up mid break with his laughing-boy cronies before their lesson started and just lay into us for no reason. You could see him trying different ways to intimidate you and generally try anything to make his mates laugh at us.. wanker.

I've never been worried about being a bit short, but this guy was and had the personailty equivalent of a small psychotic pit bull.. you know, sort of undersized, a bit of a chip on his shoulder and mainly scary due to excessive mouthyness and the odd bit of unrestrained psychotic behaviour. Think Ben Kingsly in Sexy Beast..

Not being one to get pushed around and not do *something* about it I devised a cunning plan.. Lemon sherberts were the sweet of choice at that time and for those not in the know they're an old skool hard boiled sweet filled with err.. sherbert. I found that if you painted them with Tabasco sauce and left them to dry in the sun you could turn something that looked like an innocent glazed lemony treat into the sort of uber-hot food you'd require an arms export license for to sell abroad.. The sort of thing your local indian might serve you if you called the waiter a poof, belched in his face and then bragged about how you "always order a Phal!!" to all your laughing dickhead mates. You know.. really really quite hot.

One weekend and several re-applications of Tabasco later I was ready to go.. In walks psycho kid, my mate Matt gets pushed about a bit first, at which point I offer John a sherbert out of an innocent little white paper bag. John eats the "safe" lemon sherbert he had already pre-concealed in his hand and starts crunching as loudly as possible in case psycho kid hasn't noticed..

Psycho Kid: OI! What's that you got there?
Me: (mumbles) nothing..
Psycho Kid: Give us one - NOW.
Me: have em, sniff. (I dump the whole bag on the table and act like I'm about to cry, quickly legging it out the class room.)

Five seconds later I was 10 meters up the corridor looking for somewhere safe when I hear psycho kid shout "SHiiIIT!!" followed by the sound of hard boiled sweets bouncing off a window and much laughing! :-) What a result! I stop to smirk and he runs out of the class room and up the corridor towards me looking red faced and out for blood. I was feeling a bit cocky by this point with the confidence that I'd made him look a total asshat infront of his mates. I figured I may as well go for the nuclear option and have it out with him there and then as well. He got right up in my face, saw I wasn't backing down and then suddenly "realised" that he badly needed the water fountain to save face. i.e. I faced up to him and he completely wussed out. Yay!

For some reason we never got any more hassle after out of that lot. My dad was amused when I told him about my day at school and used the same lemon inferno sherberts a few months later when he found snacks kept on getting stolen from his desk at work.
(OrangeMochaFrappuccino last watched Dexter on, Sun 17 May 2009, 19:52, 2 replies)

This QOTW is depressing. Can we have a return of smut and body fluids for next week, please?
*warning - post does not contain mirth. there is lots of length instead*

I've lurked on here for several years, and as far as it's possible to tell, most of you seem to be genuinely nice, canny folks. Even if you collectively weren't, you wouldn't deserve to have suffered through a microfraction of the shit I've read on here today.

But shit happens. I grew up with an abusive, alcoholic father, and whilst I was never on the receiving end *too* often as a wee child (that was reserved for my step-sister and mother) the minute I hit my teens and started to think for myself I came in for all kinds of unpleasant shit. What kind of sick fuck gets his kicks from playing mind games with an 11 year old, reducing her to tears simply because she's had the balls to say she thinks you're wrong? (I hasten to add, I was always encouraged to 'stand up for myself, do and say the right thing' etc...hypocrisy was only one of his many failings)

As if that wasn't enough, my physical attributes make me a bully's wet dream - I'm short, fat, geeky, have a ridiculous name, considerably brighter than average, wear glasses, and - most importantly when you go to a posh school - poor. If I was ginger too I probably would have caused a couple of the more obnoxious turds in my year to spluff their pants in glee.

Primary school wasn't so bad. Yes, I didn't really have any friends -how do you make friends when you can never invite them round after school or have enough money to go out and do stuff? - but I wasn't overly singled out for a good verbal shoeing more than the one or two other 'odd' children. It made me sad -very sad sometimes - but not suicidal.

Secondary school was worse. Much worse. We lived miles away from the school so I had to catch one of the private coaches the school used. The abuse got so bad that for the five years I was there I would sit behind the driver the minute I got on and not acknowledge anybody. This of course would provoke other insults once we were at school, but at least nobody could hassle me on the bus - two blissful hours a day where I had a rest from the hell of school and the hell of home.

I managed to make friends with a couple of the other 'freaks' but still had verbal abuse thrown at me from every direction. I was never slapped about - it was a posh school after all - but I did get called every name under the sun and then some. Two of the more unpleasant (but enterprising) psychobitchwhores got their parents to write letters of complaint about me, even though I blatantly hadn't done anything - if you'd cut me in half I would have had 'victim' written through me like a stick of blackpool rock.

I complained a couple of times but was just told to avoid them, ignore them, stop being a drama queen. 'Oh yes?' I felt like screaming. 'When was the last time YOU had to avoid a pack of screeching harpies who would chase you round the school til they cornered you, then ignore them whilst they hurled abuse'?

Then I had the misfortune to be in one of the sports teachers form groups. Surprise surprise, the ones hassling me were the popular kids; the rich ones, the ones that played sport, the pretty ones. This teacher was the most nepotist bitch I've ever had the misfortune to meet. Out of all the people who have directly or indirectly made my life hell, she is the one I remain most angry with - she would turn a completely blind eye to it all because it was her darling sport-playing girls doing it, even when it was happening in the classroom. Protests on my part would be met with withering disdain:
'Can't you make them leave me alone?'
'No. For gods sake, why can't you just grow up and stop complaining. If you ignore them they'll go away.'
'Well that hasn't worked for the last three years you stupid cow.'
-DETENTION-

Then to cap it all off, my only close friend (another 'freak') took against me in a major way. She was always slightly unhinged, and would on occasion ignore me for days at a time, completely out of the blue - even if we'd chatted in a cheery, friendly fashion just hours before. She became almost psychopathic in her hatred of me, and I just couldn't understand it. She managed to turn the whole school against me - not that it took much - and only really stopped when I proved she'd been lying. Even now, when I haven't seen her for the better part of ten years, I occasionally meet people who were at uni with her who'll say 'Oh, so you're berk. Wow, you're nothing like i imagined - I've heard all sorts of shit about you.'
I mean, why tell people - random people who I will probably never even meet - that I'm a bullying psychopath that made your life hell when it was in fact the other way round? The mind boggles. Amusingly, at the last count 4 of these 6 mutual individuals have then gone on to tell me that they no longer speak to the girl in question because she's a lying, vindictive, manipulative mentalist..

I dealt with all of this primarily by not dealing with it - not thinking about it, not talking about it and developing a mouth the size of a small city. A small city mainly made of gutters. This at least earned me grudging respect from the brighter ones and hangers on, as I could verbally outmanouvre a lot of the more puerile stuff the denser ones came up with. And thus the shower of shit became more of a soft, poo-y patter.

I put up with the abuse at school and then I came home and I put up with the abuse there too, because I had no other choice (except possibly offing myself). I sat my GCSEs, stuck two fingers up at the school and left. My dad died, I went to college and had a brilliant time doing my A-levels. I decided I would man the fuck up, grow a massive (pendulous, even) pair of ladyballs and never let anyone give me that kind of shit again. I heartily recommend this as a course of action, but it is *so* much easier said than done, and I know that after reading posts like Vampyrecats and Maladictas, I had it comparatively easy. It was hard, and I've had my ups and downs since (big 'uns too, but this is getting stupidly long so it's for another time) but mostly I'm pretty damn good.

It was a long time ago, but even now words can't convey the hurt, the anger, the bewilderment - why me? - and it simply isn't possible to just ignore them. This may sound like a self pitying tale of woe but it isn't. Being bullied fucks you up. It decimates your self esteem, your confidence - you begin to doubt yourself in every way, and even the strongest person would have difficulty maintaining the belief that they aren't a cunt when they're told they are for several hours a day. I have scars, both physical and mental; I still jump when I hear loud noises (because for the first 16 years of my life a loud noise was inevitably my dad going mental), I still tense when I see groups of people laughing (because my first instinct is to think they're laughing at me) and I have an innate distrust of 'trendy' people. I don't make friends easily.

So yes, my childhood was miserable, but I don't know any different - it's just how I grew up. It's made me *me*, and although I haven't always felt this way, I'm happy with my life and I like who I am. Seeing my parents make so many mistakes has simply made me more determined to never make the same ones, and being bullied has in a roundabout sort of way made me stronger. And given me talent for scathing wit and sarcasm which I continue to find helpful - that was just the way I was best able to deal with it.
I hope that anyone and everyone who has read this and is getting bullied finds their own way to deal with it too - bullies are cuntcakes of the highest, scummiest fucking order and should never, ever be allowed to win.
(berk, Fri 15 May 2009, 15:47, 11 replies)

something fishy
Four years ago i was taped up with parcel tape and slapped across the face with a raw fish.

Im strangely proud.
(bobisnotmyname, Fri 15 May 2009, 0:21, Reply)

Mad Max

All you have to do to stop bullies is stand up to them. All bullies are cowards.

How many times have you heard that? Total load of bollocks. The *reason* that some people are bullies is because they like hurting people. They like to inflict pain and they're bloody good at it. A bully is generally stronger, faster and much better fighter than their victims. Standing up to them is just attracts their attention.

Meet Max.

Max was a lad I knew in school and someone who I became friends with after we left school. He was a small lad. Small but stocky. He was Asian/Indonesian in appearance with a strong Geordie accent and a cracking seems of humour. A good lad.

I never did find out what Max did to attract the attention of the school bully but somehow he did and he was called out to fight the bully after school. The bully was a guy called Mather. The only person in my life I've been frightened of.

Meet Mather.

Mather came from a wealthy but incredibly abusive background. I found out, years later, that Mather was regularly beaten to shit by his father and older brothers. He was the second best fighter in the school (the best was a guy who was a freak of nature. He was a boy in a man’s body. He was shaving by the age of 12 and had an impressive hairy chest by the time he was 14.) and was a real bastard. The problem with Mather is that he just didn't know when to stop. Unlike the rest of us, who'd stop fighting when your opponent gave in, Mather just kept on hammering his victim. How he didn't kill someone was a fucking mystery..... And Max had to fight him.

I was there.

The usual big ring formed and Max and Mather met in the middle then Max swung a beautiful punch and caught Mather smack in the face. A real purler of a punch. If conventional wisdom held true then Mather, the bully, should have crumbled. Sadly, reality held true instead and Mather went mental. He beat the living shit out of Max.

As a display of raw courage, I've never seen anything like that fight. Max was a good foot shorter than Mather. Slower, not as strong, but my God he was game. Mather was pounding the shit out of Max's face, his body. He was knocking Max to the ground and kicking him in the face and head but Max always got up and kept on coming. I don’t think he got a single blow in (apart from his first sucker punch) but he kept trying.

Eventually he went down for the last time and Mather kept kicking him for good minute after he lay still. To my eternal shame I did nothing. I knew what happened to people who got between Mather and his prey.

Fight over. Mather triumphant as usual but, strange as it may sound, the real winner was Max. Everyone who saw that fight just couldn't help but admire his sheer guts. He was going into a fight he *knew* he couldn't win but still he went. After that fight everyone kind of looked up to Max - physically I looked down on the short-arse but in my minds-eye I was looking up at him.

So, seeing that I'm having a few glasses of wine....


Cheers Max. Thirty years on and I still remember your courage.
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 14 May 2009, 12:42, 1 reply)

First and foremost, I will say this:
Bullies are cunts. No exceptions. There is never, ever an excuse for persecuting someone and, if you've bullied someone, you'll get yours. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but you will.

My story is not as unpleasant or unsettling as some of them told here, but it's something that affects me still today from time to time; when I get a bit low, it all comes back to me. I will admit here and now this is a pearoast with bits added. It's also very, very long.

When I was a smaller Maladicta of about eleven, there was another new kid who joined our class at school. However, he was the total opposite of Stalker Boy, in that for some reason I still don't fully understand, he immediately took against me and made it his life's work to make me feel as miserable and unwelcome within about ten feet of him as possible. And by some horribly perverse twist of fate, I had a little girlie crush on him (do you ever wish that you could go back in time and slap your younger self silly? I do). He knew this all too well, and used it to his advantage to make things as difficult as possible for me. We shall call him Luke, for that was his name.

He quickly became extremely popular with the teachers, for as well as being "charming" and sweet to all outward appearances, he was a straight-A student who always did his homework and never got anything below 80% in an exam. He also became extremely popular with the girls in my year, not because he was attractive (he looked like an anorexic mole, or Rachelswipe's starving baby bird description) but because he was apparently very good at giving advice and was a good laugh. Over the course of the next few years, he managed to turn the entire school year, bar a couple of people (Stalker Boy, clearly, used to switch sides and would always delight in telling me what he'd said), but in the end they'd always cave to pressure and end up joining in.

Luke specialised not in physical violence, mainly because he was a weed of epic proportions, but he was a master at messing with your head. His favourite tricks were to steal my homework out of my desk or out of my books to make me look stupid when I came to hand it in, before saying "Oooo she's not done it, you should punish her, sir", hiding my books and homework planner (which if you lost for more than about a day every single teacher would throw a shitfit about), hacking my network user (in reality just leaning over my shoulder when I typed in my password, I suppose) and copying all my stuff onto the common drive (not that I had anything offensive on there, which didn't deter him because he just made textfiles saying "I, [Maladicta], love [History Teacher] and want his babies!!111" which got me into trouble), claimed to have hacked into my (locked) former blog and read all my secrets, yet was unable to produce evidence, repeatedly "went out" with (in other words, held hands with constantly, this was Year 9) my slaggy ex-best "friend" simply to mess with my head, and it was him who announced that I was "in love" with my history teacher to the entire school at the swimming gala, inventing a girlfriend who was "a model", when really her picture was just cut out of Sugar (this had no effect other than making me laugh at how far he was willing to go, including setting up a fake email account for her to yell at me off), in between telling me that he and no one else would ever love me or want to have sex with me because I was so fat and useless and ugly.

Why didn't I tell anyone? Because I knew I'd get no sympathy from anyone and because if I told any teachers, it would be my word against his and I already knew what a capable and manipulative liar he was. All it would have taken was a couple of tears from him, and I would be the bad guy. It just wasn't worth it.

By Year 10, then, I was a wreck; no self-confidence at all, virtually no friends (unless you count Stalker Boy, and I don't), no life outside of school other than the ones I made online (who were a great help to me, and I'm still in touch with a lot of them). I'm merely focused on one thing: getting him to leave me alone and to finally quit hurting me. By this stage, everyone and their dog had MSN and he'd bugged me on it for some time, not least when anyone I liked (he always seemed to find out) got a girlfriend, and one day, after enjoying taunting me because I was "on the shelf, where you'll always be" I finally snapped and told him he was a manipulative, twisted bastard who didn't deserve to live, and that I hated him and hoped he died. The ensuing row continued for about five minutes, with him mocking me, saying I "always have to be the tragic victim" and telling me how pathetic I was to even think anyone cared about me. And finally, I got a backbone. BLOCK.

This was just before the start of Year 11, and by then, something had snapped inside me and I was refusing to take any more of his crap. I blocked every single email address he'd ever used to annoy me, deleted him off my MSN and made it clear to anyone who talked to me that if they added him into the conversation, I would do the same to them. He found ways to get around this, like getting his cousin's friend, who just happened to be a lesbian (he was trying to convince me that the reason no one would go out with me was because I was secretly gay) to chat me up over MSN, and when he was mentioned "he just wants to be your friend". I ignored him at school to the point of not even registering he'd said anything to me, and not even acknowledging his existence by the end of the year. Gradually, I felt better, and this was made even better one evening when I was talking to a newish friend of mine online (hello Pete) and he said "look, Luke wants me to add him in, if he says anything mean you can leave straight away but he says it's important". I reluctantly agree, and he says (and this is why I hate people who type like this over the internets - why type like a retard if you're supposed to be so intelligent?) "after GCSE, im movin 2 Canada!!!".

One victory lap of the house later, I sit down at the PC again and type "oh that's nice."

Of course, as soon as word got out that he was leaving, there was teenage drama aplenty: girls clinging to him begging him not to leave, saying they'd miss him soooooo much and that he had to come back to visit, and then telling me I was "heartless" for saying I wouldn't miss "lovely" Luke.

Finally, he was gone, and life went on like it had done before, but with a lot less angsting, bar a letter he sent me (address courtesy - surprise surprise - of Stalker Boy), saying that he had only ever picked on me "because u were different" and trying to justify his actions by saying "I didn't know how 2 treat u other than 2 be mean 2 u and I still think ur bein harsh cuz u won't talk 2 me" (he actually wrote like this, in posh fountain pen, it was quite surreal). I think part of it was that we were all growing up, and bar the odd mention of his name, and Stalker Boy mooning over how much he missed him (he fancied him, I later discovered), things were pretty much as good as they could be. He came back to England for the last week we were all at school and true to form, picked up exactly where he left off, meaning I got a lot of texts from him wanting to "meet up" and saying he couldn't wait to see me on Friday. I don't mind admitting I ignored him, just as I used to, that Friday, and never said a word to him the entire day: not that he would have needed it, being surrounded by his entourage yet again. And so, I left the school confident that he would never see me or be able to hurt me again.

In the intervening two years, my ex-best friend (who I refer to here as Slag of the Universe, because, well, she was), had taken his place as ringleader (most likely being told what to do and say by him, since she had the most contact with him). I found out through a variety of methods that she was spitting venom about me behind my back (while keeping up a façade of us still being bestest friends) - among other things picking on my driving skills (did I write off my car, bitch? No, that was you), my lack of sexytiem (could my first boyfriend not keep it up when confronted with me naked for the first time? No, that was you), the fact I refused to be set up with her latest victim boyfriend's ugly mate ("I'm not a charity case, fuck off!"), and the fact I got on well with my (female, sarcastic, Python fan and generally awesome) Latin teacher, which clearly meant I was a raving dyke. She was also livid that I'd made more of an effort to look nice for the lower sixth ball and - oh noes! - had got more compliments than her. This was what really kicked it off and she spent the next year systematically worming her way between me and any other friends I had, spreading her insidious poison and making sure everyone thought it was that I didn't like them trying to take her away from me. All the time still being sweetness and light to me to my face, although I could barely restrain myself from breaking hers, and whining "Why does Maladicta hate me?" to anyone who'd listen - mostly Stalker Boy, and even he was better company than her. The last time I saw her was her 18th birthday, when I didn't even acknowledge knowing it was that day, and have not spoken to her from that day to this. I hear she's engaged, and even though I try to forgive, it's hard to forget the two-faced bitch who said I'd die a virgin and told the whole school I'd told her I fancied her. It was also Slag of the Universe who, many years previously, had told Luke I fancied History Teacher, so I have no idea why I considered her a friend for years after that, let alone didn't cunt her in the fuck for saying that. As much as I try to rise above wishing ill on people, I seriously hope her fiancé jilts her for a woman who actually has norks and a personality that extends beyond being hilariously "random".

Two months after the end of school, quite late in the evening, I get several missed calls on my phone, all from "Stalker Boy Home". We still had dialup at the time, so I disconnect and call him back, figuring he wants to talk about our up and coming trip of nightmares to Spain (if there's ever another Holidays from Hell, I will talk about this too). I get his mum, who asks to talk to mine, and after about five minutes, mum puts her hand over the receiver and informs me in hushed tones that Luke is dead. The phone then gets passed to me, and all I hear is the sobbing of Stalker Boy, interspersed with odd words that sound like "forgive and forget" and "he never meant you any harm". Eventually he manages to tell me what happened, that there was an accident on some highway where he was living, and that the car was totalled. My first thought, I'm ashamed to say, was "Karma's a bitch", and it's a belief I continue to have to this day.

I'd like to say it's made me a better person, although I'm genuinely not sure: I have hangups, the same as anyone else and it has affected me in ways I still don't fully understand. Tell someone they're ugly, fat and useless and no one will ever love them for six years and they will believe it - trust me, I'm living proof of this. The thing I do to try and put it behind me is to look at the successes I've had: I got away from them, I went to a good uni, have a decent degree and a job I like (usually) that pays the bills, I moved away from my parents, which they were sure I'd never do, and sure, while Mr Maladicta and I are no longer together, we live together as best friends and it works well, much better than Slag of the Universe, who repaid her first boyfriend for his time by pouring a bottle of Matey through his letterbox one Friday evening and burning his favourite CD - he said the "bubble" had gone out of the relationship (read: "I've fucked you, you can go away now"). My life is infinitely better for having removed them from it (as I said in reply to another post "My Facebook block list is as long as Ron Jeremy's cock").

The best revenge is a happy life. Or a Gattling crossbow.
( Maladicta, Wed 13 May 2009, 23:42, 14 replies)

I was bullied at primary school
Worst fucking 5 years of my life from year 1 to year 5.

I had the misfortune to be raised an English catholic, from a lazy arsed catholic family to be sure but that did mean that I got dragged to church once or twice a month.

So fuck you say.

Alas this was central Scotland in the 70s and in their infinite wisdom my parents had decided to send me to the nearest primary school rather than the catholic place a couple of miles away.

A sensible plan you say, considerate even.

And it would have been had not the said nearest primary school been infested with the Neanderthal spawn of a bunch of orange order grandees who proceeded to make my English catholic life a form of terror even Lovecraft would have backed away from as being too baroque.

Oddly it wasn't the beatings, the constant verbal abuse, the creative and imaginative terror being inflicted that got to me. It was having my sandwiches nicked and hurled into a field every day for five years that really grated. My mum isn't a great cook but she can make great sandwiches when she wants to.

Anyway, being wise beyond my years I already knew that complaining to teachers was pointless and that my mum couldn't do much. I didn't even consider asking my dad, I mean how could a mild mannered man like him help? He's not exactly a man of action.

He is however a man of quiet patience and thought.

After I came home one Friday in a particularly bad way even my parents could see something was wrong, the words "fienian IRA cunt" cut into the skin of my back with a biro are usually a dead give-away. I vaguely remember my mother in tears, going to call the police etc I do remember very clearly my dad going very quiet and seeming somehow to grow somewhat. I remember being cleaned up and the sounds of my dad going out, I remember my mother rushing to the stairs and with a very strange voice quietly saying “Doug, don’t!” a mixture of half pleading, half terror with a hint of smothered sob.

Very odd form a ten year olds point of view, and I remember thinking that something very odd had happened. Well more off than having an impromptu tattoo given to you by a gang of thugs. Which by then was only a little bit odd to be honest.

I don’t remember my dad coming back that night, mind you that could have been because I was asleep by 8pm smothered in that horrible pink antiseptic which smells of tcp, Germoline perhaps.

So roll on the weekend and I drag my sorry arse to school on Monday morning full of the Joie de vivre of another day of being thumped, terrified and no lunch.

And I waited.

Nothing, not even a cross word.

This utterly terrified me, I was so scared I threw my own lunch away (it wasn’t a good day at casa 314 and the sandwiches did appear to be crab paste but still). What the fuck did these fucking bastards have fucking planned for me for fucks sake? What the fuck where they going to do to me now? I was a fucking nervous wreck come 3pm and I ran all the way home in a state of wild terror.

Dad comes home at about 6:30ish, looks at me, still twitching as the fear grounded itself. “how was school?” he enquires “ok?”, I nod dementedly as he pottered off somewhere whistling to himself.

Tuesday morning. Nothing.

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, the week after, the whole month, the remainder of the year, the rest of my time in that fucking shite hole. Nothing. No one ever hit me again, no one was too friendly mind, but no one called me names and life was a lot better all over.

To this day I’ve no idea what he did or even if he did anything. I didn't care, I got to eat lunch, sometimes, when it wasn’t crab paste or that other shimpams filth

Night all.
( edz314 smelled the glove on, Wed 20 May 2009, 19:24, 6 replies)

bullies are horrible
what we should do is all gang up together, wait until no one is looking then batter them and steal their trainers then laugh at them
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Tue 19 May 2009, 21:19, 2 replies)

Crouching tiger, hidden flim-flam
I think everyone had a Sarah at their school, she was small, She was blonde, she was pretty, she was thin, she was actually rather clever, although she put on a bit of an act so she didn’t upset the thick-os that surrounded her and hung off her every word. Oh and the most important part… she was e-v-i-l. She went out of her way to mentally destroy girls at my school and most of the time she succeeded.

Regardless of the fact that I was only in one class with Sarah. I still managed to have a few run ins with her. I’m pretty sure the reason I pissed her off so much is because I’d actually stick up for my friends and that was pretty much unheard of. The idea was, if you got picked on by her, you dealt with it and your friends were supposed to disappear when she arrived. Me, well I was too stupid to run away I guess, that and stubborn.

Anyhoo, so I where was I, ah yes, sticking up for people. One of my friends had gone through a shit few months and basically ended up pregnant towards the end of our time at secondary school. She made the decision to have an abortion and was off for a couple of days recovering when it all kicked off.

Standing around in the freezing cold on a muddy field with a hockey stick in my hand I was receiving a verbal bashing by Sarah. Somehow people had found out what my mate was off sick for and Sarah had decided to let me know exactly what she thought of my mate - Apparently she was dirty, she was scum, she probably had AIDS now and was a filthy, horrible person. Now I disagreed with all of those statements and kindly tired to put my point across in a sensible and calm manner when I was twatted in the back of my leg with her hockey stick. I was not impressed but had been brought up not to resort to violence so stood my ground and told her to stop. Thwack. Again, hit on the knee this time which I can tell you hurt quite a bit. Even less impressed this time. I could feel my face getting red and could feel my heart pounding away… was I going to cry? I wasn’t sure… but suddenly everything slowed down, I could see her swinging for me again and this time she was aiming for my face. I’d had enough, I swung my own stick (which she had clearly forgotten I had upon my person) and bashed her stick straight out of her hands, with pretty impressive force I might add! I then proceeded to swing again with amazing precision and stopped centimetres short of her stupid face. I can still she her shocked expression as she was convinced I was going to hit her. Instead I told her to take back what she said and suggested that she shouldn’t shout her mouth off about my friends, strangely enough she agreed with me and she never bothered me or my mate again.

Moral of the story, don’t anger me when I’m wheedling a hockey stick, I have mad ninja-style skillz. (Well not that mad as I didn’t actually hit her, but you know what I mean)!!?
(Flim-Flam the Magnificent "You is talking loco and I like it!", Mon 18 May 2009, 13:30, 7 replies)

I'm half french
And so I had the usual taunts of "frog" etc through primary school.

One day whilst enduring the (by now slightly stale) jibes about "eating snails", one of the more ape-like older boys thrust one under my nose.

"Fuck it." I thought. So I ate it.

It wasn't too bad as I recall. Bit crunchy - I've since learnt not to eat the shells.
( rofl harris, Mon 18 May 2009, 10:48, 2 replies)

Started out as freind then got a bit out of control
At first he was a real mate to me, even going so far as to put me up when I had a fire in my flat. He was a bit werid,a bit of a smart arse but was really cool to hang around with cos he genuinely didn't give a shit about anything.
Soon though he started to get a bit agressive, Outside the bar he provoked me and provoked me untill I snapped and hit him.
Weird thing was he loved it. We stayed freinds and I carried on living with him.
Then the Practical Jokes started, at the same time he moved a load of other freinds into the house too, the fun started to go out of the freindship then, Things were getting out of control and I tried and failed to sever the freindship.
Thats when I found I was in way over my head, His mates were everwhere.
Long story short I had to shoot him, which ended badly for me as you can imagine.
Hes gone now.
I still miss him tho
Whereever you are Tyler hope your well.
(Gru being trolled since 1998, Sun 17 May 2009, 21:37, 10 replies)

I think this is a relevant pearoast, too.
Having described my first experiences of house-sharing at uni in the post below, as well as in a previous QOTW, I had one year of lovely, relaxed, sane housemates the following year, then insane, OCD Bavarian Estella for a neighbour in Switzerland, then Xenia, the best and maddest roommate ever in Pervland (by the time she moved back to Greece she could quote Eddie Izzard verbatim and had a voracious appetite for South Park episodes, having never seen it), then I came back to Canterbury for one last year, and ended up living four doors away from the house I'd lived in with the five freaks in my first year.

While the boys mostly kept themselves to themselves, the girls were another matter. To start with, there was Stupid Neapolitan Bint who I have mentioned before. A shit-stirring, alcoholic, cat-obsessed, backstabbing tart whose favourite pastimes were getting drunk at 1 in the afternoon, going to Ann Summers to buy vibrators and insisting we all saw them, screeching her way in from the Works (anyone who has lived in a student town, or especially Canterbury, knows the kind of people that go to Pop Ya Cherry night, and why anyone with half a brain would hate living with one of them, let alone four) where she had done the fake lesbian thing with her mates all night, at 3am, banging on all the doors in the house and yelling "PENIS!" outside each of them. She annoyed me the most by bitching about me on Facebook and a couple of other student sites (usually for some imagined slight, like she accused me of breaking her phone when she'd dropped it in a glass of rum and coke (WHEN I WAS DRUNK LOL!!) and it had lost all her numbers. It was not, in fact, the clean water that I'd used to clean the circuits, that had buggered it, but the alcohol). In spite of this, she still used to expect me to let her see my French seminar work and wake her up to go to translation class on a Thursday.

However the thing that made me seriously consider moving out (and start tearing off those little "housemate wanted" slips that materialise in student towns when people realise they're missing a housemate or that they're living with mental cases), was the way her and the other two girls ganged up on me, pretty much constantly. Mr Maladicta and I met properly in freshers' week, and started dating pretty much immediately. So far so good, thinks I; he spends a couple of nights at mine, and from then on we pretty much live at his, with me going home to get clean clothes and study and swap books around, and sleeping at his 99% of the time. Girl Housemates did not like this; sure, I'd have a cup of tea with them and catch up with them, but they didn't like me having friends outside the house, or going out with Mr Maladicta when I could be having a "house night out". Bearing in mind that our tastes in music were poles apart (they favoured R&B, house, rap and happy hardcore, whereas I'll listen to anything but and used to have to blare Judas Priest at full volume to drown out Fiddy when I was home), I wasn't really up to getting blind drunk (they believed this was the only way to truly enjoy a night out; get absolutely paralytic at home and then stagger to the club to get more drunk) and spending the night fending off the pervy old men in Baa Bars. So, I used to politely decline, saying I wasn't feeling up to it, or had work to do, or it wasn't my thing, and they never really took no for an answer, and would pester me every ten minutes right up until they left.

*knock knock*
Me: What?
SNB/whoever: We're going to the Works in an hour, are you coming?
Me: Nope. Got 1000 words to write in Italian about renewable energy by 10am tomorrow.
SNB: Boooooooooo! Boring! Come to the Works with us!! You've got just enough time to get ready!!
Me: No, I can't - this counts for 30% of my final grade, and if you think I'm pissing that up the wall to spend a few hours in a fleapit, you can fuck right off.
SNB: Still think you're boring.

(repeat ad nauseam until ten minutes before the taxi arrived)

The three girls had this insane idea in their heads that we should be The Single House (read: The House Of Stupid Whores), and as I was so insanely selfish as to enjoy spending time with Mr Maladicta and to want to carry on spending time with him, I was killing their buzz, or something, and they would regularly sit me down and tell me to dump him for some imagined slight "He took ten seconds too long to answer your text today, you should finish with him!", "He doesn't like us, you should dump him..." and if they had planned a "house dinner" or other house event (anything from another club night to poker), without giving me a lot of notice and then getting stroppy when I already had plans:

Witch #2: MALADICTA! What are you doing Sunday?
Me: Well... it's Mr Maladicta's nan's birthday, so we're going over to Whitstable to see her.
Witch 3#: Oh COME ON! We're all going, don't be so boring!
Me: This has been planned for ages, I've already said I'm going, I've promised him I'll be there, so I'm not backing out. Sorry.

After a few times like this, they took to having a dig every time they organised something "and of course you're invited Maladicta, if you have space in your diary, that is." Of course, I inevitably wouldn't, and spent less and less time there over the course of the months that followed just to get away from the grief I would get for having friends outside the house. I do think if they hadn't forced it so much and let me come and go as I pleased, they would have been OK to live with.

This meant, though, that they concentrated all their grief into the brief time windows when I was home. I'd come home from Mr Maladicta's, lock my door behind me, and would only have to so much as turn on my (quiet) laptop and cough and the first thing I'd find when I logged into Facebook was a message from Witch #3 saying this and never anything more:

"Are you actually home? ;)"

Perhaps I'm just a total misanthrope, but this used to rub me up the wrong way something terrible: she wanted to know if I was around, but wasn't arsed enough to leave her PC and knock, and find out instantaneously if I was home. As it was, with my earphones in, travel kettle boiling for tea, and studying in my own silence, I managed to block it all out and that just about kept me sane. Mr Maladicta didn't believe me at first, till he realised it was very much an ongoing problem and that they really were doing my head in. This meant he spent even less time than before at my place (he also didn't like my bed, which was too short and too narrow for him, plus sponge mattresses are never nice) and wound them up even more "Why does [Mr Maladicta] never come and visit you here? Why do you always go to his?" I literally used to have to sneak ninja-like (silently, making sure no one was about at all) out of the house if I was going anywhere with friends... and even then if someone had seen me go I'd get a text (usually from Witch #3, who was probably the chief pain in the arse) saying "You rushed off today. Where were you going? When will you be back?". Gah.

EDIT: The other thing they did that convinced me they were insane was try to persuade me to finish with Mr Maladicta and go out with Creepy Dave instead, saying he was "better for you".

It got to the stage that, if they did have plans to do something and I'd feigned ignorance, I would switch off my phone, hide offline on MSN and take the laptop under the duvet just to get some peace and quiet to actually study as everything I said or did in their eyes was wrong and not how I should be acting in my final year at all (excuse me for wanting to do well and have a healthy relationship, which tends to mean spending time with the one you love). They all finished their finals before me, and spent the weeks that followed while I was trying to cram the names of Italian Camorra bosses into my head, running back and forth under my window and screeching that they were going to "get" each other with water pistols and winding me up even more.

At first, I didn't think I knew enough about them to dislike them, but the constant nagging me to finish with someone I was happy with for their own selfish ideal really makes me angry. I defriended them all on Facebook about a month ago - not long after the split - because I knew they'd be the first to comment on it and I was right; SNB jumped all over it the minute she realised. Apparently unfriending them wasn't enough, though, since Witch #3 sent me a message a couple of days ago asking "how I was ;)". Needless to say, all five of them are blocked now.
( Maladicta, Sun 17 May 2009, 16:57, 10 replies)

Read my repost, you specky git ot I'll put you in a headlock untill you say that you are gay for pay
Picking on overweight children.
As one of the only people at my last workplace who came in by car I used to do the works chip run. I always was happy to volunteer for this task as I got 'paid' in a free can of coke, at least thats what I let my coworkers assume why I did this.

The real reason for my eagerness to get chips for everyone was that there was a school nearby to work. To get from work/school to get to the chippy you had to go along a long straight stretch of road that was about a mile long. At lunchtimes there would be a long line of children, often in heavy backpacks dashing along this road trying to find the time to buy chips and get back before their lunch was over.

Leading the charge was always a group of overweight kids sweating in the summer sun waddling with all their might to get to the chippy. The highlight of my day was to turn my radio up all the way and wind wind my windows down. Casually waving at these child obesity statistics as I cruised on by.

That wasn't the best part though, I would time my speed along the road so I could pull up and get in the chip shop just before the first children arrived. Then as the first kids would burst through the door I would nonchalantly present my order for everyone at work, tying up the staff and keeping the kids impatiently waiting for up to 15 mins.

This would happen every day for weeks, until the start of the school summer holidays.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Sat 16 May 2009, 16:44, 1 reply)

Here's a story I've been avoiding telling for years
The year was probably 1976 or so, I must have been in the third or fourth year of secondary school. It was a 'nice' school - mixed Grammar in leafy suburban north London only three classes per year. No real trouble except for the odd last-day-of-term rumble with the kids from the Secondary Modern down the road.

At 13 or 14 I was a skinny little under-sized jewish kid and a wimp. I didn't like football, being more into music. One rainy lunchtime, when we were confined to class as it was too wet to go out, some of the rowdy boys in the class decided to assert their obvious superiority over us lesser mortals. They were Arsenal fans and every other Saturday they'd take part in the minor football hooliganism that became famous the world over in those days. There were three of them, Paul, John and Carl - Carl Bauer (big-bollocked Bauer as he was known). Carl's parents were German.

Enough back story, this trio decided to 'take the North Bank' or some such and they rushed down the aisles between the desks, pushing all before them. I was unlucky enough to be standing in the way of BB Bauer who raised his knee and caught me right in the knackers before stepping over my prone body and 'taking' the back of the classroom.

Was this bullying? Not really, just high spirits. The fact that their war-chant was 'Yiddo! Yiddo!' didn't endear them to me, but I knew that it was a blanket term of abuse used by Arsenal fans to taunt Tottenham Hotspur fans - with their large jewish following.

It was the combination of the war-cry, the fact that he was German and the additional fact that he'd kneed me in the balls that really got me mad. Mad enough to do a spot of bullying myself.

It took a while, my hatred festered, but then, one day, I dawdled at the end of the day and waited until the room was empty, then I took a thick, black, indelible marker and wrote all over the inside of his desk lid: 'Bauer is a Nazi' 'Big Bollocked Bauer is a cunt' 'Nazi Bauer' and swastikas a-plenty. Feeling nervous, but totally self-justified, I sneaked out and went home.

The next day, I watched from my desk as he lifted his desk and hid a smile as I saw his face freeze. What I wasn't prepared for was the tears. He didn't know who had done it, or why. He went straight to the teacher who was rightly shocked. I stayed quiet when she asked if anyone knew who had done this despicable thing. I never owned up...until now.

I always felt a bit bad about that, justified, but bad. Maybe I was over-the-top with my revenge, maybe I was a coward. Who knows? I suspect he's forgotten all about the incident, whereas I've never forgotten.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Fri 15 May 2009, 15:13, 4 replies)

I'm opening myself up for abuse here, but this is my being bullied story.
North Halifax Grammar School is a good school in a not so good area, the nearest school is The Ridings at the time the Worst School in England in all the papers etc.
My mother was a departmental head there.

A nasty kid from the Ridings (never knew his name) who knew who I was used to get off the bus on the way home where we both had to switch to a different service.
Every day he would push me into the wall, push me over, throw stones at me, whatever he decided. We were only about 12 so we couldn't really do each other any harm.

Being the good little spod I am, I told my Mum about it.
She told me to ignore him and that she would try and find out who it was and get him to stop.

It carried on for a week or so; the same routine.
Until another boy joined us on the bus, an older boy and not a very clever one by the look of his sloping head.
I was shitting myself, he was wearing a Ridings sixth form uniform and was probably the little thing's brother.

Quaking, I got off the bus with the two of them, whereupon the large Ridings lad says

'Are you Mr's W******'s lad?'

'y-y-yes' I reply

'Is Mark giving you trouble?' he asks

'y-y-yes' I reply

Mark was then picked up and presented to me as a prize.
I asked Mark politely to stop picking on me and he said sorry.
The sixthformer then walked me home and said to say hello to my Mum from Jamie (or whatever his name was, I forget)

Turns out my mum had asked her sixthform Literature group if anyone knew who was doing it and to tell her. One particularly impassioned but dim student had taken it a step further.

This will do little to dispel my image of having an Enid Blyton-esque moralistic adventure of a childhood.
( WormuIus, Fri 15 May 2009, 14:29, 15 replies)

I was bullied until...

( WormuIus, Fri 15 May 2009, 11:15, 11 replies)

When I was a young pup I worked as a janitor
not having a pedigree, this was pretty much the only job I could get. I worked hard though and enjoyed the solitude of the job.

Each night when I left work though, a gang of local kids would harass me. I quickly came to dread hearing their voices as I walked down the street.

"Here comes mild-mannered Penry with his gay mop !" they'd shout and within minutes I'd be bundled over, kicked and punched to a chorus of laughs.

I got sick of this quickly and decided not to leave work at all. I set up home in a filing cabinet at the office and began learning martial arts from a book I bought off a Pug I met in a bar. The filing cabinet was surprisingly roomy and once I'd perfected my martial arts skills I began work on a car. The car was just an old Honda Accord to start with, but when I'd finished, it was so cool it could change shape into any vehicle I wanted.

Soon I was ready to face my bullies. I wont go into details, but I KICKED THEIR FUCKING ASSES LOL! I fought them all at once, and didnt even use my best moves and I STILL KICKED ALL OF THEIR FUCKING ASSES AND ALL OF THEM CRIED LOL !

I now fight crime, and have frequent, hot sex with Rosemary, the telephone operator. All the guys who bullied me are now on benefits and in wheelchairs and get touched up by their gay social worker. HAH !
( Goatworrier had your mum and she was shit, Fri 15 May 2009, 10:45, 1 reply)

My dad always told me to hit bullies harder than they hit you
... so when I was in Year 5, when the nasty girl in our class started shoving me out of the way in the cloak room, I punched her so hard in the mouth that her teeth bled and nearly fell out.

I might sound like the mean one here, but she really deserved it.

She cried and the headmaster came in, but being a very traditional schoolmaster-ish kind of guy, he listened to both our stories and ruled in my favour. Not only was she on liquids for a week, but she also got detention.

Recently I heard that she's now a member of the labour party.
(I'm not here was here on, Fri 15 May 2009, 8:45, 6 replies)

This Is Depressing.
Nothing funny I can say, to be honest.

At primary school, I was bullied as a small child because of my 'disability'. I have Reynauds Disease which is nothing serious, but I had to go to and from school in a wheelchair every day when I moved to a new school. So because of this I was isolated. A lot of staff were ignorant of my condition, and therefore were suspicious about it's actual existance.

When I no longer relied on a wheelchair and no longer had to stay indoors at break and lunch times, children accused me of being a liar and used it as an excuse to bully me more. One girl even said that she hoped the plane would crash on my trip to Florida and I would land in the ocean and drown, because I wasn't allowed to learn to swim like everyone else due to my condition.

I had one boy constantly kick my legs whenever I was near him, and this caused a few other boys to copy, meaning I went home every day with bruised legs. Another boy pinned me up against the wall and threatened me regularly, and on the last day at that school he grabbed my ponytail and pulled me backwards off of a bench, pulling me down to the concrete.

I constantly had things thrown at me, suffered verbal abuse which was embarrassing and demeaning. No teacher took notice or did anything about it, and I was too scared to say anything. I didn't have a single friend at primary school. I was about 10 when I started experiencing signs of depression, and didn't want to live.


In secondary school things escalated, because a lot of students from my primary school went to the same secondary school. Each year things became worse. It went from people in my year bullying me, to people in all years bullying me, and I didn't know like 70% of these people.

People constantly called me names, said horribly rude things to me, threw things at me, followed me around laughing, etc. I had people spread strange, completely unfounded rumours about me - such as when one girl in my first year of secondary school went around telling everyone that I was racist and my deepest wish was to "kill all black people." Obviously this didn't exactly boost my popularity.

Frequently girls would tell their friends that I said horrible things about them or did something behind their back, and it would cause them to stomp over to me screaming - I was often pinned into corners of corridors before class by girls screaming abuse in my face and hitting me, demanding to know why I had done what I did - which was absolutely nothing.

In one maths class I had a girl smack me in the face with a shoe, then repeatedly hit me in the face with a ruler and laugh - this was a small classroom with not many students in, and the teacher could see everything. Did he do anything? Not a thing, didn't even tell her to sit down or be quiet. When I reported it to my Head of Year, nothing was done. How could a teacher possibly do anything wrong?

I always refused to do P.E. because it made me extremely uncomfortable. Even though I didn't take part, the teacher still forced me to wait in the changing room whilst people got changed. They, of course, screamed at me, accusing me of staring at them getting changed, demanded to know why I was in there as I always sat there staring at the ground, praying to get out. They had the nerve to report me to the teacher, who then acted as though she didn't force me to wait in there. (I never went in the changing room again after that.)

I was stalked from class to class by large groups of students, surrounding me with abuse. Break and lunch times were the worst because I had nowhere to go. I just had to walk around a lot and hope that no-one saw me, I'd be very lucky if no group of people
followed me around asking crude, embarrassing questions.
The bus trips to and from school were also terrible, especially on the way home. One boy used to sit behind me and wrap his bag strap around my neck, trying to strangle me. He also asked horrible questions, sprayed deodorant directly onto my neck. Another boy put vaseline in my hair and I had to run home to wash it. My wost incident was having a boy from my year sexually harrass me on the bus, I won't go into details.

It would take me all evening to go into more details of everything that happened. Just know that I got crap from people every day of my life for over ten years and nothing was ever done about it. I had no support, not from my family, not from any members of staff.

Not to mention a great deal of it was homophobic bollocks.


I suffered greatly with depression and suicidal thoughts, and when I left school I had terrible anxiety. It has been 4 years since I left school and I still suffer with a social anxiety disorder, but I have been working to make it better, though my anxiety is so severe that I am unable to work (I turn 21 soon.) I have a few friends, can leave the house with much less fear and I am in a great stable relationship of three and a half years to my amazing fiance.

My depression is nowhere near as bad, I have a lot of happy days that feel regular and wonderful. I can sleep at night, I no longer cry every day, nor am I terrified of sleeping because of not wanting to wake up again in the morning.




o_o Yeah. Basically, if you read this and you were the 'bully' type at school, it'd please me to know that you felt just a little bit sad and understood what your actions could have done to someone.

Silly little sob story, but that was school not so long ago.
(Nathan Dorian, Thu 14 May 2009, 18:00, 2 replies)

Thank you for your sound suggestions.
Although I was bullied continuously at school during my younger years, it wasn't the physical damage which destroyed my childhood desires, but the repurcussions such actions have on your family.

~~ Wavy lines ~~

You see, parents tend to react in two clear ways to any threat to their young. The instrumental mother's role is that of going over the persecutor's head to their parents to sort this out diplomatically, overlooking two important facts:

- Bullies aren't born. They're spawned. I've seen The Omen and know for a fact that putrid bags of hate such as those have been summoned from the very depths of Hell itself, intent on destroying their own families as part of the development process. Asking their Mum to stop their child from being a devious shit is like asking the lass on the checkouts at Tesco to stop making their own brand Chicken Balti quite so spicy.

- Shit rolls downhill. If you grass it up to their seniors, expect doubly violent repurcussions on your end for being a spineless little pansy.

So, this led to me seaking advice from my father, a wise man of sound being. Okay, so I lie. My father hit me more often than the bullies, and at least the bullies didn't use belts. This upbringing obviously prompted his wise suggestion:

'Hit 'em in the balls, Foxy! I didn't raise you to be a faggot!'

Father dearest, if I wasn't built like a dandelion and didn't have the physical grace of a Parkinsons patient, do you not think I would have tried this already? Bullies, in accordance with their spawning manual, are fed on a diet of brick dust and the tears of children. Having a child who can recite Monty Python and the Holy Grail word for word lunge at a 12 year old built like a concrete shithouse couldn't be any more ineffective if I breathed heavily on him in hope of wounding the fucker beforehand.

In the end, I accepted that life is an unfair experience which can't be resolved by having others fight your own battles. Although there is a lot of pain and suffering along the way, all persecutions breed strength, and without that I wouldn't be where I am today, in charge of my life and with a fantastic woman by my side. I may not have enjoyed the experience, but being bullied made me a stronger man than I would have ever been without.

Okay, you got me. I Photoshopped the guy's face onto some gay porn and hid copies of it in his belongings.

Every day.

For 2 years.

Occasionally I threw in death threats.

I'm a better person now.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 14 May 2009, 16:08, Reply)

A new boy started at my younger brother's school. The boy was called Sam Wong and didn't speak much English.
Sam Wong was in the dinner queue with my brother and some other students.

'What should I ask for?'
Said Sam Wong in his halting English

'Chips and bastard'
came the reply.

They also used to say 'what's wong?', 'why the wong face?' and other hilarious things to him.
( WormuIus, Thu 14 May 2009, 8:29, 4 replies)

Slut!
I had a boyfriend who I loved dearly, when I was 13 . He was a really nice guy, as well as being very cute and popular. Well, one day his parents weren't home. He asked me to suck on his dick 'just for a few seconds'... if I really 'loved him'. The experiment lasted about twenty seconds. I got bored and he didn't ask me to finish. The next day at school was brutal. He had told his friends that I'd 'sucked him off' and by the afternoon everyone had heard it. From that day on he and I never spoke to each other and I was called a slut for the rest of the school year. I should have told everyone that his dick was about the size of my thumb, two inches long and he had not grown pubic hair yet....but I didn't. I wanted to hurt him in retaliation, tell him that his creepy father had tried to molest me on several occasions.... but I didn't. I could have ruined his father, who was a widely known and successful real estate agent....but I was afraid.
Those wounds festered for years but later when I was an adult, I'd occasionally run into someone from my grade 8 class. They seemed very happy to see me and stammered through their quick apologies, chalking it all up to their immaturity. I accepted all their apologies yet I sniggered inside at their discomfort.
I was in a fish & chip shop one day and who comes to my table to take my order? The worst girl in my class of all! Our uncomfortable recollection of each other turned into a great conversation. She asked if she could sit down with me to take her break. At this point I was at ease and so was she. We shared stories, laughed and vehemently cursed that guy's father. Then a funny thing happened. She leaned in close to me, looked deep into my eyes and told me she was so sorry for the hurt she caused me. Her apology felt genuine. I didn't snigger when she shared this: she became pregnant at 15 and never finished high school. When her break was over I left a generous tip. We smiled and waved at each other as I left. I think that was a good day for both of us.

(Apologies for lack of length, girth and pubic hair.)
(OGH, Wed 13 May 2009, 23:33, 2 replies)

cunty-balls
first post and all that jazz

was bullied for years by this little shit from school. he was ginger for fuck sake. i got bullied by a ginger kid. :(

anywhos, id come back to england (living abroad now) to meet some mates, one of them happening to be your run of the mill metal head mentalist, who will out drink you, and then give you a dead arm for shits and giggles. best friend you could wish for. he's also fucking hard. with a mullet to boot. if my wife wasnt so awesome, i'd marry him, i know the dress i'd wear and all.

so yeah, i'm in the pub and the ginger turd comes over and starts off from where he'd left, calling me a batty boy and threatening to punch me.

my mate talking to my wife, spots this, and hearing stories of the me being bullied by a ginger from previous nights in the pub, puts two and two together, and figures this is the guy.

he walks over, grabs the ginger turd by his balls, drags him over to his table and, with a vice like grip (from all those years of wanking and playing his guitar) forces the ginger turd to explain how he likes watching other men piss in the toilets. ginger turds friends cant decide if they should step up and rescue their friend, or carry on wetting themselves with laughter.

they opted for the latter, and we all watched as the guy who bullied me for years stood in a pub telling everybody (in an increasingly high pitch voice) that he likes watching men pee.

apologies for spelling, but as you may guess, i was educated in an english school.
(mynameisnotdeacon, Wed 13 May 2009, 22:17, Reply)

Bullied by GF
A long time ago...

Wavy lines......

One of my first girlfriends was a bit...well, controlling.

When we used to go out, if I even so much as saw a (male of female) friend on a bus driving past me, then I would get a kicking - verbally AND physically.

This went on for years - I enjoyed the odd cigarette (this turned into a 20 a day habit, so maybe she was right - stopped AGAIN yesterday) - if she so much as smelled smoke on me, then yep, more mental abuse.

She put me in impossible situations where the only outcome could be a mental and/or pysical kicking no matter which path I chose.

One day, I had to pick her up from Uni. It's a long drive and on the way I saw a friend of mine walking along the path - I stopped and asked if he'd like to come along for the ride as it was a boring journey and it'd be good to have some company.

Well, the journey up there was fine. We drove up, picked her up, and drove back.

Only the drive back was in silence - with a scowling girl in the front seat making my friend very uncomfortable and me very scared.

Aparrently, picking up a friend for the journey was the wrong thing to do. I dropped my friend off at home.

The moment he was out of the car than she started on about "Why did you bring HIM with you" and "Don't EVER do that again" etc...

I jumped out of the car and slammed the door shut. We weren't that far away from my friends house and he heard me slam the door and had (wrongly) guessed that my head was between it and the body of the car and came rushing out.

We looked each other in the eye. He'd known this girl for as long as I had - and hated her. So did I. It was time to break up with her.

I ran round to her side of the car and opened up the door. I dragged her out by her hair and threw her on the ground. Rage had taken over me.

I kicked her in the throat and she let out a little gargled scream. By this time - and I admit to being in such a rage that I hadn't even notice him running towards me - my friend was on the other side of her, smashing his foot into the back of her knee in an attempt to break it...and break it he did.

In total I broke 3 of her ribs and 3 fingers on one hand, 1 on the other, severe bruising to the windpipe. He'd broken her knee and dislodged a vertibrae.

I'm not sure who the bullies were - her, or me and him.
(dchurch bah, Wed 13 May 2009, 17:11, 11 replies)

Ah, P.E.
There's nothing quite like it for separating the strong from the weak, and even sorting them into a pecking order. The particular bête noir in this case was the Cross Country Run - out of the school gates, along the gully to the park, along the canal, down the hill, through the wood, across the playing field and back to the sports hall. Two and a half miles, come rain, snow, sleet or hail.

Like most people with an ounce of sense I figured this for more of a "taking part" than a "try your utmost" type lesson, and so used to regularly come in the last 5 out of 30 in about 26-28 minutes. The other five were a couple of other smart-and-uninterested types, and three fat kids. In retrospect an attitude of "we're too good for this" probablty didn't endear us to anyone.

Now I didn't have slope-browed, knuckle dragging bullies. I got a set of smart, easily bored sociopaths who identified early on that it's more fun and less danger to bully other kids than set fire to pets. So one fine frosty morning, as we're all milling aimlessly prior to the start, 5 kids approach me and the other strollers.

"We've got a new game, lads!" they announce gleefully. I get that sinking feeling. "It's really simple. Whoever out of us you don't beat, gives you a beating. If you don't beat any of us, we'll all give you a pasting. If you beat all of us, you get off scott-free!" Chortling to themselves and smacking fists into palms, they stroll over to the start line.

Now, to be honest, while they carried themselves with confidence they probably weren't that good. But I didn't know that, and we were so consistently bad they must have figured it was a done deal.

"Go!" yelled the PE teacher, heading indoors for a cup of tea. I suspect that nowadays you couldn't get away with letting 30 young boys run off into the local woods unsupervised, but those were simpler times when a paedophile was just encouragement to run faster.

I was first to the gully. Third as we reached the canal - so far, so good; the two who'd passed me weren't "game" players. I settled into an easy rhythm along the towpath, surprised to discover that I'm not actually that bad at running. A glance behind me as we came to the end of the canal stretch revealed one of THEM closing on me. Nooo!

I stepped up the pace. So did he. For the next 3/4 of a mile he was right on my shoulder but I refused to let him pass, my vision narrowing to a tunnel. Finally he gasped, "Christ! You're giving it a proper go. I'm out - I won't beat you up." I glanced back and he nodded at me with something like respect as he passed.

I was flagging now and more runners came up behind me as we wound through the woods, but none were my nemeses so past me they went. Just the playing field to go, there's Sir in the distance sitting in his deckchair checking times.

I crossed the finish line in 6th with a time of 18 minutes 50 seconds. My fellow victims, it turned out, were either insufficiently motivated or genuinely crap at running, as they got the shit kicked out of them.

Of course, by the next week it was back to beatings for looking at them funny, but just for a little while life was good.
( The Light in Chains don't touch the Pope's boner, Wed 13 May 2009, 16:04, 1 reply)

I've just spent 10 minutes flicking through the tales on here.
I wasn't hard, but I reckon I'd have flush ALL of your heads down the toilet.
Then laughed.
And got a better job than you.
And then run you over.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Wed 13 May 2009, 15:31, 3 replies)

Right you lot!
I’ve already noticed a trend here.

We seem – to a man (woman/cat etc) to have all been victims of bullying (including me).

So, I’m seeing a gap in the market here. I’m going to go from nice-bloke to the Gripper Stebson* of B3TA.

Based on that, I’ll be requiring all of your lunch money, any jewellery you might have, and if you are not a white Anglo-Saxon please identify yourself so I can add some sort of racist ‘edge’ to the aggravation you’ll be on the receiving end of.

I accept PayPal and I’m thinking about setting up a Just Giving page as well – alternatively, click ‘I like this!’ and I’ll leave you be for a couple of days.

All monies will, eventually get returned when one of you – possibly going by the name of Pogo Patterson – recruits enough of you to stop me.

Just to complete the ensemble, I could do with a couple of henchmen, it would help if you found everything I said ‘funny’ always agreed with me and, if you are a little bit over-weight and a bit tasty with your fists, that’ll also stand you in good stead.

Just to make it fair, I’ll only take your money during term time.

All clear?

Mullered.
*For those of you too young – or too far away from BBC1 in the 1970’s/80’s google him – he put the fear of god into every kid who was about to go to secondary school for the first time.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Wed 13 May 2009, 15:06, 7 replies)

Mmmm
Don't really have funnies for this one. Had a really bad time as a kid.

I went to a bad school. Not the roughest going, by any stretch, but just lawless (one guy got whipped over a table with a bike chain in the lunch hall - no one ever prosecuted) and full of very bored kids. It was the local comp in a little, very dull, town and wasn't very good academically, or for hobbies, sport etc., so struggled to keep anyone's interest. As a result we had little to do except fight and make trouble.

Several of my friends got expelled for ridiculously stupid stuff. One actually lit up a spliff on the schoolbus and refused to put it out. Another punched through a classroom window, necessitating a few weeks off while his hand healed. He came back, and punched out the same window on the first day back - expelled. Sixth Form was a lot better but High School generally was crap.

The bar was set so low that I used to get stick for being spoddy, even though I really wasn't and actually used to get terrible school reports and barely try. I think it was just because I read books and liked indie rather than dance and stuff. This also made me gay, obviously (because mid-nineties dance was so, so macho...)

Anyway, come puberty and suddenly we're all big lads and fights aren't so scrappy and negligible any more. People actually get hurt. I tried to keep out of any physical violence partly just for my own self-preservation as a result, but there was this one group of lads who just wouldn't get off my back. The fact I was ignoring it just made it worst. The only thing that actually made it better was reacting - if I fought I generally came off pretty well, and it made them think twice about provoking me again (for at least a week or two, anyway).

So a cycle develops of the odd thing kicking off here and there interspersed with periods where I just got on with stuff and tried to ignore the provocations. Sometimes I got suspended, sometimes them, sometimes all of us, and a few people ended up in hospital along the way. It was just grim - I hated school, hated them, hated the whole thing.

What happened in the end? Nothing much... It just carried on till most of them left at 16 and I actually settled down at that point and did some work in Sixth Form, got decent results, went to Uni, etc.

And them? One died in a car crash at nineteen, one's a junkie last I heard, one got involved with some very dodgy people in Birmingham through drugs and is probably dead, a junkie, or in prison, and one did pretty well for himself, and I even ended up having a chat and a pint with him when I bumped into him a few year's back (he said sorry, I said no problem).

Did I win then? Not really. For ages I struggled with thinking that it kind of shaped me without me wanting it to - being bullied pretty much defined my teenage years. It shaped my personality. The good bits are being quite independent and not really giving a shit about taking stick if I know it's just stick, but on the other hand it probably made me a bit fiery and aggressive at times too, because I'm quick to fight fire with fire if someone gets aggressive with me.

I spent a long time wondering what I'd have turned out like if those years had been different. Would I be a different person? A better person? Worse?

In the end though, I just came to terms a few years after with the fact that I am who I am through whatever happened and you can't get bitter about it. There's always going to be people inclined to get their jollies from belittling and tormenting others, and the best way to win is to get on with your own thing. Having that pint with the guy and just accepting the apology without any fuss was probably the best thing for my own self-worth I've ever done.

And after that I just laid it to rest and I pretty much never think about it anymore, until something like this question comes up. Much better that way than spending the rest of my life with the mindset of a victim because of some arseholes I had the misfortune to go school with, I reckon.

I told you there were no funnies... will have to think of some for another post.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Wed 13 May 2009, 13:22, 2 replies)

some lad used to chase me home from school with a stick
not sure why.

but it was a really big stick so i didnt ask...
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Wed 13 May 2009, 12:38, 1 reply)

I can relate to this
www.b3ta.com/questions/bullies/post424211
being half German.
I was born in Germany but I only spent the first 5 years of my life there. My parents moved to the UK and I've spent the rest of my life here.
Yes I have a German surname but as I have an English forename and no accent you'd be hard pressed to tell my bloodline.

In school the surname was enough though and so I went various name calling and thigh slapping episodes which so many people have said are character building.

However, what really pisses me off is that these things still go on.

Some people I meet feel it's amusing and OK to take the piss with a comedy German accent, rename me "Fritz" and one or two have really gone the whole nine yards and suggested I may like to gas a Jew or two.

But please, if you are going to be xenophobic at least be consistant. That way I can deal with you as an ignorant racist cunt that you are. Don't expect me to respond to Fritz and when you finally do use my given name, and don't expect me to be civil.

Rant over, apologies for the complete and utter lack of funny and possibly tenuous QOTW linkage.
(zebby wasting irony here on, Wed 20 May 2009, 13:45, 16 replies)

How To Deal With Bullies...
Back in the mists of time when I first started school my dad gave me some sound advice about bullies. He Said to me:

'When you go to school there will be a boy there who wants to hit you, now that is a school bully. Now all school bullies are cowards. Now, he will only hit you if he thinks you are afraid of him, so if you hit him first he will run away'.

I was expelled 2 weeks later for being the school bully.

*Gives thanks to Dave Allen*
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Wed 20 May 2009, 12:21, Reply)

How to manage a bully in the lavatory
A smallish kid Matt who was in 7th grade with me was always bullied by a larger kid - he showed us all what to do. The bigger kid, Raul i think he was called, seemed to know no bounds and went on with his harassment at all times. He was a monstrous kid who stood maybe 6 or more feet tall, with a sort of baby mustachio coming in - at grade 7 - he was more of a freak than anyone else there.

Anyways one day Matt is taking a piss at the urinals when Raul comes in and starts giving him comments about penis size (its a 'small world' etc etc). Seems Matt had had enough that day as he turned, mid-stream and proceeded to piss all over the front of Raul's shirt and pants.

The big dog bully turned into the most prissy little girl ever and went screaming into the hall 'Ahhhhhh! He wet me! He wet me!!!!! Ahhhh' Being the middle of a class change, everyone got the chance to laugh and point. Matt came out smugly and zipped up in front of everyone. Raul cried in the office until his Mommy brought him clean pants.

Matt got an hour detention and the rest of us were left to wonder why we hadn't thought of this before. Raul the bully became a pussy cat and never bothered anyone again.
( teknikl, Sun 17 May 2009, 14:21, Reply)

I was in the student union tonight (surprise surprise)
While the bar was being staffed by two female friends of mine.

Enter the daddy-long-legs.

Cue them running out from behind the bar and refusing to go back until I caught it and threw it out of the window.

This happened about once an hour for the five hours I was there. I finally left about 10 minutes before closing time.




Just after closing time, when I knew the more excitable of the two would be waiting, alone in the dark, for her taxi home, I sent her a text reading:

"There have been reported sightings of vampire moths in the area. Whatever you do, DON'T LOOK LIKE A TREE".




She will try to kill me tomorrow, but I think that's a small price to pay.
( MatJ LOOK, Sun 17 May 2009, 3:02, 3 replies)

One of the themes I've noticed in this QOTW
is teachers either being completely oblivious to bullies, or claiming it was the bullied kid's fault that they were being bullied (because obviously it's our fault, isn't it?). Worse still is teachers wanting it to look like they're making an effort to stop someone being bullied and not realising they're making it ten times worse.

At my secondary school (I got no shit at my first primary school and far too much at my second, where most of the little shits followed into the upper school), they were very proud of their Zero Tolerance Towards Bullying policy. Interestingly, this seemed to consist of looking for bullying in the wrong places, not to mention dealing with it - whether real or perceived - in the most spackhanded way imaginable.

My Year 6 form tutor - we moved up to the upper school a year early, such was the idiocy of the school - saw that I occasionally got grief from some of the boys in our year (as this was pre-Luke, the bullying never really extended beyond "you're fat" and the odd spang with your own pencil case - unpleasant, but dealable with), and decided from this that I was being bullied every minute of every day. I don't know what it is about PE teachers, but they seem to be inherently stupid, and she was no exception. Her method of stopping it was to try and make me popular, including taking our PE classes "Who should be captain today? Let's see... Maladicta!" every week for weeks (and I hated netball, which was why I got grief in the first place, since I couldn't be arsed and would habitually drop the ball and violate the stupid footwork rule in the hopes of being allowed to sit out), and this just caused more annoyance for all involved. She would always ask me after the class, too "did you enjoy that?" before shepherding us all into the showers to dodge the spiders and each other's nakedness, and the answer was always no. It was about as subtle as a 16-ton weight and it just made it worse. The other girls had this annoying habit of wanting to do my hair (until I scratched my head one day and from then on I had nits, dandruff and greasy hair and no one wanted to touch it, something that lasted until sixth form when someone straightened it and then it was okay), which inevitably ended up with me having the same Croydon facelift as them (with the two little strands to frame your face, which is fucking tickly and annoying) and several kinds of lipbalm, one after the other. PE teacher sees this one day and squeals with delight "Oh, well done, girls! You've made Maladicta happy!"

Wait, what?

The 'kindness' would never last, as even though they'd tried to recreate me in their chavvy image, they'd still wind me up and tease me about the smallest thing.

Year 7 made it even worse: our form teacher this time around was a psychotic old bag who'd taught since Jesus was a lad and simultaneously took me under her wing and hated me at the same time. She was the one who sat my mum down one evening after school and told her that all the shit I was getting on a daily basis (Luke had joined this year and I was already sick of him) was entirely my own fault since I was "isolated" and wasn't like the other girls. She would send me out of the classroom so she could berate the rest of them for their behaviour, then get me back in and make them chorus "sorry Maladicta" before it would all kick off again. Lather, rinse, repeat. I did try to fit in with the other girls and did sort of succeed in one way, since for a brief period of time, in a very can't-be-arsed way, I had what they wanted. A Boyfriend. Sure, he was a year older than me, smelt of fish and still shared a bed with his mum (who accompanied us on our one and only 'date') but nonetheless, they were entranced (and would often try to make us do more than hold hands for their amusement). Hoping that this would get them to lay off for a while, I mentioned him in front of the psycho old bat, who promptly turned purple and screamed "You are FAR TOO YOUNG to have a BOYFRIEND!" at me, before storming out, presumably to slaughter a passing child for her lunch. This curried me no favour, and even less when Slaggy Jennie (daughter of a semi-famous cricket commentator, gaz me and I'll tell you who) had her annual village-hall-and-disco birthday party and conveniently 'forgot' to invite me. Psycho teacher abuses her position to call Slaggy Jennie's mum and demand she invites me because "Maladicta is a nice little girl". Needless to say, an invitation was grudgingly thrust my way the following morning and I was subjected to an evening on my own because no one wanted to dance with me and Jennie was using the dancefloor to prepare for her probable future career as a stripper.

To my mind at least, the number of bullying stories these days is to do with PC and the way teachers are allowed to talk to kids. Don't beat around the bush, teachers, don't try softly-softly approaches. Fucking threaten the cunts with everything in your power and it just may make more of a difference.
( Maladicta, Sat 16 May 2009, 19:17, 1 reply)

An ugly red-haired twat of a bully once mugged my little brother, who was 9, of his bus money
so Bro had to walk to school, and was late, and got a slapped leg, etc.

Next day I was with Bro and obviously Carrot-Arse rolled up at the bus stop for more easy pickings.

I was only 10 but he wasn't having MY money, or Bro's either if I could help it, terrified though I was.

When he demanded our thruppences, I bravely croaked 'No!'
whereupon the bully kicked at me viciously.

I instinctively grabbed his foot and twisted it, so that he sprawled on the pavement. In my hurry to leg it, I then accidentally stamped hard on his fingers and turned on my heel, which must have at least skinned the bastard's knuckles.

We caught the bus and the day went as planned, and next day we set off fearfully for school, expecting vengeance...

...but none came. We only ever saw that prick afterwards from a distance and he certainly never threatened us again. My awesome ad hoc Kung Fu moves had triumphed!
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Sat 16 May 2009, 18:36, 8 replies)

Pierre, The Japie Bastard
I love South Africans.
I work with nearly 100 of them - of all races and colours - in my team and throughout the company, plus contractors. On the whole, they are top notch people - humourous, generous, hard-working, and just good fun.

And I have only met two that were utter wankers - one was Pierre; the other - the pathological liar who upon being fired for conduct unbecoming - had his desk drawers opened by people wearing rubber gloves and carrying tongs, so they could remove a number of soiled womens panties, opened condoms (they weren't game to check if they had been used), and some DVDs of hardcore anal porn. And as for what he had stored on his PC hard-drive.......!!!

But I digress. This is about Pierre.

Pierre, a former bank manager in SA joined the company as department manager, the fifth one in the space of four years (following on from "Tim The Pants", who requires a QOTW all for himself). He was physically large - 6ft4 and built like the proverbial brick shithouse. He didn't so much speak as snarl - this man could not talk normally.

Although he was my manager's manager I had little to do with him thankfully, and his reaction to a calculated remark I made more or less proved that at some stage he had been a member of the AWB. Which didn't surprise me at all....

Now, some managers incorporate different strategies from existing management experts, eg Covey, Kehoe et al, into their management methods. Pierre's method was more akin to that of Atilla the Hun, being simply "FUCKING DO AS I SAY!!!!!"

The walls in our building were very thin, and you could always tell when some poor sod was getting a roasting from him. Loud verbal abuse of a work nature followed by that of a personal nature was his only management style. And normally it was a woman that would bear the brunt of his bullying. The floor had a female-male ratio of 10 to 1 so in some ways its not surprising, however in all the time he was über-boss I only saw 1 male team leader get a reaming from him. At least 2 or 3 a day would get a bollocking, and one of those would walk out in tears.
So at least 5 women a week would be in a dishevelled emotional state.
A good friend of my Girlfriend At The Time endured this treatment every day for 3 weeks until she quit. She wasn't incompetent either - she did her job well and had done so for the previous 2 years before the arrival of Pierre.
He just took a dislike to her, and made her life hell. This was the pattern he followed with others for the next 3 to 4 years. Although there were a number of unfair dismissal cases, he somehow escaped with the equivalent slap with the wet bus-ticket.

The only person who I saw actually confront him was Matt, a Bradford lad and ex-Para who eyeballed him on more than one occasion and gave it back to him in no uncertain terms. Once or twice it nearly came to blows, and my money was on Matt to wipe the floor with his fat ass.

As a manager, he was crap. Motivation was through fear and intimidation, morale was non-existent, he would change his mind or department policy on a whim and deny he had ever done it. But he maintained a veneer of respectability, and kept budgets down by ensuring a constant churn of staff - usually those with experience and knowledge would be bullied out so the noobs he hired or promoted would be on lower salaries - and anything that he couldn't shoehorn into looking good was either dressed-up or quietly hidden.

When we amalgamated with another company, someone higher up the food-chain heard his loud braying voice and decided he was the man to manage the integration. This, he thought would be his crowning achievement - but it turned out to be the beginning of his downfall.
Lets just say it was a bad choice, and 8 years on we are only now free of the fallout from the physical and psychological damage his 'work' caused. The best part was, the higher-ups saw this, and decided to move the seat of his realm from Auckland to Christchurch.

The NZ South Islanders, or Mainlanders as they call themselves are a hardy bunch who take shit from no-one, least of all a loud bullying foreigner. They were familiar with his past and his methods and after a few meetings, presented him with a welcoming gift - the entire staff had joined the Union!
So with his staff standing up to him, the Union on his back for everything from his bullying to wages and terms & conditions, the higher-ups saw what was happening and began to turn the screws on him themselves. They placed enormous demands on him.....

....until he finally cracked. The story goes that one day he deliberately drove his car into the wall of the carpark and sat there bawling his eyes out with a smashed, steaming radiator and the horn blaring, until ambulance staff took him away.
He officially took two months of sick leave and never returned.

And all was peace in the little valley once more.


Length - four years of threats, abuse, bullying and downright incompetence to totally screw up a department.
(Sebulba continues to fight evil with evil....., Fri 15 May 2009, 19:02, Reply)

Meh
I used to live in a small, and probably rather inbred, village in the Midlands. No one ever moved out of there (to put it in perspective when I was an undergrad I did some research in the local library for my thesis using a set of legal and financial documents from 1570 to 1620 - there were four prominent families named in the village in that period - and in my class in primary school there were four kids with those surnames whose families were proud that they had inhabited the same festering gene slime for generations).

Edwin (as I shall call him), was a prime example of one of these families. Ridiculously parochial pride in being from the village, viewed anyone who wasn't from the village, wasn't white, and wasn't in the 'hard village crowd'(TM) was a target to be taken. Edwin also thought of himself as a hardman, mainly as his father had been in prison, and because he was now going to a local secondary school with a bad reputation in the nearest town. A lot of people just thought he was a cock, but couldn't say it to his face, mainly because he'd push your face through the back of your head for doing so.

*wavy lines*

A few years later I'm 16, Edwin must've been about 19 or 20 at this point. I was with a few friends in one of the local pubs - a real dive with a gravel car park. Edwin was also there. By this time he had graduated to petty crime, vandalism, intimidation, low-grade racial abuse of the only none white family in the whole place, and generalised bullying of anyone whom he considered to be an appropriate target - basically anyone. He wanted to be the village alpha bully and no one was going to stop him. Given that the village had had a policeman until he'd unfortunately died and after that you saw the police about once every two years Edwin got away with it.

Anyway, we're in the pub. Under-age rural drinking. Also in the pub is a quiet, withdraw fellow of about 40. He'd been in the village about a year, worked in a factory in a nearby town and, beyond that, all anyone really knew about him was that his wife had recently had an affair with Edwin's dad and that consequently his marriage had gone belly up.

Edwin, being the sensitive soul that he was, decided that it was time, in a crowded pub, to draw attention to the fact that his dad had screwed this guys wife. Repeatedly. We sat there watching in silence. You could see the poor man grinding his teeth, getting more and more angry, as this young thug mocks and abuses him. Eventually the wastrel throws a pint of beer over the guys face.

Silence falls in the pub... the local farmers wives hold their six fingered hands to their mouths in shock. The guy stands up, and Edwin squares up to him, malevolent excitement pouring of him like cheap aftershave. The guy then walks to the door of the pub and goes outside. Edwin follows, abusing him more, kicking at the back of his legs. We all crowded to the windows to see what happened.

It was probably when Edwin spat on the back of the guys head that he lost it. The guy turned round and punched Edwin, *hard*. Edwin fell over, a look of shock on his face that someone, finally, had hit back. He tried to stagger upright, threatening to beat the living shit out of the guy for standing up to him, don't you know who I am, I'm the village hard man I'll kill you. That sort of thing.

What happened over the next 5 minutes I still remember clearly. Edwin got the shit kicked out of him, at one point scrambling under a car to try to hide from the now incandescent guy who dragged him out by his feet to beat him more. It took three locals to drag the guy off, and the local doctor (who was also in the pub) took Edwin over to the surgery to check him over. As he walked past us he was crying.

It turned out the guy had been in the Army and, supposedly, had fought during the Falklands war. He was arrested but I never found out what happened to him. Edwin was black and blue for quite some time, but his reputation had gone and he seemed to be sliding into alcoholism and depression.

*wavy lines*

Few years later, I'm back from abroad an am drunk in a nightclub in a nearby town. Who should I run into but Edwin. He remembers me and, being drunk, I talk to him. It turns out that after being beaten like that he'd had a bad period and had reassessed his life. He'd done his A-Levels at college, and was now working, and engaged to his girlfriend. He freely admitted that he'd been a total cock when younger and said that his father had pushed him to be a hardman like he himself was.

I haven't seen Edwin for a few years, and I probably won't see him again, but as I understand it from my ex, who's parents still live in the village, he recently surprised everyone by deciding he wants to be a priest.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Fri 15 May 2009, 13:51, 4 replies)

This one time...
...I scored ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY!
( Chum Gnomesky Nom Chompsky, Fri 15 May 2009, 13:39, 2 replies)

Well
I've never been bullied but i have bullied one person and i still do.

it's this little girl i found in an apartment in portugal i forget her name
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Fri 15 May 2009, 12:50, 1 reply)

Facebook
I expect some have already mentioned this, but have you had the bullies and other cocks from your school days add you as a "friend" on facebook? I've had a few do that, each time i ignored.

From this i then get a message asking, not how I am, or even how life is treating me these days, but why i won't become number 7,835 on their "Friends" list.

Simple, you were a cock in school and now nearly 10 years on you still seem a cock so if I wasn't friends with you then what makes you think the magic of facebook will make me think "Hmm, I should be his friend" when your profile shows you laughing to your mates about getting "pissed as fuck on stella and beating up some randomer lolz".

Reading that i think i sound bitter? Not at all, i just think you're still a twunt.
(One_Winged_Angel Ich Dien, Thu 14 May 2009, 23:05, 4 replies)

A friend in need
I know the title is a bit cheesy but it fits the story. Anyway I was that friend in need. Year 5, aged 9 my parents divorced, I didn't take it very well. Due to this I frequently broke down in class, crying over the smallest of things. I also became very quiet and unable to talk in front of groups of people, something I struggle with 10 years later. One case I remember was being asked a simple question, I knew the answer, but couldn't speak. I could only look away, repeating the answer over and over in my head until she moved on.

I was never really bullied, partly, I think, to being so quiet, most people simply ignored me. However I became distant from my group of friends who soon shunned me. I was alone in the playground every break, every lunch.

For the next few months I sat on a bench watching everyone else play. I can't remember how it really happened but a someone who I hardly knew started sitting with me. It wasn't just a case of him also being alone, no, he chose to stop playing with his friends and start talking to me. Over time he introduced me to his friendship group where I became more accepted.

I am still good friends with him, but have never really thanked him for reaching out and helping me, I just dont know how.
(Masterb3ta, Thu 14 May 2009, 20:15, 4 replies)

And another thing
I reckon obesity has been on the increase since bullying was outlawed in schools.
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Thu 14 May 2009, 15:19, 5 replies)

I was bullied by a teacher
he was a cunt.

Later I manned the fuck up.

End
( Peej, Thu 14 May 2009, 15:15, Reply)

Theodicy
If bullying is wrong, why does god allow so many easy targets?
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:12, 1 reply)

From the teacher's perspective
In the school I worked at bullying was fairly common. Kids were encouraged to tell the teachers, but that was about as useful as telling Mr Blobby. Teachers usually responded by (a) pretending they hadn't heard and ducking into the staffroom (b) telling the kids to ignore it or (c) telling them to stand up to the bullies. Yeah right. You're surrounded by some Neanderthal and his hangers-on and you're supposed to do a Steven Seagal on them?

One kid in my form was consistently accused of bullying but he was smart enough to make sure there was no proof. Once I sent him to the Year Head in desperation. On speaking with the Year Head later, she told me that she was worried the kid was going to hit her. The kid was 12 years old and small for his age, and she was a PE teacher. WTF?

Eventually someone in management had the bright idea of getting victims of bullying to go to the gym at lunchtime. This effectively put kids in detention for being bullied, and since the gym had huge glass windows, gave the bullies an excellent way to choose future victims.

I and a few like-minded teachers found a way to reduce the problem. We were on good terms with some of the hard kids in year 11 and the really hard kids didn't bully anyone - they didn't need to as they had nothing to prove. So in return for a few favours (looking the other way when on smoking patrol, for example) we got them on side. Then when we had to deal with a bully we'd tell or threaten to tell one or other of the hard kids about it. Worked every time.
(eesnahk, Thu 14 May 2009, 10:20, 1 reply)

My school had no bullies
I made sure of that by punching and kicking fear into every kid I met, just in case they were a potential bully.

Yeah, it's a repost. FUCK YOU, I'LL FUCK YOU UP!
( chart cat has an itch, Thu 14 May 2009, 10:07, Reply)

:(
About 2 years ago i asked a question in /talk :(
( Shiodome has realised numbers in names aren't cool., Wed 13 May 2009, 18:12, 2 replies)

When I was a teenager growing up in Sweden
I was bullied by a boy who called me a little piggy. My friend told me to hit him really hard, so I hit him with a pole and he had to go to hospital. Then his big brother found out about it and told me I had a choice - I had to hold my breath under water for 3 minutes or lose my eye. He held my head underwater and just when I thought I would pass out, my friend, who turned out to be a vampire, chopped him into bits! Result!
We are now running away, she has to live in a box. It's ok, because we know morse code.
(allthatglittersisglitter, Wed 13 May 2009, 17:21, 8 replies)

I was bullied by my school teacher.
My primary school was a CLASP system-build school, outdated even then in the early eighties. One of the problems with these schools is the walls aren't strong enough to hold the weight of a traditional blackboard (this was the eighties, remember). This particular school solved this problem by mounting the blackboards on huge great fuck-off wooden a-frames which could be wheeled around.

Now, this one teacher took a *real* dislike to me. Right at that pivotal moment in your emotional development when you're working out how to sustain friendships, this teacher decided an example had to be made. I don't know why.

She elected to move this a-frame monstrosity into the corner of the room, leaving a triangular floor space behind it. She then put a single desk there, jammed tight into the right angle corner of the room, so there was just enough space for a single chair between it and the back side of the blackboard.

And I had to sit there. For two years; P4 and P5 I had to sit with my back to the rest of the class. I was not allowed to interact with them, let alone even look at them.

This turned me into the offical class gimp. Object of ridicule and not to be interacted with. I spent my days jumping up and down from my chair to peer round the side of the blackboard to copy down whatever the old hag had written up there. All the time being made fun of by the rest of the class. I spent the breaks completely isolated; left to wander round and round the school building perimeter while others actually got to play with each other. I was the lesson, the cross on the hill; lest "it happen to you."

Why did she do this? I really don't know. I do recall I was bored shitless in her classes and could do the work way faster than anyone else. Perhaps this was her way of keeping me in my place, who knows.

Come the parent-teacher evenings and I was made out to be a right little shit; a disrupting influence on the rest of the class. Depsite this, I was still excelling academically and this kept my parents happy. They didn't care about anything other than academic achievement and I think the teacher played on their weakness.

I do know I can't keep a friend because of this period. I was robbed of the opportunity to learn how to do that. I became a social leper because of it and the reputation hung around until I left home at 16 to move to another city 200 miles away to try to start again. It was then that the cold, hard reality of not having leart how to interact with other people hit home. And it rocked me to my core. I realised just what impact those two years had. And they continue to do so now.

So thank you, Mrs. Forester. I hope you're dead by now. Or if not, growing old and senile. This is my defining memory of my childhood and I hate you for it.
(dxg, Wed 13 May 2009, 17:08, 5 replies)

Pearoast as it's apt for the only person who ever bullied me
The story of broken legs man
Again, not particularly proud of this and wouldn't do it again, but I wouldn't allow myself to be treated like that again, so it's a moot point.

Broken legs man and I first met when I was an impressionable 14 year old at YMCA day camps. He was tall, handsome and a whole year older than me. Very charming and outgoing, he went to the local posh school, whereas mine was a highly sought after comprehensive 2km away. He was going out with the camp bike and I was left to the role of best girl mate.

We met up again each summer, sometimes seeing each other during school time if our paths crossed, him looking very smart and cool while I was reduced to blushing and gibbering like a freak until I was 17, but then his mother died and with all the best intentions we lost touch for a while until I went to uni.

He spotted me in a pub back home where I had a new found confidence in myself, lots of friends, four years training in kickboxing, a decent haircut can do wonders as well as good skin which had been the bane of my life until then.

We hooked up and all was good for a few months until for reasons unknown he decided to systematically destroy my life. Not by major things that would be noticed by others, but little things like saying I looked fat in some clothes I liked - I was a size 12 at this point, but lost two stone at his behest, pointing out my weaknesses like intolerance for stupid people, how I should be nicer to his friends - not sure why as they were never nice to me and how all of my friends were shit and didn't like me.

Over the course of two years he basically broke down all my defences and made me feel like crap. He then slept with one of his hideously ugly friends and gave me an STI - not one of the horrible permanent ones thankfully, but enough to be pissed off about. I had no idea at this point that was how I'd got it as he made me think that I had it and passed it onto him. So we split up for the summer and missed each other inbetween burning doses of pain administered by nurses. He got back in touch with me and I jumped at the chance of getting back together as although I'd had plenty of other offers, I was infatuated with the little fucker.

Turned out he didn't have any treatment for his dose of nasties and within a week I was showing symptoms again and wondered why. One of his (nicer) friends took me aside and told me broken legs man had slept with another of their friends and then bragged about how stupid I was as I didn't realise. He then went on to tell me that my initial suspicions of him taking smack on a regular basis were in fact correct and the way he mashed up his chin a few weeks before was not in a car accident, but his dealer seeking to teach him a lesson for not paying up on time and sleeping with one of his bitches.

Armed with this information, plus some other stuff that I'm not going to discuss here I went to see him and when confronted, he laughed in my face. A swift roundhouse brought him down, a couple of punches broke three ribs and a few well times stamps broke his legs. One below the knee and one above the knee. The rising smell of fecal matter necessitated my exit, but not before hocking up a greenie and depositing it on his face.

Aside from everything else, if you're going to cheat on me, make it with someone better looking, not a chavvy minger with shit for brains as that's just insulting.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Wed 13 May 2009, 15:42, 12 replies)

School Bullying methods
We had the following at Broadwater County Secondary School, the finest state school in Surrey. They were called "tortures":

Tunnel of death: 2 rows of people facing each other with compasses. Victim has to run through the middle whilst being stabbed;

Salt'n'Shake: Victim is tied down, and those little sachets of salt poured into his mouth;

[name of victim] Through the Looking Glass: This was just for summer. Victim is tied down and a ray of sunshine concentrated through a magnifying glass onto his forehead for the duration of the lunch break;

Stabs: The victim is stabbed;

And various ones just for members of the Christian Union:

Jesus and the Jews: Victim is tied to a fence by his tie, his shirt removed, and is whipped with stinging nettles;

Jesus is crucified: Victim is tied to a fence and has nails fired at him from a nail gun.

Happy days! Anyone have any more?
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Wed 13 May 2009, 14:07, 4 replies)

I was 5' 10" and built like a brick shithouse when I was at school.
No fucker messed with me.



Just as well really as the sight of a 5'10" hulk of a girl crying her eyes out would have been soooooo embarrasing.
( girlinthehole, Wed 13 May 2009, 12:47, 2 replies)

Blue Goldfish
"Ere mate"

"Who me?"

"Yeah. You. Wanna see the Blue Goldfish?"

How could I refuse? I was short, pipe-cleaner thin and the school git. He was a brick shit-house, stunk of cigarette smoke and wore his school tie with the smallest knot possible.

"Uh... OK, then."

"It's in here," he said, ushering me into the toilets.

"You sure?"

"Uh-huh. You won't believe your eyes kid. There it is, down the bog."

"Where? I can't see..."

> F L U S H <

Oh, how we laughed.

And now, we roll the clock on some thirty years, and my second-born comes home from school in a state of sodden disarray.

"Dad - what's the Blue Goldfish?"

Glad to see bullies maintaining their high standards in these troubled times.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Wed 13 May 2009, 12:46, 2 replies)

Not Fair
I keep gettin bullied by the same person over and over and it's killing me.

My boss keeps telling me to do work and shouts at me when im trying to get some sleep.

What a prick
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Wed 20 May 2009, 9:45, Reply)

Not me
Some time ago I knew this huge black guy, he was a bit of a hard case and did pick on LOADS of people; I think even his own "friends" were scared of him. He not only threatened violence, he ofetn dished it out too. I guess he had some fucked up childhood or something? Broken home? Anyway, he got his comeuppance when the guys he and his gang bullied blew up his Death Star.
(kitescreech still here, Wed 20 May 2009, 8:21, 3 replies)

If walk in front of my car I am going to miss the brake pedal!
Back in the day when I attended school, I spent the first few years of my high school education at a Catholic School. As I was baptised an Anglican, and had little to no religious input by my parents for the first 11 years of my life why they decided I should attend a Church school, and a fucking mick one at that is beyond me but, it did allow my some experiences to contribute to this QOTW.

At my school, we didn’t really have much concentrated bullying going on amongst the students, sure there was the usual big kid picking on smaller kid bullshit and the standard number of cerebrally challenged Neanderthals but, I can’t really recall anyone being victimized on a regular on going basis.

I reckon that this was for one simple reason, the the biggest bully in the school was a fairly inadequate teacher, Mr. Ritchie. To this day this is my benchmark for a fucktard and no one has yet surpassed him.

Mr. Ritchie was the type of bloke who wanted the cool kids to think he was cool, and one of his favourite tricks was to victimize kids who where different. Today I realize this dope was so very very short on self confidence that he needed to be justified as being ok by kids to generate any type of self esteem. (the dickhead even smoked a brand of durries called Kool). One of his favourite tricks was to creep up behind one of the not so cool kids in class, make sure the rest of the kids where watching him and then give a swinging arm open hand slap on the back of the neck and yell “THAT’S WHY WE CALL YOU A RED NECK”. He got me a few times with this, I hated it. It was not only a bit painful, it was humiliating and as he was a person of authority, as a 12 year old I and the other rednecks did not know how to deal with it, if we reported him we thought the problem would have been made worse. His other favourite trick was the public put down. Our school offered courses in surf survival as a 10 week elective sport. Those who did the elective would need to leave class to attend at the designated time. I remember the first week I was in the course, I got up to leave with the other blokes when he made the comment, why would you do surf survival, we would all prefer it if you didn’t survive. Not a big deal but, to a 12 year old in front of their peers having the teacher wish them dead was soul destroying.

What Ritchie probably didn’t realize was that not one of the students had respect for him. The general consensus was he was a knob, not worth pissing on if he was on fire. I didn’t think that universal disrespect was enough and after some disparaging commentary about my family and I being second class for not being catholic, revenge was plotted. I spent the next few days pissing into a 2 litre bottle which I kept hidden in the dunnies. When I had a good litre and a half, I snuck over to the staff parking area and poured it into his petrol tank. Did you know that cars don’t run well on urine and that if a goodly amount gets to the engine, you need to call a tow truck and have the system flushed which all in all is not a cheap exercise. I also at different times put dog turds in his hub caps, superglued the locks on his doors and stole the bulbs from his rear break lights. Eventually the police where called in to investigate the ongoing vandalism of his car and despite questioning many of the students, no one gave me up. He left the school at the end of my first year and I missed him like a hole in the head.
(bad_advice QOTW survivor from the first trollocost!, Tue 19 May 2009, 7:57, 6 replies)

Cock-a-doodle-doo
There were a prize collection of oxygen thieves at my secondary school, many of whom prided themselves on being either Marxist (and seeing anyone who wasn't as a Fascist and hence abusing them) or part of the rugby team.

Ron (not his real name) was part of the rugby team. I doubt he could spell Marxism. Bull necked, thick limbed, small brained, he was a natural battering ram that came into his own on the rugby pitch. He meted out swift punishment to anyone whom he felt didn't deserve his respect - pretty much anyone who wasn't on the rugby team or who didn't have boobs. He was an arse, picking on kids of all ages and generally being abusive.

It all ended one day though. He didn't appear in school on a Monday or Tuesday one week, but eventually showed up on Wednesday. No one knew why. Then it came out. He had been having a wank over the weekend to some no doubt filthy grot and had become so excited that at the moment of enspurtation he had torn his foreskin. He had apparently fled downstairs, bleeding and spunk covered cock in hand, to his mother, who had driven him to hospital.

How did we find out? He had told one of his 'mates' on the rugby team who had then told everyone. He could never bully again as every time he tried the intended victim would make wanking gestures and he'd shuffle off.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Tue 19 May 2009, 1:02, Reply)

I blame the parents
There was this one kid at our school, Geordie or Mackem or somesuch; MAN was he hard, he regularly used to beat up other kids. But when you met hisparents, it was obvious where he got it from; his parents were always fighting each other and abusing him terribly. Poor old Biffa, wonder where he is now...
(kitescreech still here, Mon 18 May 2009, 19:25, 3 replies)

I was bullied at work for a while, although I didn't grasp it at the time.
I was doing a job that involved house calls. The 'team' included a couple of old hands who ran things their own way, and a high turnover of other staff meant that these two got plenty of overime.

Staff would join but soon finish because the old hands would discreetly 'inform' the clients that new workers were thieves or sexually deviant or whatever, so that clients would mysteriously refuse to let them in, causing such trouble that baffled new staff would cut their losses and leave.

The useless management had no idea, even though the old hands were working all sorts of fiddles between them.

Amusingly, the main lie told about me backfired somewhat when the MS patients began asking for me by name and begged me to score marijuana for them, having been told I was a wild-eyed dope fiend.

As I don't even smoke, and would have lost my job and probably gone to prison if I'd obliged them, the answer, to my regret, had to be 'no'.

Anyway... I put up with this crap for a few months and then left for a better job. Just before I went, my main 'accuser', Mrs Bitch, suddenly vanished. I left anyway, as I was sick of the hassle, but laughed my tits off when I found out why she'd gone.

A client had tearfully confided in another team member that Mrs Bitch had 'borrowed' her life savings off her, and now she had no money for her daughter's wedding. It seems that as the client was terminally ill, Mrs Bitch had calculated that she'd be safely dead before the loan was called in.

This gross misconduct saw Mrs Bitch sacked on the spot.
Live by the sword, and all that...
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Mon 18 May 2009, 16:14, Reply)

Swimming class
When I was about 8 I used to be a pretty good swimmer and would go to classes every day. There was this one slightly older boy that didn't like the fact that I was better than him and so opted for a strategy of picking on me, even resorting to pulling my legs back in the pool when we were racing. Pathetic stuff.

After one class I was stood at the urinal having a piss when he came up next to me, started doing his business then turned and said 'woops' and pissed all over my leg.

What he didn't realise was that day the two older boys across the road from me had asked to come and saw this happen. I'll never forget the blood spraying from his nose after one of them smashed his head from behind into the wall as he pissed, his hands of course on his piece making him unable to prevent it.

He never bothered me again after that.
( Regger, Mon 18 May 2009, 14:53, 2 replies)

I made a funny for /board
but accidentally used Comic Sans without any irony.

I got pinned down for almost an hour whilst everyone screamed, shouted and drew CDCs all over my hard work.

Two weeks on I still can't open The Gimp without breaking out in a cold sweat.
(MrOli is ugly, but in the morning you will be sober, Mon 18 May 2009, 13:12, 2 replies)

surely bindun already?
cant beat a bit of bully




(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Mon 18 May 2009, 10:53, Reply)

As a 6th Former...
...we used to do everything we could to get something to put on our incredibly short CV, and a common activity was being a prefect. Duties were minimal apart from monitoring the corridors at lunch times to make sure students weren't messing about.

So me and my friends are sitting there inside near to the doors in order to catch the little bastards as they tried to get in. As usual it was the 13-14 year old kids repeatedly trying to get in, more to annoy us than because they wanted to.

On the day in question it was myself and my 6'5" brick shit house of a friend Darren's turn to sit inside, when this scruffy little nobhead whose name i never learnt came in and started strutting up and down in front of us. As usual we asked him to leave, and as usual he was having none of it. Whether or not my friend was in a bad mood i'll never know, but on this day he wasnt having any of it. He walked straight up to the little shit and unleashed the greatest back-handed pimp slap i have ever seen. It was magnificent!

The little shit, lip wobbling, promptly walked out. Justice!
(Mack only paint, Sat 16 May 2009, 17:15, 1 reply)

Karate Kid without 'The Crane'
Leroy was one of my best friends at primary school. Back then halfcast was a term that was quite acceptable and the dried dog poo we dodged on the way to school was white.

He came to all my birthday parties, we went to the 'adventure playground' deep within the council estate together, he had Panthro and the Thundertank, I had Lion-O and the Sword of Omens.

I know the day he turned. A bunch of about 6 kids doing a ring'a'roses style circle around him, chanting the racist version of Ibble-obble. I stood at a distance and watched. I wanted to do something but didn't know what I could do.

I'd like to think that if I'd intervened he might have turned out different. But I was 10 or 11'ish and had already received a smack in the mouth from Adrian. To this day I can be a bit to C.L.I.T.O.R.I.S. for my own liking (for the Red Dwarf fans).
The dinner ladies were deliberately ignorant of what was going on.

Between then and secondary school, Karate Kid was a HUGE film. Every kid took up karate, including myself.

But Leroy had taken up karate about a year before everyone else and he was kicking arse. He was Bully Prime of our secondary school. He was Johnny of Cobra Kai.

Despite me being a former best friend, I quickly became just another target for his hostility. He gained two cronies, Stephen and Brendan (another 'best friend' of mine) and would try and duff me (and several others) up during lunch hour using his ninja skills. But I actually found my own karate skills came in to play!

I spent entire lunches practising blocks, and nothing but blocks, against the bastard. I kept waiting for my Daniel-san moment, where he would pause to weigh me up and I would assume The Crane position and kick the c*nt to kingdom come. It never happened. The whistle went and we all went in.

The day it all stopped was when Aaron fought back. Aaron was that big, strapping, softy that everyone has been to school with. Not too bright, good at rugby (because of his size) but with no natural aggression. The kind of lad that should be named 'Mungo'.

I was there the day Leroy tried a roundhouse on Aaron whilst we lined up, waiting to go in to English. I guess Leroy thought decking the biggest kid in the school would secure his status as Bully Prime. Leroy hit at chest height and Aaron didn't even shudder.

With a blank face Aaron lunged the few feet between himself and his aggressor, raising Leroy off the floor by his shirt and collar. Leroy ineffectually punched Aaron/Mungo in the ribs several times before finding himself hanging from a coat hook in the corridor.

Did anyone say anything? No. We all walked past him in to class, the more picked on bravely punching him in the goolies on the way past.

To this day I'm confused on how I feel about this. He deserved the goolie ragging he received, but I'm still a little bit C.L.I.T.O.R.I.S.
(Big Smurf Brush me daddy-O, Sat 16 May 2009, 0:34, Reply)

bully her?
i fucked her sideways, your mum, bullied the fuck out of her before giving her the length.
The FBI is what she wanted and the FBI is what she recieved.

the Fauntleroy Beef Injection.

and i tell you what,
she loved every last one of those 3 inches, the dirty cock hungry whore that she is, your mum.

and yeah, i bullied her into anal as well, she said no she didnt want it up her shit chute, but she ended up loving it, the dirty bitch.

your mum that is
(little lord muthafuckin fauntleroy, Fri 15 May 2009, 22:43, 6 replies)

Rugger Buggers

This story is well known where I used to live. How a man bullied an entire Rugby Club.

He walked into the bar at the local rugby club after the game, ordered a double whisky and walked over to the players. Staring at them he said:

"The next one of you bastards who fucks my wife I'll do time for. Understood?"

Drank his whisky and walked out.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 15 May 2009, 12:10, 4 replies)

Bullied by a bloke who doesn’t exist
This has happened to me over the past few weeks and I’m still not sure what to think of it.

A few weeks ago I entered my office on a dreary Monday morning to find that my trusty coffee cup had been stolen and replaced with a plain white mug with the logo for the Dharma Initiative on the front (For those not in the know that’s the company on the TV series Lost that has various stations based around the island).

Thinking that this was some strange practical joke I set off to find the culprit. After a tour of the whole company (around 20 – 30 employees so nothing too big) I found out that everyone in the whole place has had their mug stolen and replaced by an identical Dharma Initiative mug as well.

No one took credit for this and basically everyone carried on as normal, except now looking like we were a company founded by Lost fans. I thought that this was the end of it but it got stranger.

A few days later we received an internal email from a newly created email account on our system, Jack Bauer (AKA the bloke from 24) stating that he has reviewed the current staff situation and realized that we are to be assigned to different workstations within the Dharma initiative (the email sent had each employees name and their new assigned station written next to it).

According to the email I have to leave a fiver on my desk on Friday 29th May and I will receive a new mug for the Dharma orchid station a few weeks later.

So to sum it up I think I’m being bullied into buying a mug by a bunch of ninja style Lost fans who don’t really know the series well enough to realise that Jack Bauer is in a different show.

I will probably leave the money on the desk as it is only a fiver and I think that if I don’t I may be mauled by polar bears/ beaten by a black cloud or some other weird death.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 15 May 2009, 11:05, 2 replies)

Going to have to pearoast, but it's relevant
When I was about 10, one of the houses that back onto my folk’s place was owned by a local “hard nut” gangster-wannabe type, along with his wife and two kids. Really nasty piece of shit he was.

Every Sunday, he had the same routine, he would drive his prized BMW 5-Series to a pub a few miles away, have nine or ten pints with his “well’ard” cronies, probably glass some poor fucker who looked at his pint funny, then drive home. Once he got home, it would start “MY DINNER’S COLD YOU STUPID BITCH!” *SMACK* “HOW MANY” *SMACK* “TIMES” *SMACK* “HAVE I” *SMACK* “TOLD YOU” *SMACK* and so on. It would then move on to “AND YOU TWO CAN SHUT UP AS WELL!” *SMACK SMACK*.

You could hear this shit through two closed windows and a distance of about two hundred feet. And it would last for hours. His two kids went to my school, but kept having time off with things like “measles”, which they must have got a couple of times a year and “the flu” which caused mysterious swellings around their eyes.

So anyway, lovely guy.

One Sunday, he was down the pub as usual when he spotted a black kid walk past the afore mentioned Beemer. Did I mention he wasn’t exactly fond of the darker-skinned members of society? Well, he wasn’t. He comes flying out of the pub and accuses this kid (who was about 8) of first trying to steal his car, then of keying it. After hurling a bit of racist abuse about, he gives this kid a "normally reserved for immediate family members" slap and goes back to his drinking and general hardcuntness.

Ten minutes later little black kid arrives back in the pub, still crying, being dragged by his dad, points at knobhead neighbour and says “that’s him”. Guy goes up to big bully boy and says “what the fuck do you think you’re doing hitting my kid”. Bloke, safe in the knowledge that 1) He’s well’ard (in his mind at least) and 2) he’s with 10 of his “crew”, turns to the guy and says “Oh fuck off, you stupid n*****” (radio edit for racism).

Father of crying child sticks the head on the racist, bullying prick, slamming him straight down to the deck. One of the “crew” looks like he might intervene, but is stopped by a look from the now very angry father. This angry bloke then proceeds to paint the pub with the guy who hit his kid. He proper battered him. He actually beat him so badly that he lost an eye and walked with a limp for the rest of his life, since he was pretty much paralysed down one side. All while the guys “crew” stood and watched, shitting themselves in case they caught some of what he was getting.

Funnily enough, we never heard him hit his wife and kids after that, possibly because he couldn’t anymore. He moved out about 9 months later, since he could no longer afford the mortgage and, rumour has it, his wife took the kids and fucked off not long after, since she was no longer scared of him.

You lie down with dogs…
(ScousersPet, Fri 15 May 2009, 10:44, 1 reply)

As a child/teenager
I was a bit of a geek. (excuse the long rant and lack of funnies)

In my defence I had been to a very inbred primary school, where being clever wasn't just cool, it was a status symbol. And I honestly thought school was about learning stuff. I was clever, too. Faults no 1 & 2 right there.

So I went to a very respectable public girls' school, knowing only one other girl there - Fiona R. Within a week she had cronies, and I was the butt of each and every joke.

Altho (thank god) I was never physically hurt - I was humiliated day after day after day.

The local radio station did an "Everybody Hurts" sad story telling each night at 10.30, and I used to cry myself to sleep to it most nights.

When my lovely mum found out about all this, she went to the school and demanded something be done about it. To be told, wait for it...

"It is not the fault of the girls saying these things to your daughter, Mrs Psyche, it is Psyche's fault for not being socially gifted."

I don't know what her response was, but with 2 other kids, and a demanding husband, I guess as long as I was coping, she was too scared to confront the witches at the school. I was put in a different class the following year.

Roll on 2 years - I was still a geek, but had good friends, the three girls (Fiona R, Nicola S and I can't remember the other girl's name) had bullied a different girl each year, and the one they picked on in third year had parents with connections. Put blankly, they said if the school didn't expel the girls involved, they would go to the press. Girls were duly "asked to leave".

That year I scored the top mark in the (pretty damned good) school for my maths SAT, English end of year exam, and just missed a level 8 for my science SAT. None of my grades were below an A.

We went on some sort of field trip and ended up in a big theatre with a load of other schools, and I saw Fiona R in there. She was fat, ugly, and looked like a total chavvy slapper. I imagine her like that even now. And Fiona R, if you're reading this, I now realise it's because you were a jealous, insecure bitch. But that wouldn't stop me spitting in your face if I saw you now.


All I can say is that I'm happy with who I am now, I'm not afraid of being clever, have a great fella, good life, amazing dreams... Don't know how much more I'd ask for.

OH yeah, and being treated like shit DOES help you realise that treating other people well is hugely important. I now tolerate little crap from others, and *hope* that I treat everyone I meet with respect. Maybe I could've learnt that another way, but I know I'll never forget how it feels to be shat on, and more than that, hope I'll never be the shitter.

As bad as it was to be bullied, at least I'll never have the shame of being the bully.
(Psyche finishes work at the end of June! Yay!!!, Thu 14 May 2009, 17:43, 5 replies)

Bullies. If you can't beat 'em...
...Turn up to school one morning, armed to the teeth, and kill the fuckers.

yours

Eric 'The Columbine Kid' Harris.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Thu 14 May 2009, 17:03, 4 replies)

Time's a changin'
Years ago, you'd always have the one fat kid in the class who'd be the butt of most jokes.

Nowadays, there's classes of fat kids up and down the country picking on the one skinny guy.
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Thu 14 May 2009, 14:36, 1 reply)

Big boys
stole all my Star Wars figures and my first 500 issues of 2000AD, leaving me potentially penniless.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 14 May 2009, 9:02, 8 replies)

Ahhh the good "B@bl@ke old boys"
5 years of pure hell. Every day, names, physical crap, stealing, threats, taunts. UGLY UGLY UGLY like a mantra in my ears.. FAT FAT FAT. "hair" "weight" the trend was to say just the one word. The teachers joined in too. The fault was mine of course, being overweight, having glasses, bad hair and an ugly name. It is 20 years on, and I've dealt with most of the phobias, aversions and issues they left me with.
For A good 17 years I believed I deserved the abusive men who I dated. The gang rape, yeh, ugly, dowdy me, I was begging for it with my loose, colourless clothing. I deserved that when he couldn't change my individuality and make me conform to what he wanted, my ex kidnapped my four beautiful daughters.
Of course I deserved that I can't bear to let me loving, wonderful boyfriend see me naked. That I walked around blind until contact lense technology gave me sight, 14 years later. To this day the thought of wearing glasses myself makes me physically sick.
The social phobias I conquered, yep, I hold my hand up to that.
That I have had anorexia and bulimia in varying combinations since I was 16. My biggest achievement was and still is, weighing less than 6 stone. I thought being the archetypal skinny, popular blonde (albeit with my usual gothic flair) would make everything okay, finally. It didn't.

Years of drugs and self-destruction, always believing what they said about how ugly and worthless I was. The bone deep slashes making my arms look tiger-striped. All brought on by myself.
In all honesty, I did in the end develop a victim mentality. I overcame that. I overcame a lot, and I work every day to beat anything that rears back up. I have a baby daughter, who is my first child if anyone asks. The lies we tell to save questions, eh?
It took me a long time to put myself back together, class of '91, but I did it. Im strong now and I might not have the big fancy career , yeh.. I couldn't cope with any more education after I left aged 15.. but I love my job, and I'm loved, I have a fearsome reputation for the work I do and I'm well known. That's enough for me.
And....I'm still true to myself, I still "look like something out of doctor who". How many of you conformed, always, too scared to leave the centre of the herd?
I changed my name, my life and my world to become to person I want to be, not the ugly little nothing you saw. I don't need validation and I don't care to even the score, you aren't worth my time. I bet the demons that drove you are with you still.

If I could say one thing to you , I'd say, it matters not one bit if someone is fat, or ugly, or blind, and "attractive" and shallow people aren't somehow "better than yew". Get a life. You all coasted thru life eh.. I fought for every. little. thing. For my life.

Success is the best revenge, and I am a success, to many people I love. Because, I am still here. You all at one point told me you wanted to see me die. Sorry lads...and ladies too, no can do.

Now.. If I can just stop with the food issues.....
Without love,
Me.
(LittleWhiteTreat, Thu 14 May 2009, 8:17, 8 replies)

I was avoiding this QOTW until I came home
This is going to be a stream of consciousness. Sorry. it's the only way I can deal with it - let my self go emotionally cold and not think about it. All bullying strikes hard with me. My girlfriend was and still is bullied - I'm picking up the pieces nearly daily. It's a horrible, horrible thing, we all know that. It untimatly ends up shaping who we are.

The worst part is that we know it's going to happen, no matter what we do to protect ourselves or others.

I was classic victim material in primary school. I don't make friends easily now, nor have I ever done. Thats just who I am. Add to the mix being reasonably intelligent, not giving a flying monkeys how I look, coming out with some frankly stupid things and a willingness to abide by the rules, and there you have it.

Lets start at primary school, shall we?
All of five, in walks a miniPot. Resplendent in his school uniform trousers shirt and top. I liked these clothes. These optional clothes. Was rolled in mud that very morning.
I continued to wear them throughout my six years there. Every day - dead arms. Kicking. Spat at. I don't like football, never have - oh, well, you obviously can't join in our games. Haha, you didn't watch that film last night, what an idiot.

Yep, brought it on myself. I didn't understand what was going on really, so I kept trying and kept getting pushed back.

Onwards to secondary school! Hurrah! Finally, I can make a bit of a break. Nope. not with the people from primary school who socialised and had already told plenty of people about me. Friends? Fat chance. Nobody wanted to be seen with me.

At this point, a few things happened. I was more aware of what was going on, and the stings began to stay with me. I pushed them aside. I bottled it all up, a tendency that stays with me today. I bottle, push aside and force it down until it explodes. Currently, it's the only way I'm dealing with reading this QOTW. So it was at the age of 12 I was sitting on my bed, belt around my neck and the bed, contemplating jumping off. Of all the things to stop it, it was mum calling for dinner. Just broke the spell. Thankyou mum.

I mentioned other things were happening. One is that I do NOT like cutting my hair. It grows out in to a big puffball, sort of like an afro but with a flat bit at the back. The problem was, there had been a guy at the school who had had a very similar hairstyle to my own. The difference between him and me, he'd been caught in the school toilet giving a blow job to another pupil.

The catcalls started following me around. Everywhere I went, I was called by this boys last name. If people didn't come near me before, they activly stayed away from me. "Keep away from Pot, he'll give you gayer disease". I didn't even like the cock back then. But as always, just bottled it back up, put it aside and tried to forget. I had my second snap. It wasn't much. "GAYER" was bellowed in my face. So I punched him in the stomach, and walked off. End of.

So I thought. A couple of days later, this lad wanted revenge. He and his mates grabbed me on lunch time and pushed me in to the toilet. "YOU FUCKING GAYER!" was spat in my face. "You love the cock. You love Holmsey's cock so much, you make yourself look like him in your worship. Well, here's your fucking cock!". Keeping it short - they raped me. Hello /talk. Please form an orderly queue to call me a liar. I'm not though. Why didn't I go to the police? Teachers? Parents? Nobody would believe me. That's how I felt. Numb. Nothing. Worthless nothing. I still feel... nothing. Nothing at all about it. The memory is there, but no feelings associated with it.

Back then I needed to feel something. Anything. You know what happened there. Suffice to say, there is a patch of skin on my leg where no hair will ever grow. I still keep the box with the kit. It's airtight. I know everything in there is in perfect condition.

Although as far as I'm away nothing about the toilet even got out, the cat calls, punches and other abuse still continued. I retreated in to my books. Things changed a bit around year eleven. Purely random event. Someone asked me for help. I gave it. They realised I was quite willing to help people. I actually made a few tentative friends. Moving on to the sixth form (same school) was better. I had realised a few things that were the cause of my being the victim and did a few simple things to help. I sought psychological help for my social issues, and it worked. It was great. I could get on in life without being hassled.

Ok, that was an exaggeration. I still got verbal hassle from the lower years. I'm big enough that msot of them wouldn't try anything on me. My own year was actually being decent to me. While I wouldn't say I felt happy, as I had (and still do) a tendency to stick my foot in it causing me to be shunned for a while. I ended up making some good friends - the only people I'm still in contact with. I even managed to go out on dates with a couple of people. Life, while not great, was still better that it had been.

Took a gap year before uni. worked in a warehouse. Was very happy. Social skills getting better, got on very well with people there. Then met the girl who became my ex-fiancee.

Hooo boy. She was great at first. Helped me find work at the edinburgh festival and otehr places. Took me to see parts of the UK and gave me some independence. It was great, until I went to university. Why hadn't I called her? Didn't I know she needed calling? How dare you ignore me. You went out with your friends? But I neeeeeded you!

I don't know how she made me do it. But she got it in to my head that if I loved her and really, really wanted to show it, I would propose. And like the weak willed sap, I did. Didn't stop the passive-agggressive. She needed money for this little thing. Needed me to take her there. Need need NEED! If I didn't comply, I got verbal and sometimes physical hell. But partway through university, I snapped again.

Top tip? Two bottles of Nytol and half a litre of Bells doesn't work. it just makes you sleep for 24 hours.

broke it off. Passive-aggressive attacks don't stop at first, but it tails off. I've lost where I'm going with this. Sorry.

What I'm trying to get at... not sure. I have one skill on the net - I can find people. A few basic bits of invofmation and I can find a photograph, names addresses etc. I've checked up on some of the people who bullied me. Personally, I think I'm doing better than they are now. I'm actually happy with life, because I know what the future holds - and to me, it's good. I have a girlfriend who loves me, and who I love a lot, even though I only see her every few weeks. My family really do love me and are there for me. I have firends at work. I'm meeting new peple and making friends out. I'm building the life I want, with people I want to share it with in various ways.

But none of that above matters. None. August 23rd. I will have finished my HNC. Bloodstock heavy metal festival will be over. I will have just come home from three weeks with the girlfriend. And I have a bottle of nembutal in a little drawer waiting for me.
(Potty Jag har smör i min rumpspringa, Wed 13 May 2009, 21:09, 12 replies)

But seriously...
Did the jokey one underneath, but I can't say I haven't been affected by bullying. I don't really want to go into it, because I feel that most of you have probably heard it before, but there is one person that I am more angry with than anyone. It was a teacher I had in P6 who not only condoned what was going on, but at times contributed to it. The amount of bile I have for this woman could fill the whole page but I will share my two favourite stories here.

Firstly, I went into P6 in 1989. We hadn't heard of dyslexia, but there was a boy in my class who, looking back, was quite seriously dyslexic. This teacher crossed out English on his jotter, wrote 'Chinese' on it, and it was our daily treat to hear what this poor lad had tried to write at the end of the day.

Secondly, it was parents evening, and Papa Glitter had gone to hear all about how young glitter was doing. They did the whole bit about my academic progress, then we went on to my social progress.

Papa Glitter - So how is Little Glitter getting on with the other children? She doesn't seem to be very happy
Bitch Hound From Hell - She seems to be having some problems fitting in.
PG - I thought so. So what do you think the problem is?
BHFH - The other children don't seem to like her, but can I just say, myself and some of the other teaching staff are full of admiration for LG.
PG - Thanks, erm, why?
BHFH - Well every day I watch her getting kicked, punched, spat at, called names, belittled and get her stuff stolen and she has always managed to keep her dignity.

Papa Glitter gets a little hazy with the details about how this conversation ended, but the Headmaster was off for 6 weeks with stress after the meeting my dad had with him.

Needless to say, I was pretty sharply moved to another school, where I wish I could say was a happy ending, but it was a better ending.

I don't normally condone violence, in fact, I hate it. But if I ever see that fat-legged bitch again I will be using my fists, then admire her as she manages to keep her dignity.
(allthatglittersisglitter, Wed 13 May 2009, 20:12, Reply)

I don't realy care for bullies
Bullies are like ants you find them every ware and they always tend to be in groups.

The same was true at both my schools, now when I was in primary school the bullies consisted of a rag tag group of kids from different year groups who came together to share their hate for decent insults and anyone with a brain cell. I was one of these said people, in fact most of the school was, this meant that I was subject to the typical standard bullied tactics such as getting the blame for anything bad that happened, getting beat up, having lame insults hurled at me on a regular biases. And for the most part I just shrugged it off and ignored them.

However one of the worst cases of bullying I have had the misfortune to be the victim of was when a nineteen year old lad chased after me and slammed my face into a log. This happened when I was about thirteen or fourteen. However it did get rid of the big spot on my nose which probably cushioned the blow.

When I was at secondary school the same pattern of the primary school bully was applied, mainly because I went to the same secondary school as most of the twunts from my primary school, and again I shrugged it off and got on with my life. Now it wasn’t till about two or three years ago that I took a stand against the leader of said group of bullies, (following the advice of my father “always go for the ring leader”), and this happened when I was waiting outside off one of the classrooms waiting for the teacher to show up, now this being the perfect time to do a bit of quick bulling they stared to hit the back of my head. To which I turn round with my right leg out low and took the cocky little shits legs out at the same time as I pushed him, this combined with the fact that his legs were no longer touching the floor meant that little shit had a few brief seconds to wonder what had happened before he landed on his backside in front of most of the class. That was also the moment when the teacher of said lesson arrived to see him getting of the floor and swinging for me, the result was him being severally embarrass and a detention.

His face however as he realised what had happened the split second before he hit the ground is something that I will always remember.
(radial head fracture, Wed 13 May 2009, 20:09, Reply)

Been through tough times.
I go to a school called Barry Boys. It's where the rough and tumble boys come to die. It's toughest rules, no gingers, no fatties and no small nipples allowed or you're fucking finished.

This is a crying shame for me, being a fat ginger with small nipples. It all started on the very first day. I was moving up from a decent primary school to Barry Boys as it was the only school to accept me with my embarrassingly low SAT scores. I was excited for the fresh start, the new surroundings. Little did I know I was entering a living hellhole.

I walked to school on the first day. I was a slim lad with nicely combed ginger hair. Outside the gates were three ruffians, smoking cigarettes and playing a lovely game of cup and ball. I could see they were going to be trouble, so I whispered to myself, "Don't make eye contact, that's what sets them off". I went to walk in the gate when one shouted at me,
"OI MERT",
I could feel my penis retracting in fear.
"Y..Yes?", I replied, visibly kecking myself.
"Got the time?", he said, with a grin on his face. I realised he was just a pleasant old chap wondering if he was late for his class, not trouble at all!
"Not a problem", I proclaimed, "Not a problem at all", as I whacked out my Nokia 3310 which I had modified to a point where it was able to send and receive video calls.
"It's ten to ni-", I started, before he grabbed the phone and looked himself.
"Oh, you want to see it for yourself? Well that's ok I guess," I said politely.
"Thanks mert." was his reply, before he popped it in his pocket, laughing.
"Well, I'm sure you've seen the time now. Could I have it back?", I asked. He just laughed in my face. I started to get a bit annoyed,
"What's the crack", I asked.
"I'll crack your head", he replied, as he stood up to lean over me.
"Please, just give me my phone back", I requested, with a tear in my left eye. He pushed me on the floor and him and his pals started kicking me.
"You give us 3 pound everyday or we'll belt ya!", he told me. Seeing I wasn't going to get my phone back I timidly walked into school and to my first lesson (we didn't have tutor groups in this school, as hundreds of hooligans with nothing to do for half an hour was a recipe for disaster).

My first lesson was Mathematics with Mr Lobotomy. I walked in the class and was met by a furore of laughter.
"It's a ginger!", explained the bright spark of the class. The room broke out into a chant of "Ginger pubes! Ginger pubes!".
I tried to ignore it and sat down on an island table, a table isolated from the rest of the class. A few minutes later a whale of a boy came and sat down next to me. He was tall, bald and fat and I could see his trainers were 2 sizes too big for his feet.
"I'm Brandon", the fat cunt quoth. We spoke throughout the lesson and realised we had a lot in common, including our taste in anime cartoons and our favourite band GWAR! We really hit it off and became firm buddys.

After the lesson me and Brandon went to the lockers. He opened his. I could see he had a swastika sticker in it, but whenever a black lad walked past he'd rapidly throw his hand over it. A few lads were walking towards us.
"Oh shit oh shit oh shit!", whispered Brandon, as he shut his locker.
"Hello Brandon", one of the boys said, with a sly look on his face.
"Just leave me alone, this is none of your business.", replied Brandon.
"I will", said the boy, "but just one thing", what he did next was so disgusting it stunned me. He grabbed Brandon by the balls while his friends grabbed his legs and pulled them till he fell over. Then they started stamping on him.
"Pussy", they said as they walked away. I could see Brandon sobbing.
"Are you... Are you crying?", I asked.
"They went to my primary school, they never left me alone", he explained. I helped Brandon up and rubbed his back to comfort him. Eventually he stopped crying and we went to our next lesson- English. Unfortunately we were in different English classes so we had to split.

I walked into English. The teacher, Mr Hogblom, was short and bald and constantly trembled.
"Ginger pubes!", shouted one boy. The class broke out into chants of ginger pubes.
"Oh gosh, not this old song and dance", I proclaimed, rolling my eyes.
One fellow snuck up behind me and pulled my jean shorts and Spongebob Squarepants briefs right down! The class broke out into hysterical laughter. You see, I only had one pube. It was long, thick and ginger. My mum had tried to pluck it out for me the night before but suffice to say, it was a tough'un! Then the whole class started circling around me and throwing things at me. Mr Hogblom turned a blind eye as he was busy playing Michael Bublé Shooter on his laptop.

English seemed to last forever, but after a while it ended and I was relieved there was only one more lesson before lunch- Geography. I walked into the class expecting the worst and instantly someone threw a globe at me and the class started chanting ginger pubes, once again. I'm not ashamed to say I ran out of the class, out of the school and back home in floods of tears.

I barged through my front door, fighting back the tears.
"Water you doing here?", asked my father.
"I can't go back.", I said.
"Nonsence!", he shouted, as he kicked me back out the door. I didn't go back to school though did I rofl I went to the ice rink for a quick skate. Then came back home.

That night I went on MSN so I could talk to my asian pen pal, Mindy. The conversation went something like this...
hardboy1388: hello mindy :)
pureazn101: i cant believe uve done this.
hardboy1388: ;o wot? i dont really like pie i just say it because it is funny
pureazn101: those nasty txts u sent. no i will not show u my "growler" and tht dus not make me frigid
hardboy1388: mindy ;o that was not me!
pureazn101: oh sure it wasnt, i suppose ur cusin wos on ur phone
hardboy1388: no! some naughty boys stole my phone
pureazn101: wutuf? u let ur phone get robbed? i thought u wer a hardboy
hardboy1388: i... im sorry
pureazn101: its too late t'apologize.
And with that I was blocked. What a terrible first day.

I was miserable, but I had to go back to school the next day. As I walked through the hallways more and more slurs were shouted at me. I couldn't stand the banter that no one on hell or earth deserves. I soldiered on and made it to my first lesson, double P.E., my least favourite lesson doubled.

I got into the changing rooms and whacked my iPood t-shirt off.
"Haha! Look at his small nipples!", one boy pointed out.
The next thing I knew I was being whipped by towels coming from all directions. All I could hear was a mess of guffaws and taunts.
"What's goin' on 'ere then?", shouted our P.E. teacher, Mr Lulzstrom, as he burst through the changing room doors. The lads backed off a little but I could see Mr Lulzstrom smirking at my small nipples. I felt like crying, but I held the tears back.

After double P.E. I had English. It was pretty much a repeat of yesterday, but I tolerated it and finally lunchtime had come.

I caught up with Brandon and we walked onto the playground. I hadn't realised what a jungle it would actually be! Bodily fluids were being flung around in all directions, fighting, drug taking and even anal sex was going on right in front of my eyes! One boy started pissing on me and Brandon, I recoiled in horror.
"Follow my lead!", Brandon said, as he started running. I followed him and we ended up at his house.

We calmed down by watching some Naruto. We both agreed that Sakura Haruno was the smexiest ninja.

School continued to be a living hellhole for months. I ended up comfort eating and ended up obese. I dyed my hair black but it didn't change anything. After months and months of abuse Brandon said,
"I can't take it anymore! We have to do something!", so we thought on our feet. I decided to make a poster depicting us both as real dangerous dogs. This was the result.

i42.tinypic.com/3463yp4.jpg

This didn't help matters. It only made us a bigger target. Will the bullying ever stop? I'd like to think so, but so far it's early days.

-James "SirStromming" Bowles
(SirStromming, Wed 13 May 2009, 16:54, 2 replies)

karma?
so one school i was at had a main bully who delighted in battering me daily and stealing my stuff, because i was poor and lived in a mobile home, and was there on a scholarship on account of being smart, he was rich and lived in a mansion, and dumb as a rock. call him kid A
when we moved house, the next school was similarly equipped with a meathead bully, who liked beating on me because my mum was a teacher there. (not my classes thankfully) kid B shall he be named henceforth.

fast forward a few years, i'm at uni, and a letter from home arrives, inside is a newspaper clipping.
a guy had basically got in a row in a pub with some rugger bugger, left, sat in his car waitign till rugger bugger came outside, then ran him down, reversed over him, ran him over AGAIN and drove off. he got life as it was his 55th motoring offence, he was disqual, in a nicked car. the rugger bugger was in a wheelchair for life.

the interesting part was the names.. very familiar, distinctive and unusual for the area names. the driver? kid B. the rugger bugger? kid A.
you can't make this shit up.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Wed 13 May 2009, 16:34, 4 replies)

get over it people
bullies suck. ok, fine. we can all agree. you know what? i had it all. i was the new kid a lot (moved schools 9 times in the end due to parental wekaness. get bullied- moan-move school-starts again) i was the fat kid, the shrt kid, the goofy kid, the kid with big ears, the poor kid, the kid who lived in a mobile home, the kid whose mum (i shit you not here) was on local evening news talking about fairies at the bottom of the garden, at the same time as teaching in the school i ended up in! that was sweet.
i got my nose broken, concussion, fractured skull, kickings galore, ate more than a bushel of dirt, was ostracised, talked about but not to, scapegoated.. i'm not gonna bore you with anecdotes of what happened, or the times i fought back or tried to, or how wonderful my shit is now and how they ended up on smack.. though one thing i WILL pearoast later which deserves a mention.

all i will say is this
it happened at SCHOOL people. fuck me. if you're much older than say, 18-19, and you're STILL using the fact that people weren't nice to you at school as an excuse for being a gutless, timid, specimen then you have problems that lie WAAAAAY deeper in your psyche than mere playground bullying.
i didn't become an internet millionaire, i didn't bed a gaggle of supermodels, i didn't beat chuck norris in a pressup contest or leave schoool gain 100lbs and become arnie. for their part, they mostly, AFAIK, didn't turn into craven dribbling junkies, withered and unloved, pleading for my pennies. and you know what? i don't give a FUCK. because when i walk into a room, i walk in as me, not my hangups, and i'm ten feet tall and a self made man. bullies only matter between the ages of 4 and 16, and then only term time between 9-3pm. suck it up. it could be a LOT worse. wait till you have bosses, at least. stop hiding behind your issues and man(or woman) up.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Wed 13 May 2009, 16:04, 19 replies)

I was bullied at school, for many years.
Then I grew up and got on with my life.

The end.
( The Baroness The Harlot Pimpernel, Wed 13 May 2009, 16:03, 1 reply)

I once beat up Mr. T in the playground at School.

( Jam Master Geordie Hero of B3ta., Wed 13 May 2009, 15:20, 3 replies)

Victim Alert!
So where do we start?

Probably with a bit about me. At school I was neither popular or unpopular. I was happy to mix with the ‘cool’ kids and they weren’t unhappy to have me around, I was happy to mix with the Goths, the geeks, the wiggers and the sports-players I wasn’t close to any of them, I was just ‘there’. All in all, I was known to everyone, but without my own identity. Simply because my identity (as I’ve learnt in adult life) is that of a tolerant, laid back, friendly, pacifist with no hate and no violence in me, but a love of music.

At school though, some people took my happy-go-lucky-mates-with-all-sorts as a weakness, and here in lies the problem.

You see, everyone gets victimised at school in some way, shape or form. Maybe you can’t kick a football as far as someone, aren’t a bright and someone or your family aren’t as wealthy as some others so you haven’t got the latest clothes, the designer trainers and a watch that can simultaneously given you the time is dozens of countries you are never going to visit, and for that, kids get grief.

The other ‘rule of the playground’ is if the bullying isn’t happening to ‘me’ then that’s alright, in fact, I’ll go as far as to humour the bullies who are handing out kickings, demanding money and making other kids life hell – if it means its not happening to me, no matter what anyone’s standing within any group is, as long as this happens on the outside of the group and not to yourself, you’ll put up with anything if it stops it from happening to you.

And herein, lays my problem. With no identity, I was affiliated with no group. Yes, I had mates in all of the cliques, yes, I was funny and yes, in general I was happy. And for the first 2 years of secondary school, there was no incident that comes to mind that was either uncomfortable or saw me ‘excluded’ from peer activity.

Then it changed. My older brother had completed his studies and left (as you would do after your 5th year) and, whilst I hadn’t needed ‘protecting’, having a big-brother at school certainly helped as this made you ‘untouchable’ what I hadn’t banked on though, was my brother having a reputation. A reputation as a ‘hard man’ (to me, he was just my bruv) and when he left, I suddenly found myself on the receiving end of comments, punches and kicks that were apparently ‘owed’ to my brother. This wasn’t constant but slowly, older kids had started a smear campaign against me and my welcome into a variety of groups became more strained.

Before too long, kids in my year were having ago at me – seemingly because ‘I deserved it’ (or at least, that’s what they’d been told) the physical beatings were fine, it was the mental cruelty and the sick ‘jokes’ that were paid that got to me. It was things like walking down a school corridor and having people flick ink at your back, getting to the bike sheds to find both of your tyres has been deflated, sitting in the wrong seat in class and not being able to concentrate because you know that behind you, someone is getting ready to do something you won’t like. I was slowly being distanced from all groups, the kids in these groups not wanting to be tarred with the ‘what’s wrong with you? Hanging around with Mullered’ brush.

For about a year I put up with this, there was graffiti in the toilets and on walls questioning my sexuality, suggesting I was in a relationship with a disabled boy – stuff that to a 14 year old, is tear-inducing.

And then something happened.

I got a girlfriend – and, thankfully, not a girl from the school, someone I’d met away from school – and she was really good looking, had lady bumps and liked me.

The girlfriend of the day also did a paper round from my local newsagents and it was there that we’d started chatting, before too long, we were inseparable, going to the cinema, sharing a bag of chips and snogging in the car-park of the local newsagents. Now, being a youngster trying to fight rumours about my sexuality, I would – naturally – claim when faced with another ‘Mullered is a uphill gardener’ – ‘how can I be gay? I’ve got a girlfriend’ This was usually met with ‘yeah, right’ and other cries of disbelief. Any then, one Saturday afternoon, en route to the Odeon to see a film, I’m spotted by one the guys making my life hell, who simply gave me a curt nod.

For what I can only guess is this reason –everything changed. The bulling stopped, people wanted to be my friend (again) and party invitations started coming my way. The reason? Apparently, most of the boys in my year at school liked girls, but none of them had ever been out with one. And they wanted Mullered here to teach them the ways of the force as far as relationships and bagging yourself a bird.

So, I did what any self-respecting teenager did. I complied, suggested friends of my girlfriend they might like to meet and I sucked up to them all in an attempt to fix them up with girls and to stop myself from being bullied.

This story isn’t funny. It’s true though.

I had absolute no self-respect, low self-esteem and to me, the weight of relief for the bullying to be over was worth sacrificing any scruples I may have had, by going over the top to ‘fit in’ with these shits who’d made my life hell.

I’d love to tell you all that I mugged them all off and got on with my life, but I complied. I let them make my life a misery and then, with a click of the fingers, I was bending over backwards to be their ‘friend’

If I could hate, I’d be hating these people, but I can’t. Nothing riles me enough to ‘hate’ (well, nothing so far in my 30+ years on this planet).

Saying that, maybe I do hate them, because at a school reunion some 5 years ago or so, names were thrown around as to what everyone was doing and apparently, one of the bullies is dead, another is living rough following a drug issue. I found that quite heart warming.

Right – cathartic type over.

Bullies might be ‘cowards’ but teenage boys desperate to be accepted are shallow, weak and timid – at least I was.

Mullered – over and out.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Wed 13 May 2009, 14:08, Reply)

Well...
I once made a grammatical error in one of my posts.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Wed 13 May 2009, 13:46, 6 replies)

If you don't
Put back up the gambling QOTW, I'll kick you in the nuts and steal your lunch money.
(McChinaman banned, Wed 13 May 2009, 13:01, 2 replies)

Retribution
I was bullied the whole way through school, mostly because ignoring bullies doesn't always stop them.

They all work in HR now.

I win.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Wed 13 May 2009, 12:44, 6 replies)

I'd thought to avoid this QOTW
as frankly, I was worried it'd bring out my nasty side. The side that doesn't want to hear it. The deep, dark snide voice that didn't want to hear a bunch of adults whinging about how cruel the world had been to them, and how all their problems could be attributed to how a bunch of kids weren't very nice to them when they were young. The side that secretly thinks these people bring it on themselves a bit. The side that sagaciously considers Darwin and the Law of the Jungle, and settles back in my armchair under my portrait of Thatcher for a nice cup of tea and a read of the Daily Mail. The side that has, on several occasions, declared it to be a principle that, except in certain extreme circumstances, what you make of your life is down to you, that we live in an increasingly whiny, self-aggrandising and self-entitled culture where no-one takes responsibility for their own actions; it's always the fault of their parents, childhood bullies, teachers, neighbour's hamster, etc.

I wonder, though.

I didn't get on with my mum. I'm not going to start rattling on about it here - suffice to say, it wasn't good, and went a bit beyond the normal spectrum of poor familial relations. Luckily, I have a wonderful dad, which I've always felt went a way towards cancelling it out. Anyway, for as long as I can remember I've had a tendency to blindly believe that if someone doesn't like me, it's my fault. (See first paragraph.)
Cos I was told, see.

Looking at my life in the abstract, it sounds pretty good. I've had lots of friends - always have - am well-educated, never been picked on, and apart from the fact that I have No Career and No Prospect Of One In This Stupid City, I'm quite happy.

The problem is this. I feel that I, er, have no personality. Or rather, I have too many, and none of them are genuine. I'm completely different things to different people, to the extent that friends of mine who've met each other have been astonished at each other's accounts of me. A friend once described me as a social butterfly, which sounds flattering until you realise what a butterfly actually does. It fannies around, looking pretty, tra-la-la, and always keeping things very much on the surface. Then it fucks off to do the same thing on another tree. It can't stay in one place, and it's pretty much useless.

So you see, having gathered that the thing to do was to ensure people liked me by making myself appealling to them, I've bent so far out of my own shape that all I can do is be reflective of what I think the other person wants. And it's not as if it's a facade - there is no underneath. I saw an episode of Star Trek once (don't you judge me; it was on at tea-time) where there was an alien thing called an Empathic Metamorph that could completely alter itself to fit the requirements of its partner. It was very familiar.

Ach. It's not like this is crippling me or destroying my life, and as such doesn't compare with many of the tales that have obviously deeply affected folk on here. But it does bother me, sometimes.
(jennymnemonic, Wed 20 May 2009, 20:59, 5 replies)

Years ago, working an infant school dinner lady, I was keen to sort out bullies.
One used to walk up to other kids, engage them in conversation and then suddenly kick them. Most kids were terrified of him. I kept a close eye on him but couldn't prevent every kick.

Anyway... to cut a long story short, when a teacher had the genius idea of making him wear flipflops so he couldn't kick, he found himself on the receiving end for a change with lots of adult blind eyes turned.

I recently heard that he's been in prison for knife offences as an adult. He can't be more than 24. I somehow doubt he'll see 30.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Wed 20 May 2009, 6:25, 2 replies)

My dad told me a story once,
about when he was at school, and another boy took it upon himself to wind my dad up. Not proper bullying, just constant light slapping, random taunting. Mild stuff, but very annoying.

So one day, my dad's walking home, and this kid's following him. Shouting his mouth off, throwing bits of mud at the back of my dad's head, etc. Not unreasonably, dad decides he's finally had enough of this. So he stops, whirls round, grabs the kid, slaps him about a bit, attaches him to some nearby railings with his own bike chain (around the neck if I remember correctly), and then fucks off home with the key.

Got him into a shitload of trouble the next day, but as my dad says, "worth it though, just to see the look on that little fucker's face as I walked off." My dad's fantastic.
(Uncle Comrade, Tue 19 May 2009, 22:33, 1 reply)

Bullying was somewhat awful for me.
Well, it was nothing compared to some posters, but my problem was this:
My surname rhymed, and will always rhyme, with "willy".

Cue 2-3 years of an obligatory cry of (crikey, I have to reveal my real name. The shame!) "Edward Lilley has no willy!", whenever I was passed in the corridor/playground/&c.

This eventually transmogrified into a more *ahem* subtle: "Edward Lilley has no.....LEG!"

Some of the chanting was quite innovative however:

"Edward Lilley rubs his...leg."

"Edward Lilley lost his...leg."

"Edward Lilley ate his...leg."

And yes, this continued until I was at least 13 years old (fortunately, I wasn't *quite* the most unpopular person in the year, and had a few friends to...umm..."support" me.)
( ejlflop errrrrgs. Regularly., Mon 18 May 2009, 20:22, 7 replies)

Cuts Two Ways
I was bullied fairly badly at school. Never stood up to them, but I thought it might be interesting to share a "what happened next" stories from later in my school life, when everyone had grown up enough that physical beatings had, at least, become rather passe.

Firstly I was cast in a school play with one of my more frequent tormentors. It was a comedy, and one of the characters was quite clearly supposed to be black. Which poses something of a casting problem when you're at a small, 100% white rural school. The bully was cast in this role and at one point the director suggested (this was pre-PC days) that he should "black up" for the role. He was less than keen on the idea and, when pressed, revealed in front of the whole cast that if his dad came and saw him pretending to be a black man he would undoubtedly be beaten to a pulp when he got home that night. For a kid coming from a very loving, sheltered, comfortably middle-class background that was a real eye-opener to the state of the world in general, and was probably the first time I ever felt sorry for a bully.
(MattDP (Squiggle), Mon 18 May 2009, 12:07, Reply)

Sticking up for my younger brother
High school wasn't too pleasant for me, i was the skinny, scruffy kid who was an easy target for those out to 'prove themselves' in the warzone that was the school playground.

Admittedly i was quite meek, often accepting a punch in the ribs with just shrug and a smile. Dead arms and legs were a common occurence and i took it all without retaliation.

That is... the day one of the fuckers hurt my younger brother who had just joined the school. Because he was my brother, some of the nastier kids thought it would be funny to start bullying him too.

BAD MOVE.

After one particular incident were two lads tried to mug him for dinner money (or maybe just for the hell of it), i decided enough was enough and i would get revenge.

Two or three days later, i was walking home from school and i saw one of the offenders sat with his mates on a brick wall. Usually at that point i would cross the road and try and skulk off down an alleyway and find an alternative route home.
Not today though.... I was so enraged that the only thing i remember was the aftermath.

By all accounts i had calmly walked up to the lads. Before they even said anything i punched one of the lads in the mouth, knocking him backwards off the wall. A second or two later, the main bully swang a punch for me (whilst still sat on the wall). I ducked it, grabbed him by his collar and tie and literally threw him face first off the wall. He landed on his chin and also very awkwardly onto his knee with a nasty, sickening crack.

The other lads did nothing, probably too alarmed by his high pitched shrieking, as it later turned out he had dislocated his knee cap and torn the ligaments in his leg.

Little bastard didn't bother me or my brother again.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Sun 17 May 2009, 20:17, 5 replies)

Bully am I
As I've said before in "School Days", I was generally a good kid at school. Clever, academically competent and didn't get in trouble with the teachers. And unlike a lot of b3tans, I was lucky enough not to get bullied after the age of about 12.

That because at about that age, things switched round and I became the bully. This is not intended as a defense or an excuse - I'm fully aware that what I did at school was completely and totally unacceptable, and I've tried to learn from it. It took one of my friends taking me aside and patiently explaining what I'd been doing for me to realise it.

I was and still am a big guy, overweight to be sure but with broad shoulders and physically rather strong. This meant that I was unlikely to be attacked physically. I also hated the idea of fighting, so physical was out, I went for verbal. I was the kid with the cutting comment, or vicious putdown, or just picking on someone else's weakness. Always with the sarcastic or insulting comment that's supposedly funny but is just plain nasty and hurtful.

But because I was a good kid, I traded off that reputation. This lead to me stabbing someone in the back with a pencil during class, and getting no punishment. I even punched one of my yearmates in the face and got no repercussions. He had a snowball in his hand, I lied and said that I was trying to knock it out of his hand and missed. I even deliberately gave an apology in front of a large group, trying to look all contrite just because I knew it would make me look innocent and feeling guilty about the 'accident'.

At times, I was an utter cunt.

What I want to explain is a way this can happen. When you get picked on verbally, you learn to fight back verbally. You learn to pretend that any jabs at your weight, or your looks don't hurt. Rather than denying the attack, you learn to ignore it and hit back harder.

Even after the bullying stops or goes away you can still feel defensive and unsafe. You keep attacking. It will become a habit. You will do it even when you are not being attacked. Each time, in order to keep feeling safe you say something a little worse and taunt them a little bit harder. It's very much like an addiction. You don't dive straight in but give yourself over to it in tiny degrees and you don't even notice. And if you're not doing it all the time (I wasn't) and are nice to your friends and others (at times) then you can get away with it.

As I said before this post is not a defense or an excuse. I was a complete arsehole and if I'd received a good kicking I would have bloody well deserved it. I just wanted to make two points

- Some bullies might be aware they're being an arse, but not just how bad they're being. Still doesn't excuse what they're doing
- It is possible for them to reform and turn (or at least try) into decent people.

And for what little it's worth... and I know how little that is, I'm sorry.
(calamarain just invented dehydrated water, Sat 16 May 2009, 21:45, 6 replies)

Karma
There was one older kid who used to bully me at school. He was 3 years older than me and fancied himself as a bit of a hero. Im not going to bother going into details as its all the usual stuff - punching, stealing, name calling etc.

Fast forward 10 years and back home drinking with some old school mates in a local pub. Everyone is having a jolly old time when i feel the seal about to burst so off i toddle for a slash. I find the toilets and lo and behold they are completely empty - i have the whole urnial to myself.. i am king of the urinal.. result!

This brief moment of triumph is trashed when the door opens behind me and who stumbles in to the toilet? yup you guessed it folks - its our hero! He recognises me but cant recall my name... "i know you" he slurs. "Fucksocks" thinks I. He asks my name and i promptly tell him to fuck off under no uncertain terms. Luckily, I dont have to put up with this thimble dicked wanker for any longer than that brief exchange as my bladder has been emptied ready for more amber nectar and he has only just started... or so i think. He tries to grab me with his one free hand as i leave but i brush him off and tell him to go suck his own cock, or words to that effect. Rather than finish the job at hand, as most people would see fit to do, he only turns mid flow and fucking follows me out the door with his cock still spraying piss everywhere. I only realise as he grabs me a second time and turn to see his winkle pissing down his leg.

I look at this pathetic excuse of a man and almost take pity on him. Im twice the size of him now and easily the more sober, but he is persistent. I go to walk away but he obviously still fancies his chances as he tries to pull me into the adjacent disabled toilet. Monkey baws puts his whole weight into pulling me in with the intention of giving me a battering when I simply break his grip on my jacket and he flies arse over tit in himself.... straight over the toilet ands ends up unceremoniously wedged between the crapper and the wall.

Its a sweet revenge seeing a bully stuck in a toilet with his knock off timberland boots waving helplessly in the air. Its even sweeter when you have a camera phone to hand.

Bullies? .. pah.. I flush em!
(babyjak, Sat 16 May 2009, 11:42, 2 replies)

My first and last fight
It was my second year of 'big school' and I'm sat in a Geography class, I loved Geography back then and still do.

The lesson was being ruined by Stuart who was sat behind me, he kept shoving his desk forward so it slammed into the back of my chair.

It pissed me off, words were exchanged resulting in an agreement to have a fight at afternoon break.
At break-time we found a quiet area, it was so quiet that the fight lasted most of the break.

Eventually we were stopped, both of us battered an bruised were marched off to the headmaster.
After a telling off we both knew it wasn't over so we agreed to fight again the next day.

It never happened, Stuart was hit by a car on his way home, he died on the road outside the School

I've never had a fight in the 24 years that have passed.

and still feel guilty now.
( Terry Oblong There's nobody here but us chickens on, Sat 16 May 2009, 3:09, 6 replies)

My own attempt at bullying.
I was bullied at primary school by two 'bigger boys'. In my preteen mind I decided the way to deal with this was to bully someone smaller than me.

Even though it was 25 odd years ago, I still remember his name and how he looked. His name was Adrian. He was about the same height as me, but very skinny and had that almost white/blonde hair. He smelt of wee most of the time (which in later life I learned was just a result of clothes not being dried properly) and always looked slightly grubby. He came from the rather rough council estate the surrounded this Colchester primary school.

I walked up to him in the playground after school. I growled "Adrian, I'm gonna duff you up 'cos you smell of piss". I drew my hand back ready to beat him senseless.

And then he punched me in the face and ran.

My career as a school bully started and stopped right at that very moment. The shock of receiving a fist to the mouth, as weak as it was, stunned me in to realising that I didn't really want to inflict pain on other people, that I just didn't have that bullying gene. I'm a pacifist, man.

So thank you Adrian for stopping me becoming some arse who acts out their own insecurities on those weaker than them.
(Big Smurf Brush me daddy-O, Fri 15 May 2009, 23:11, 1 reply)

One with a happy (non violent) ending
A few years back I started working at a law firm. My boss was *amazing*, and offered to put me through my law conversion course.

Then his wife started working there. She systematically destroyed any good relationship between the boss and staff. The only member of staff that was exempt was the secretary, an average, fairly dim, suck up.

Over the next 18 months all 12 of the original staff had left. I say this to reassure (mostly) myself that I wasn't a complete pansy.

Her slow take-over of the firm involved Big Brother-esque monitoring of each and every activity partaken in throughout the day, and the slow degradation of my role from that of having my own cases which I ran with minimal supervision, to office skivvy, culminating in them employing a new leader of our department, letting me know on the morning this numpty was arriving, and telling me to shift my stuff out into the hall because, oh, he'd be needing my desk, too. The department I worked in had consisted of me and my supervisor, who, since starting her new job has begged me to come and work with her new firm.

The boss's wife made continual nasty and sexist comments, letting it be known that although the male solicitor didn't have to clock in and out like we did, or fill in time sheets, there would be serious repercussions if we did not.

It is very hard to explain what office bullying is like. I honestly couldn't tell you what it was that affected me so deeply, but it was horrible. I used to sit in my car, trying not to burst into tears, for up to 10 minutes every morning before work, just in case I had to face her - or him, as she'd turned him firmly against us all.

Long and short was that I eventually went to see the doctor because my hair had started to fall out (!), and I was on the verge of a breakdown. She told me in no uncertain terms that I was to take time off with stress. I flinched, because time off with stress was what people who were lazy good-for-nothings did. But saw sense and took said time off. I had a meeting with my boss, and using up the last of my courage reserves explained in great detail why I was having such a hard time, to be reassured it wouldn't continue.

On my return, it was as if he had concentrated each offensive action into the space of 2 hours. I barely made it through the day, handed my notice in that afternoon, and through my tears fled to the doctors to be told that the doc had never heard anything so stupid (re the actions of my boss) in a long time. He signed me off for my notice period.

I did not get paid for that last month. Fair dos, I didn't work. But then my boss wrote to me demanding a number of thousands of pounds because they'd put me through one year of a law conversion course.


And here is where honesty and integrity (and printing all the evidence) prevails. I sent a 22 page official complaints letter, with 41 attached documents; mostly emails and timesheets, listing my unfair dismissal on the grounds of gender, bullying received from his wife, the reporting of said bullying, and the inaction on his part. It took me 2 weeks to write, and since I sent it I have not heard from the firm.

~wavy lines time~

The suck-up secretary who had stabbed all in the back when she was there, had been stabbed in the back herself, and quit. She told my supervisor to let me know that Mr Evil Boss had spent some thousands of pounds getting professional advice re my complaint letter to be told very firmly to shut up and hope that I never contacted them again or he would be in a huge heap of professional misconduct shite.

The firm is still doing business, altho last gossip was the idiot wife had "accidentally" laundered £10k for on of their clients. They still live in a massive house, drive massive cars, and generally act live pretentious nobs.
But... the husband has taken to sleeping in his office to avoid his harpy of a wife, who had gotten pregnant (again). Neighbours had started complaining that he would invite himself to their houses and not leave until the early hours.
And, I earn an equivalent of precisely 2x the wage he paid me. And my current boss is LOVELY. (Altho his new partner's a bit of a cow, hey ho, leaving in a couple of months anyway, and now I don't let it get to me).

I'm just happy that I'm no longer there. Anything else is a glorious bonus!
(Psyche finishes work at the end of June! Yay!!!, Fri 15 May 2009, 16:40, 9 replies)

Bullied Boy
This is a story about an odd person in my year at school. This kid litteraly invited bullying onto himself with the things he said and did.

The best example (well the clearest one I remeber) was at the begining on a school term. He waslks into his (largly jewish) class and yells "Heil Hitler man" He gets a beating.

Things continue, he says/does stupid/nasty things and gets beaten up by almost everybody in school (including the nerds)

The other freaky thing about him is that he;s always smiling when he gets beated upon.

A few years later I'm talking about school experiences with a girlfriend and I tell her this story. She listens, thinks about it and asks: "Do you think he may of enjoyed being beaten up a bit too much?" The question sinks in and I suddenly feel sickened.

This kid is a masochist and we've been helping him get off..... ugh
( Crap Little Monkey Deathstar, so good they built it twice, Fri 15 May 2009, 12:45, Reply)

You shouldn't bully people.
It gives them a lifelong sense of vague victimhood, which leads to them eventually joining the Taxpayers' Alliance and UKIP.

Bullying's bad.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 15 May 2009, 11:46, 6 replies)

So basically by the time I was 13 I was a black belt in every martial art known to man.
I'd started developing my own style called the shrieking cat but I did all of this below the radar because I wanted to keep my secret ninja skills hidden until I needed them.

But then this one bully at school pulled all the braids out of my hair after cooking class and I went mental. I released the shrieking cat on him and clawed his face off while all the while going "RYAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWW."

Almost immediately afterward I bedded several of the hot female teachers who daredn't tell me off cause of how bad ass I am.
( mike woz ere 7442200 & 7696970 getter, Fri 15 May 2009, 10:43, 1 reply)

A bully made me fear myself...
There is nothing funny here.

I was bullied all the way through school. I'm told it started when I was at a playgroup, aged about 2, none of the other kids would let me play with them for some reason. It got gradually worse through primary school and secondary school.

One of the worst offenders, we'll call M. He moved into my primary school in around year 4, went to the same secondary school as me and spent much of his time trying to make me miserable. I would be punched, insulted, laughed at, I had my friends turned against me.

One day, I snapped. At the morning break time, he came up and punched me on the arm without provocation. Until that day, I'd just accepted it all and ignored it. I don't know what changed then, but the next thing I knew, I'd shoved him into a wall and I was gripping his windpipe with my right hand, squeezing hard.

I didn't say anything, I just stared into his eyes with a face full of hatred, watching him attempt to breathe and fail (I'd entirely closed his windpipe). His eyes were filled with fear. I know I held on a long time as he started to go purple. I have no idea how long it actually was, it felt like forever.

Eventually, I was pulled off him, and he dropped to the floor coughing and spluttering, gasping for breath. I was immediately surrounded by the other cunts congratulating me. I had to sit through an hour of geography before lunch. At lunch, I ran home and cried my eyes out, shaking for the whole hour.

Apart from play fighting with my brothers, that's the only time in my life I've ever been violent to another human being. It scared the hell out of me to know that I was capable of doing something like that, and still does. I'm also terrified to think what would have happened if I hadn't been pulled off. Would I have stopped when he passed out? Would I have stopped at all? I like to think I'd have stopped, but I really don't know, and that's the most terrifying thing of all.
(whyamihere, Thu 14 May 2009, 22:03, 3 replies)

The best maths lesson I never had ... (thanks to the white powder)
Several means of achieving revenge have been offered on this board in the time I’ve been reading. I would like to offer up the best one I ever found, told to me from an unexpected source. This is a straightforward old-ground revenge story, so if that’s not your thing I understand – I have no idea how long this will get - apologies.

***into the past ***

The scene of this story is set in the seconded squalor of secondary school. From years seven to the time I quit the place I was in a pretty tight nit group of about 10 of us. We were the oddballs, the leftovers... but we all muddled along together and I gained some really good friends in the process - with exceptions.

Our main group had its sub-divisions and for large parts of the time it was just us four girls and two guys. Sam (the boy) and Alicia (the girl) were two in my group who had parents who were much richer, much better connected than the rest of us (this being a bog standard comp) and they weren’t afraid to let it show.Ever thought the loners don’t bully their own? Ever thought the worst bullying was just the physical kind? I learnt the answers to those questions over a series of months when we hit year 9. It started as little snide glances and comments about the ... variations in our backgrounds. It escalated into a campaign to slander me by spreading rumours (the subjects aren’t which isn’t important) and trying to involve me in their two-faced bitching contests where anything you say ... will be thrown back in your face the next day.

I can’t say it was any particular thing, but one day I just saw them openly pointing and jeering at me and decided enough was enough – I wanted revenge. I was tired of being made to feel like I only existed for their entertainment. I gave a lot of thought to the kind of revenge I wanted. It wasn’t to be physical, that’s not my style. And I didn’t want it to be malicious or have lasting damage like (certain) rumours can ... besides I didn’t have the kind of influence in our group or the school to spread the kind of rumours they had. Then one day Opportunity came and danced in front of me. I managed to get hold of Sam’s spare locker key. Through cunning means? No, I just happened to notice one day that he kept the two keys together on his bunch – the silly chap! – and lifted one. Suddenly I had access to his locker! Opportunity had bought along her friends Good Fortune and World of Opportunities.

Inspiration eventually came from an unlikely source: my mother. I can’t remember her exact words but suddenly she came out with it in discussion. The old mysterious white powdered substance in the locker trick – to be discovered by a teacher at an opportune moment. I should mention at this point that Sam was in the habit of keeping his bag in his locker at lunch – thus sealing the deal on my means of revenge. I should mention this point that my mum is a legend, and good on this stuff from her own school days. She even ended up being the one who supplied the gear for me – god knows who her contact was.

So now it was a case of timing – as I said, I wanted my revenge to be visual, something I where I could see the effects of my time spent scheming. Maths, period 4 after lunch was the only window of oppurtunity giving me the time I needed. It was the habit of our group to spend lunchtime in the form room of our year base. That lunchtime, on a cold January day I snuck away on some excuse and headed to the locker room area. (the old fashioned steel row things that’ll grab your finger) All the while I was nervous – after all, what if I was found in possession?!

Checking no-one was around (success) I hastily opened his locker and slipped the stuff of powdered goodness into his bag making sure to spread it about like it had burst. I had a good portion of it in a polythene bag (neatly sealed by my good Catholic mother) and had intended to take the bag away (fingerprints! Evidence!) but in the end I had to leave it all there – bag and all. I was nervous, never handled this stuff before, and even managed to get some on my sleeve. That led to a nerve-wracking trip to the bathroom to wash it off.
So anyway, we come to afternoon reg. Sam has retrieved hi s bag and seems none the wiser. I am trying to act casual, and failing – anticipating the moment of discovery by him, the tutor, the teacher – anyone.

So far, so good, as we head to afternoon maths (two blocks and a godly number of steps away) there was already an odd film around the rim of his bag. And it starts to kick off. We enter the classroom before the teacher (only 20 or so of us in this, the lower to middling set)Wanting a front row seat, I go sit by Sam, who is unknowingly about to pull Chaos (hard on the heels of Chance and Opportunity) from his bag to join the party. Pulling his maths books from his bag, he discovers they are covered, no, caked in a thick film of powder ... powder that starts to cloy in the air faster than the revulsion when Westlife are played on loop at a record store. And not just his maths books - showing no academic snobbery I believe priceless Science and History textbooks were also victims to the advance of my dodgy white substance. Understandably, Sam is shocked as he drops the book and yanks out the polythene bag. (Mistake#1) As it spreads he hastily throws it away (Mistake#2) and by this point he is caked in it too. The sight of Sam, all his branded gear and hair products, standing looking down at himself in shock, looking like a dandruff army is marching down his front, will stay with me always. I realise I don't want to be *too* close to the action and have moved away by this point.

Not so Tanya, one of the other of our friends, and Matt (the other boy, if you remember) who were so unfortunate as to catch the momentum of the bag as Sam hurled it away. Indignant, rightly, in thinking that Sam had thrown it *at* them, Tanya picked up the bag and *threw* it back.

By now the powder had finished its ground to hair to bag assault and was making a bad for domination of the entire room via the air and the carpet and curtains. If you ever wondered what a talcum powder fight looked like, I can tell you it's devastating.

Yep, that's right, talcum powder. But this is not just any talcum powder, this is Johnson's extra fine, delicately scented talcum powder, in short, it is the shit, and it spreads faster than the lastest expenses scandal.

As Sam, Tanya and Matt vollied the half-empty bag of finest powdered goodness between them in ever-growing vitriolic venom, an odd feeling of peace and contentment and justice settled over me just like the cloud of dust spreading all over the room - as I was doubling over in laughter. It had gone better than I had imagined.

(The rest is posted in reply for the sake of length, as the story does in a way end here - I'd got what I wanted. But if you wanted to find out the rest click on the reply. I hope this has made the length ok)
(treaclebriggs, Thu 14 May 2009, 21:26, 2 replies)

Would this be a good time to say...
Man.

The.

Fuck.

Up.

?
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Thu 14 May 2009, 13:55, 5 replies)

Talk about timing.
I was at the bus stop with a friend of mine after school today. She was looking down so I asked her what was up. She told me some of the boys at school had been giving her a hard time, calling her names and harrassing her and she had no idea why. She was nearly in tears telling me and I was nearly in tears hearing it.

So I did what I normally do when comforting people. I gave her a massive squeezy hug and a kiss on the forehead.

And out of nowhere comes a barrage of abuse. Apparently the boys who'd been harrassing her had been right nearby and were watching us the whole time. "EMO!" "Fucking lezzers!" "Whores!" was yelled at us. One boy walked up to us and yelled "You sluts are fucking FILTH". He then spat on the ground at our feet and walked off.

Where the fuck were the teachers to stop this happening?
Less then 15m away. They did nothing. They didn't see it.

I gave her another hug and went to find a teacher as soon as she'd left. I found one and told him what had gone on.

I can (well I can't really but I'm used to it now) deal with it happening to me because I've been putting up with it for nearly 11 sodding years.
I'm fucked if I'm letting it happen to her. Dobbing? Absolutely. If it helps her - I really don't care less. I hope the pricks get suspended or expelled.
(Poppet some assembly required., Thu 14 May 2009, 8:51, 8 replies)

Wormulus' tale below reminds me
of my old pal Hamish, who was pressured by older boys into going into the local Chinese and ordering 'Bruce Lee on toast'.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Thu 14 May 2009, 8:44, 1 reply)

A cheerful story
I play in a moderately succesful ska band. I love everyone single member of it to bits, and I'm lead to believe they feel similarly warmly about me. Nevertheless, that doesn't mean we aren't frequently cunts to each other, I believe the infamous 'cock sandwich' incident has already been related by our bassist shitbitch on the food sabotage question.

By a stroke of bad luck I am the single most ticklish entity I've ever met. I have ticklish elbows. I can even tickle myself, which apparently you're not even supposed to be able to do. Regrettably, I have not been able to keep this completely secret and everyone knows they need only make as if to tickle me to induce the loudest fits of whooping laughter since that dreadful incident at the Nos factory that I just made up for the purposes of this scintillating example of figurative language.

So, picture the scene. It is August, and we are camping in a layby somewhere near Tamworth, of all places. We follow the usual post gig routine of setting up the tents somewhere where it looks like we won't be disturbed by angry landowners at some ungodly hour of the morning (not always with 100% success) then getting ourselves fucked in half off cheap boxes of wine and copious amounts of marijuana. It's a bit like On the Road, but less glamorous and with significantly less shagging. There is a massive field to our left with train tracks running along the bottom, and some kind of light industrial estate to our right. We are pretty much all alone in every direction.

It's about one in the morning, I think, and there is not much wine left (country manor is preferred, because not only is it dirt cheap, it's also endlessly amusing to conceal some of the letters so it says 'cunt man'. Truly, it is a joke that never gets old), so the only way forward on our quest for new and exciting mental states is to hot box the van. We do this. Everything takes on a sharp, surreal quality, the air hangs heavy with smoke and time slows to a snail's pace. My heart begins to samba beneath my skin as bollocks issues forth from my mouth with alarming alacrity (whoever she might be). On cannabis, I am no longer a humble skinny teenager, but an amalgamation of Cicero and Aldous Huxley when it comes to making outstanding orations on the nature of all things.

My dear, dear friends are also caned to oblivion and think that perhaps, whilst listening to me in full flow is a great pleasure and very enlightening to boot, it might also be fun to tickle me a bit, seeing as my limbs aren't quite up for doing what they're told. Tickling proceeds to much mirth all round. I was on the middle seats of the three rows we have in the van, enabling tickling to take place from all directions, tickling to the left of me, tickling to the right of me, into the valley of giggles road your humble narrator, helpless to resist. I have quite a hearty laugh at the best of times, but under this sort of extreme tickling I can only really be compared to Krakatoa in all its might, erupting with great molten flows of cachinnation.

Suffice to say, dear reader, I was fairly helpless, but it was all harmless fun. The idea, however seems to spread across the group of my assailants, as if by osmosis, that perhaps this would be funnier if I was naked. Now, As a band we are no strangers to each others bodies, and I believe this is as it should be, but I do object to being forcibly undressed. Nonethless, forcibly undressed I was, still howling from the ceaseless vellication being inflicted upon me. When at last I was parted from my boxers, I was left, spent, panting and gasping on the floor of our van as my bandmates cackled with glee.

Some minutes later, still considerably stoned and no less drunk, I found myself still buck naked, chasing after my clothed friends wielding my boxers like the scalp of some vanquished enemy, hooting with vicious delight, round a field somewhere near Tamworth. It is at times like this when I do have to wonder, 'how, really, has my life come to this? What kind of divine path layed out for me to follow includes chasing your best friends who have stolen your clothes in some field far from places I know while my head throbs not altogether pleasantly from excessive amounts of chemicals I've just welcomed eagerly into my body?'

Still, it's a bloody good story.
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Thu 14 May 2009, 4:30, 5 replies)

Hmmmm . . . .
this isn't going to be funny, or particularly impressive, but here's what suburban Melbourne was like in the 70s/80s for a Greek kid . . .

I grew up in the eastern suburbs of Melbourne, and started kindergarten at 3 (I was keen to start early!). I was fairly bright as a kid, I could read before I started "proper school" (thanks Dad!) and I could spell my own surname (which is bloody long and not very Anglo Saxon).

The Primary school I ended up in consisted of the equivalent of today's Chavs. Being the *only* wog (calm down, it's not an insult here any more, but it was then) until my brother and a Sri Lankan family showed up, meant those seven years were fun, to say the least.
We did have a Vietnamese girl in the same year as me, but she was quiet, and as she did all the pretty drawings that the shit-for-brains teachers wanted, and she had lovely, girly handwriting, she was forever branded an "angel" and never bothered (being Asian, it was also far less acceptable for her to be the target of my white-trash teacher, but the Greek was fair game).

Where to start? I (and brother-in-law of Legless) were always walked to school, always had a decent lunch packed for us, always had clean, patch-free clothes (the significance of this is that two migrants on minimum wage kept their children looked-after). We didn't necessarily have a lot, but I don't remember complaining for a lack of anything.

I had a combination of nice but indifferent teachers, and one in particular who I hope is burning in the confines of Hell. She, funnily enough, was married to an Englishman (a Geordie I realiise now!) and at the time, was about 50-60 years old. I never heard a word of encouragement from this sorry excuse for a human being, and she delighted in making my brother feel like a thicko (who was, and is, not academically minded . . . but is a bright little bugger when he wants to be). I spent two years with this harridan, wondering why the other kids would get the smiles and nods of ecouragement, and I would get a scowl for the same/much better work. Why someone giving me scars on my knees I still have now from repeatedly knocking me into a wall never received punishment, but me slapping the same bastard for an insult was repayed with a seesion in the corner of the room (funnily enough, she never told my parents).

I remember having my father come up to school more mornings than I'd like to "discuss" (ie: come close to knocking the stuffing out of) some little shit who thought bashing me/ making fun of my name/culture/family and be told by this shining example of public teaching that "he meant no harm, and his Mum's a single mother, surely you should feel sorry for him."

So, why am I reasonbly well balanced as adult, with no particular scars (other than physical) from my fun time there?

I left that school as a grade 6, and was sent to a Catholic secondary school - nothing posh, just one where academic results were important enough to decide whether you remained enrolled - you work hard, you stay. And most of those attending were non-Anglo Saxon. In fact, I could count them on one hand . . .

No one gave a rat's arse what you looked like, what your name was; and if you could read well, and enjoyed studying, people actually *liked* you. A far cry from the hole in the ground I spent seven years festering in.

That primary school has since been bulldozed; I cheered the day they brought the wrecking ball in.


It's unpleasant to recall any part of that time; but just like all phases of one's life - it's gone. The old bag has since, I'm told passed away . . . and un-Christian though it is, I'm relieved to hear it. Many of the children at that school are probably living out their lives like the rest of us - there's no comfort in thinking that they'll be destitute, or dead, or raising mini-Chavs in Moe.

More to the point, their behaviour back then had to come from somewhere - children don't become racists (that's probably what we would call that today) off their own bat. More influential than what's on TV, the environment at home probably had a lot to do with how they behaved at school.

So, to the old class of 1987, I hope you're lives are fulfilling, and I hope the racists stereotypes your folks instilled at home have gotten you into all sorts of trouble . . . especially in grown up land, where there's no teacher there to make excuses for you . . .
( Mrs Legless . . . belongs to, well, you know . . . :), Thu 14 May 2009, 4:01, 3 replies)

Shittest bullies ever?
I got called 'chocolate biscuit' and 'funnyless'. I suppose chocolate biscuit might have been slightly insulting if I were black, but I'm not. And what was funnyless all about? Were they trying to say 'fannyless'? Either way, it was terribly difficult to feel bothered.
( Bob Todd whee, Wed 13 May 2009, 21:00, 2 replies)

My turn to whinge now.
One boy at my school picked on me quite a bit, for example; on one occasion he grabbed me as I innocently walked by in the hall and emptied a can of cola in my hair, and he once pushed me down and dragged me through a puddle by my schoolbag.

I ran into him a couple of years ago in a local pub, and against all expectations he came over and apologised for being so mean to me and we had a nice chat.

Whether or not his new found repentance was due to the fact that I am now bigger than him I couldn't possibly say. Although I found it quite funny considering I am a girl and only 5'2".

First post, be nice! I'm only wee.
(AyeMe, Wed 13 May 2009, 20:24, Reply)

Picture the scene.








Oh go on, I can't think of anything.
(Spaff_Quaffer Wise fwom your gwave., Wed 13 May 2009, 15:31, Reply)

Where's the question?
I never got bullied, and even if I did I wouldn't dredge it all back up for the sake of internet sympathy. Christ.
( BraynDedd Natasha Kaplinsky's labia majora, Wed 13 May 2009, 14:55, 5 replies)

Bullying
I suffered in silence for 3 years, it was actually 4 years but after the 1st year and not getting any help or support I pretty much gave up and just accepted that this was the way my life was going to be.

It didn't just affect me - it affected my parents. They couldn't help and this caused a few arguments between which only made me more determined to stay silent.

When I pushed through a 3rd storey window I still tried to keep things quiet.

When I had broken hand held down and punched I still kept quiet.

When they would climb 12ft fences around the tennis courts I didn't bother to run - they'd only get me later.

They knew where I lived so going out was always a bit fraught. Staying in was the same. Sometimes they'd wait outside my house.

Taking the dog out for a walk was a bit of worry - things were always worse outside school, although attacks were much rarer.

I had my ears pulled so hard that they ripped. They're now a bit knobbly.

My parents did their best, and I love them for it, but they could never help. To ask them for help would have been weak.

That's just a few of the things I went through. It might not sound much but even today they still affect me to an extent. When I see those people in the street (which is thankfully rare!) I become that person I was and shrink inside. Even though all this happened 15 years ago I still wonder how I could have been so weak as to let it happen.

I'm a father myself now, as some as you know, and made a promise to my son that I'll never let him suffer like I did. I hope to God that he never does. I love him, he's special and I'll always do my best to protect him.

Writing this post has been a tough. It's not something I like to talk about and it's not something that many of my friends know about, but in a strange way its something of a relief.

As is the norm in many tales like this, most of the people who bullied me are habitual criminals and/or junkies. In hindsight I guess (and in some cases know) they had little or no family life. I suppose they were missing something and thats what made them the way they were. I'm man enough to forgive but I'll never forget.
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Wed 13 May 2009, 14:30, 4 replies)

Grrrr.
This week's question has made me quite angry - reading other people's horrific stories and remember the bad time I had at school. I've only got one hand so you can imagine the types of taunts and insults I got. Teachers don't do anything, you realise that quite quickly from the age of 5 or so upwards, and the whole "ignore them and they'll stop" doesn't work either.

I now have a 7-month old daughter, and as soon as she's old enough to go (and wants to go, obviously I'm not going to force her to do something she doesn't want to) I'm going to enroll her in a kid-friendly martial arts class. There are several reasons for this:
a) it's great for fitness, flexibility and general health (sadly lacking in a lot of kids these days)
b) it teaches discipline and respect for others
c) if she evers needs to, she can stick up for herself.

If she ever gets bullied to the point where it's obvious it's not just a bit of ribbing from other kids and it's clearly distressing her, she's going my full permission to put a stop to it physically. I'll have no difficulty explaining my reasons to the head teacher and the parents of the other child(ren) because there's no way I'm going to let her take the misguided advice of the adults in charge and undergo a repeat of what happened to me. Teachers have got no clue half the time and are happy to sweep stuff under the carpet, and no power to actually do anything the other half.

My bullying finally calmed down when I was about 15 or so, when one day one of the bullies gave me a slap round the head, knocking my glasses halfway across the classroom. I turned round, belted him, knocked him over a table, inadvertantly ripping half his ear off in the process. It wasn't my intention, but this had to stop, you know? Well, it did. It makes me sad to say it, but I wish I'd done it earlier!
(JohabMorelli is spenging merrily away, Thu 21 May 2009, 3:53, 1 reply)

Revenge is a dish best served cold... and wet.
Primary school, bully named Arnold (can't remember his surname otherwise I'd quite happily post it), used to belt one and all for no apparent reason.
This went on for two years until we went on a school camp to a farm and on the first morning when we all bounded out of bed, Arnold stayed put.
Poor boy had wet the bed.
Some genius immediately realised the old French song "Alouette, gentille Alouette, Alouette je te plumerai" could EASILY be sung "Arnold wets the, little Arnold wets the, Arnold wets the, Arnold wetrs the bed..."
And his reign of terror was over.
( difficultchild, Thu 21 May 2009, 1:38, Reply)

Dear Mom...
You know that thing you always told me? "Just ignore them and they'll stop bothering you?" Doesn't work. Just for your own information. I ignored them and they bothered me all the way up to graduation.

I had extra curly hair as a child that my mother always cut very short so it poofed out. I was the afro girl with the glasses and crooked teeth. Not my better years. I wasn't bullied as much as teased, except for Benjamin S., who took enjoyment in insulting me, occasionally threw rocks at me and once punched me for touching something that belonged to him.
My brother had more problems, poor guy. He's schizophrenic, a bit fat due to his medication, and once had a growth removed from his nose that left it looking a little funny. Still, he's the sweetest guy I know, and to all you assholes that beat him up, broke his things and followed him home taunting him: You suck. It's your fault my brother doesn't trust anybody outside the small circle of people he's known all his life. Also, to the teacher to whom my brother reported bullying to and just told him not to be a tattletale: You suck too.
(mariam67, Wed 20 May 2009, 22:33, Reply)

Most of the stories this week...
...refer to bullying when we were kids / at school.
There's a lot of workplace bullying out there too. I lost someone very close to me recently due to extreme workplace bullying. He carbon-monoxided himself in his car (no, not a Honda Accord).
He couldn't handle it anymore and left behind a wife and daughter and a lot of grieving relatives and friends.
The bully knew he was suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and still persisted in bullying him.
What happened to the bully? Sweet FA.
(emadex thinks the world will end on, Wed 20 May 2009, 16:47, 6 replies)

The Bad and Good of Bullying
I've had a few experiences with bullying in my time. The trick with bullies is you have to hit them back hard enough to discourage them from doing it again. The first time, this bully picked a fight after school. Well, I managed to get him down and then just started kicking him, over and over until I was sure I wouldn't be having any more trouble from him. Must have worked as I never saw him again.

Shortly after that, I was dispatched to military school. Things went OK for a while but there's always some kid who'll try it on. This one tried it in the showers. Luckily, I was wet and slippery as he tried to grapple me and I managed to slip away. A quick blow to the nuts and then to the face and he was down. I made a real mess of his nose and there was blood everywhere. I never saw him again either so obviously I scared him as much as the first one. He must have been real keen to get out of there.

On the upside, I did manage to get the Earth fleet to the Formic homeworld and wipe those Buggers out entirely. Result.

Thought it would make a change from Star Wars
(Richy_T hundreds if not thousands of dollars, Wed 20 May 2009, 15:32, 6 replies)

I need to buy a new car
and I was seriously thinking of getting a Honda Accord.

Ruined that for me haven't you, you great bunch of bullies.
( argyleblanket The man on the roof works for me, Wed 20 May 2009, 15:10, 2 replies)

I used to be quite slim
and cut a bit of a dash round the town , lately though I find I've put on weight and somehow can't reduce the wobbly mound of flesh that hangs over my trousers and seems to give people the right to call me tubbs , fatty etc .

Oh , hang on , you said bullies ....
( horace wimp needs more than 49 characters to fully express hi, Wed 20 May 2009, 12:02, Reply)

a bullies bully
at middle school i was bullied every day main because i was crap at footie and supported liverpool. After we left went to secondary school
and a week in to the new school it started again after few months i got depressed. and got very low then friend died. it was at that point i turned day after his funeral they started saying i killed him then red mist desended i picked up ring leader by neck pushed him over table and smacked two of his hench men kicked a third one in the nuts (i was out numbered thats my excuse) fourth one just lauched my self at his chest breaking few ribs.:)
After that point i knowen as a nutter but got respect and im ashamed to say i started to bully the weaker kids, but after few months i got bored of same old faces same old screaming.decided to defend the weaker kids and bully the bullies took few weeks but then the kids who were beening bullied told me who was picking on them and i dish out a form of justice.


sorry about spelling
(dwayne, Wed 20 May 2009, 0:00, 7 replies)

First post... Sorry no funnies, at least this is cathartic.
I went to a private primary school in London. I was not popular neing the only person in my year who did not come from any sort of posh, rich background. I don't know how my parents managed it, I suppose with lots of support from family and friends.

At my school I was not clever. The only subject I had any aptitude for was maths andpossibly science. In year 5+6 I was given extra help with my english because it was so poor. I suppose I did not fit in at school being fat, ugly, dumb and poor. At least the dumb part has changed a little since then. My sister was also in this school two years above me.

My whole school career there was hell. Reception was only small things like peopple nicking something, and throwing it about the playground - the whole year. Tough the only good thing about this time was one girl, we kissed a couple of times, and she was nice to me. Shame she left after that year.

Year one continued with just little interaction towards me. However I do remember one day I was hiding in the toilets at lunch crying. Someone asked why I was there - and threatened to tell my teacher that I wasn't going to go to lunch. So I went as I did not want to get into trouble.

Year two however got a bit worse. I got tied to a drainpe with skipping ropes. Remember this is a private primary school in London. Needless to say eventually a teacher walked past; whom I unburdened my tale to, and who called my dad to say I was upset. Of course no action was taken, I doubt even their parents were told. Also in year 2 were with are head teacher who was talking to us about something, which I cannot remember; then someone called me fat - I was overweight and still am but at a young age - and then more people were calling me fat so I left the room. Yet again, nothing happened.

In year three it was my teacher mainly who bullied me. She would put down my work, say it wasn't good enough. Even though at times I was already staying up untill 10pm or so secretly trying to finish it. She kept me in at break occasionally which was unheard of at my school. This was the only year I ever got on with one of my student bullies whom my teacher also had a dislike of. I suppose we shared a common hatred. One time a swore at my teacher (V not words) and she spotted out of the corner of her eye. She came over and asked me what I had done. I feigned inocence, but seing as I was the dumb one she assumed I was telling the truth.

In year 4 my teacher was nice. I think she had a vauge idea that I wasn't well liked by anyone in the school. So I managed to get to use the kinda crap computers at break time a little more often than others. However whenever I tried to report anything that had happened towards me or the only person who was my friend - two years below me - she told me that she thought I was making it all up. At this point I was already sitting on my own whenever possible, or in corners and away from people. In Art/DT I was already sitting by myself on my own table.

Year five and at this point in the tale something happens. All the comments about me being fat may have reached some teaches ears, and now instead of attending my RE lessons. The PE teacher at my school took me to walk in the park. I suppose this would not count as bullying but I was certianly portrayed as an outcast even more by the school. This year a girl joined who was also not the thinnest but no-one made any comments about her weight.

Year six my teacher is lovely. I remember often frequenting the stairs at breaktime and lunch break as no-one would go there. Also my friend two years below me one lunch break got violence towards her from some of her year, a large part due towards her friendship with me. Needless to say right after I left she stopped being friends with me. In some ways she that felt like the worst kind of bullying. Someone who you've helped protect, and who've you've been kind to you and especially one who is younger turn on you, and end the friendship with you.

Now I move to a state secondary school, where my sister attends two years above me. This school so far has been different. I am now in year 10 and although here I have been bullied somewhat. No-where near as much, I have friends, teachers who believe and support me, and also I now have a therapist whom I see twice a week.

Year seven brought on a different school which I found easy to adapt to. Now because I spoke well, and had a good grasp of the english language (no thanks to primary school, I managed to teach myself some good stuff) and with a fine mannered accent I seemed posh. Let alone the only time I would talk would be correctimg someone or answering a question. I didn't make many friends. I managed to annoy the preps by not joining their group of intelegent idiots, the chavs by being clever, the slow ones for rushing ahead and everyone else for being a bit of a smartarse.

I guess other thigs didn't help. Like when I cried abecause someone had pulled a trick on me when we were playing a game. Or the fact that I had a habit of tidying up the from room every day.

However I was bullied by the chqavs, they would call me things and put me down. Ocasionally I would get shoved a little but not much.

Year eight saw my intellegence growing immensly. I managed to talk a bit more and become friends with the currently unidentified group, alot of which have now turned in to ravers. Also I probably annoyed the slow people less as I was not in most of their classes and I become kind of friends with them. I still got all the verbal abuse as before.

Year nine came with some big changes. I have had problems with people pushing me down small sets of stars and laughing, and such the like. However less direct bullying and more indirect which makes it harder to tell on and try to sort it out. I gt a therapist in year 9 as I was very depressed. I had stopped talking almost completely, even in lessons and to answer questions. I had also started self harming so I suppose even I was bullying myself.

This school year also saw the frequent outbursts I had in lessons shouting at everyone to shut the hell up then my storming out. This even happened once in my most beloved subject maths. A whole bunch of people were talking about me, and I got so pissed off I stormed out.

Year 10 has seen very little bullying with regards to direct, however rumors are more vicious. Also One girl whio would keep asking me stupid questions. Things happen here and there but I mostly keep them to myself.

I would say that some bullies wont sort themselves out. Most have issues and actually need some support. I would personally reccoment talking to a teacher - but not in primary school - as opposed to violence.

P.S. Thanks for a QOTW I can vent about.

Sorry for the lack of funnies.

Edit:

Also have been beten up by chavs ina playground because they did not like my friend, and I got egged by chavs a week ago because I was with her. Though because of her sister I doubt her get that much bullying. (Her sister is a chav and can get them to lay off her a bit. Thats what it seems like anyway)
(ubiquitous writhing garlic, Tue 19 May 2009, 18:55, 6 replies)

bullies
i was bullied but i kinda enjoyed it. i would look forward to it because i was curious to see what they had next. it definetly builds charactar so i'm now a pretty tough guy. i can take alot. alot more than i can give i think. just get your head down and deal with bullying. whether thats telling someone, no matter how much you think it will make things worse, which it doesn't. or keeping a stiff upper lip (the proper British way) or be like me. turn a problem into something thats not so bad. i turned bullying into my own little endurance trial. i love pushing myself beyond the edge to find my limits. i don't mind pain too much either so being physically abused was kinda funny.
(S.I.M.O.N. wants a piece of your coopcock., Tue 19 May 2009, 15:34, 5 replies)

Short, Sweet and untrue.
My mate told me he was hassled by Jon Caldwell

Bully4U thought I.

Mullered.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Tue 19 May 2009, 13:54, Reply)

lol, my country bullied Africa for a while.... and Australia... and America for a bit... oh - and India... ermmm...
oh yeah... and Ireland


lol
(likeajackhammer, Tue 19 May 2009, 10:19, 8 replies)

Hamlet convinced most potential bullies in middle school not to mess with me
I had off and on trouble with bullies in elementary and middle school, though by middle school most people had grown up. I still got some snide remarks for the way I dressed and my fascination with science fiction books and movies and my complete disconnection from anything "popular" at the time. During middle school, I really only had one bully, and I shut him up by consistently beating him out of first chair trombone for a semester (the next semester we were two of three trombonists and basically everyone got a turn to be first).

But I finally got everyone to kind of just lay off by a single performance of Hamlet's "To be or not to be" soliloquy. Not because it was oh-my-god-he's-got-so-much-talent good or anything camp. No, it was because when I read Hamlet, the guy sounds to be fucking nuts. I played Hamlet as a mostly deranged, severely unbalanced individual. Afterward, I had more than one person who'd offered even the merest half assed ridicule come up and say they were convinced I was going to leap off the stage and start butchering the lot of them right then and there.

I didn't have much issue with anyone after that. Unfortunately, the year I started high school was the year that we had several high school mass killings in the US, and somehow my fragile mind decided that the best way to not get caught in one of those situations was to not stand out in any way. I therefore learned to be a consummate slacker and turned getting a C into an artform, but that is another story.
(blinkin the merrily misanthropic IT gremlin, Tue 19 May 2009, 6:51, 1 reply)

Its my b3ta birthdayyy
But its still a sad QOTW :(

Have a story.

There is a person in our life called Richard. Quite simply he is a cunt.
Back story time!
Back when we first met we all got bullied quite a bit for our troubles, but we got by and eventually it went away. The bullies even got to say sorry to me and buy me drinks later in life :D
Richard however didn't grow up. When he got into 5th year at our school he began to bully all the first years, this just wasn't on we thought. We explained to him that he was a cunt and he went through the same, and we asked him why was he doing it.
he replied simply: "Because I'm better than them and i can"
the second he said that 3 pairs of hands grabbed him and made sure he regretted saying that. I wont go into details but he didn't boast about that again.
Sorry its a bit of a shot story, but its less depressing than most of the others on here :/
(Kuja335, Mon 18 May 2009, 18:06, 2 replies)

one time
i was being bullied by this jerkoff with a big dog,which he painted with some kind of glowy crap and tried to scare the shit out of me.Aha!,thought I,and I called in a detective and this short fat guy who was always writing.Turns out the bully was a retard,as he fucked off pretty sharpish and accidentally drowned in a bog.Result!
(Fuckpig "That's not even a pound a midget.", Mon 18 May 2009, 16:29, 7 replies)

Hmm, I may have super powers.
There was a school reunion recently. There's one every year, but since this one was organised by the pupils themselves rather than the slightly dodgy masonic "old boys society" I decided to attend.

It was more than a little odd, although gratifying, to see how old, fat bald, of fucked up on drugs some of them were. Even better was the lack of certain faces amongst the crowd, certain faces who thought that "How far can we twist your wrist before it breaks again" was a good game, or "How much lighter fluid does it take to set a ginga on fire ?" that was always a favourite.

Dead, both of them.
One of throat cancer, possibly from smoking 40 a day from the age of 11 upwards.
The other from "getting into a fight"

Schadenfreuade, such a lovely word...
( DukeEuphoria Comes highly reccomended, Mon 18 May 2009, 16:15, 4 replies)

Do I tell her mum?
Regarding an email I got yesterday, how apt this is for this weeks QOTW
Last year an old friend got in touch and asked if I would give some info/tuition to her 15 yr old daughter who was in the army cadets.
She was going off to do a survival exercise and knowing I had experience of this wanted me to pass on any tips and info that may help her pass the course.
This I did happily, glad to help. Was all done via email.
Afterwards I got an email saying she had passed and thanked me.
Ok end of story it seemed.
Yesterday her mum emailed some pictures, apologised for delay, and friends daughter had one beautiful shiner.
I replied and commented on the black eye.
Friend replied to say her daughter had been smacked by a loose branch during the course.
I did a reply making some commiseration (sp?)

Then later the daughter emailed me to tell me what really happened, begged me not to say anything to her mum.
She has been bullied mercilessly by an older female cadet, up until the course the bullying had only been verbal.
But on the course where she had shown initiative and excelled in building shelter and fire making, the other girl became physically violent, had actually taken a lump of wood and hit her across the face with it while calling her a swotty cow.
The instructors found her crying and bleeding and she told them it was an accident while building her shelter.
The instructors dont know, her mum doesnt know, but I do.
Now she has told me this in confidence, begging me not to tell.
WTF do I do ?
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Mon 18 May 2009, 0:19, 24 replies)

Fat nerd
Between the ages of 5 and 8 I had a boyfriend and loads of friends. Maybe it was the grown-up patent shoes that converted into slip-ons in a single swivel of the strap, or my Alacarte Kitchen and post-office-in-a-suitcase... anyway, I was popular. Then one by one, over the course of a year, all but one of my friends left for other schools (and in many cases, other countries).

The bullying soon started, with one illiterate scumbag called Louise pushing me into a nettle filled ditch and punching me in the face.

Then, when I started puberty a couple of years later I grew boobs and put on a lot of weight in a short space of time. I was accused of stuffing my bra, called a variety of fat-themed names and they also made up songs about me. It got worse through high school, as they taunted me for my decent grades (how is 'boffin' an insult exactly?), my accent and my weight.

I developed a very efficient way to deal with name-calling: When they called out "oi fatty", I would turn to them, grin, wave enthusiastically and say "hello!" in a cheery voice. This confuses and angers them at first, but after a while they just give up.

Of the resident gang of bitches, Katherine was the worst. 5 foot 8 of amateur make-up and straightened bleached hair. She was at least 2 sizes bigger than me, but at 10 inches taller it was easier to hide (so she still mocked me for my weight). She slammed my head into a coat-hook and started a rumour that I was a lesbian...

Anyway, I digress.

Years later, size 10 with a great job and happily married, I tracked down many of the bitches through myspace and facebook. For the most part the bitches are now fat, haggard single mothers. The icing on the cake was Katherine's former boyfriend tracking me down to ask me on a date - apologising for being horrible to me at school because he didn't want Katherine to beat him up.

These people blighted my childhood, but at least now I can rejoice in their misery. That's healthy, isn't it? :D
(Supermonkey, Sun 17 May 2009, 16:22, 4 replies)

A tale from earlier in my life
So, here’s a story from the earlier years of my life, as opposed to one from the latters, which is my usual trick. When I was but a wee Ghost, I was a bit of a social misfit. My parents had moved around lots when I was young, so I ended up having to reintegrate myself into school society every now and then. Consequently, I never really learned how to deal with people in a long term capacity as I’d have to make new friends every now and then, and then fuck off and repeat the whole process a few months down the line.

Up until about the time I hit the age of 10 or 11, my family were moving always to different areas. From that age however, we settled down in one area and just ended up moving around that area a lot, but always kept me in the same school. Subsequently, I at last learned to deal with people, but never really fit in anywhere, cos I studied hard, and read books and didn’t really play sports, on account of being slightly worse at football and other sports than a mong is at performing brain surgery. I also had massive fuck-off jamjar thick glasses that I needed to see, and massive buck teeth at the time. Also, everyone knew everyone else from primary school and in some cases even from nursery school, so I didn't really have any friends, more acquaintances I knew in passing.

So with a sense of tedium and inevitability, I started to get picked on when I started secondary school. Speccy four-eyes and other such names were hurled at me, because I didn’t really know anyone, and because kids are so imaginative with their insults, it really was inevitable. A group of older lads, in year 11, decided to join in, in their own inimical way. This was when I was in year 7.

What physically happened next affected me for the rest of my life. No, it’s not a tale of impromptu pederasty and general buggery, although presumably that would have happened had I managed to attend a posh school, instead of the bog-standard comprehensive. It is something that has had effects on me for over a decade now.

Remember how I mentioned earlier that I had buck teeth at the time? Because I was also small and scrawny at that age, I also got called Rat and Mouse, mainly by these kids in year 11, but also by anyone in general who wanted to join in. Al fresco bullying is so fun. Especially when the kids bullying you are 15 and 16, and you’re 11.

Then they decided to up the ante.

Given that they were 16, they were bigger than me. A lot bigger than me. One resembled Mike Tyson’s steroid abusing mong brother. So they attacked me physically, but not in the usual beatings sense. They used to pummel me lightly to exhaust me, and then pin me to the floor. Given that there were four of them, that was easy enough for two of them to pin my arms, Mike Tyson’s mong brother to sit on my legs, whilst the fourth one force-fed me cheese.

Yes. They force-fed me cheese as a way of bullying.

Their logic behind this was actually simple. Rats and mice eat cheese. Ghost looks like a rat or a mouse, depending on your mood. Ergo, Ghost eats cheese.

Only thing is, they hadn’t counted on my gag reflex.

Ghost does not eat cheese well, especially when force-fed.

“BLEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAARCH!” I believe was my response to being beaten up, pinned down and forcefed cheese.
I wasn’t lactose intolerant, I hasten to add, I just have problems with being forcefed cheese and being lightly beaten up. This outpouring of my stomach did not endear me to my bullies, who objected to being violently vommed on. They reacted by beating me up again.

I was ashamed of my reaction, and slunk off home and washed my dirty clothing before my mum could get to me. I lied to her about the bruises on my legs and stomach, saying that I had taken up playing football despite being about as technically competent at football as Christopher Reeve was in his latter days.

This cycle of bullying continued. Almost every day I was beaten up, pinned down, and forcefed cheese. Which I promptly sicked up, usually all over myself as my bullies soon wised-up to my habit of releasing the contents of my stomach back into the fresh air for one last look around.

This continued for several weeks until one day I gave up sneaking home and washing myself and my clothing, and just wandered home covered in sick and got collared by my mum. The entire story eventually came out, along with the reason I hadn’t been eating my carefully prepared ham and cheese sandwiches. My mum got in contact with the school, and that form of bullying soon ceased as the kids who carried it out weren’t ashamed of what they’d done, and as a consequence, were expelled.

The rest of the bullying stopped when I got into a fist fight with another kid who had been bullying me for a while, after school and beat the almighty living shit out of him, and got myself suspended in the process. Was totally worth the weeks suspension though as everyone started to like me after that. That or they started to pick on the kid I’d beaten up.

But to this day, I cannot eat cheese. I boke a little at the mere smell of cheese of any kind. I go for proper heaves and full stomach evacuation if I taste cheese.

So there you go. One of my favourite foods of the time had been ruined because of bullying.

Apologies for length, it’s been going for over a decade now and won’t let up.
(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Sun 17 May 2009, 13:35, 7 replies)

Losing my virginity
My first B3TA post so please be nice. I like to think that upper school wasn't too hideous, however there was one fellow student in particular who liked to destroy what little confidence my group of friends had on a weekly basis. We were on the fringe of school society, hardly known by the popular crowd however fast forward five years and we are all still the best of friends in contrast to those who had nothing better to do than to take the piss. the point of this post you ask? my reaction to the death of the 'one fellow student', it doesn't matter how, (alcohol induced) what matters is the reaction of those whose lives he ridiculed. The words; 'sorely missed,' 'one in a millon,' and 'a really good mate' spewed by some of those he chose to bully.

My anger? both at the hypocrisy of some of these reactions and the lack of courage people showed in their memories of him on the 'memorial facebook group'. Death of anyone sudden is a tragedy for those who hold that individual dear, however what are you to do when someone who tried to routinely humiliate you is now immortalised in local culture as an 'angel'....

bitter you might suggest?

No..... just angry that those who should have stood up for themselves were the first in the line to kiss arse.

The posts will improve with experience... so will the humour, that I can guarantee!
(Gosamyr occasionally to be found at, Sun 17 May 2009, 0:25, 14 replies)

Buggery from bullies at boarding school...
...is something of a myth. I went through boarding school without any sort of sex whatsoever (boo-hoo). At junior school I got quite a lot of verbal stick from a twunt called Nick Governor. Governor died in his early twenties when he fell off a roof at a party and no, I didn't get the champagne out, as I really wasn't bothered either way. Life had, fortunately, moved on.

Senior school - well I was a pretty good target for bullying. I listened to classical music. I was the most crap at sport that the school ever had. And I had the social skills of the Elephant Man before Anthony Hopkins gave him an education. So how did I avoid getting grief? Simple - I made people laugh. I am not, and never will be, a great (or even good) comedian but somehow I learned that if you can make potential tormentors laugh, you can save yourself a lot of problems. I'm sure this doesn't work in all situations but it did work for me.

Last year at school - and for some reason there were only 7 kids in the Upper 6th in my house (we were organised on the Hogwarts basis). Result was that most of my mates were in the Lower 6th, and at our school people thought that if you were in the year above you were as fool as cuck, even if you were a spacktard like me. One day I came across a kid called Hopson who was being given a terrible time by his Lower 6th classmates. It was part psychological, part physical, and pretty unpleasant to behold. I rescued him, knowing from past experience that this was one kid who would never stand up for himself whatever they did to him, and my mere appearance, along with a few threats, was quite enough to see him left alone for the rest of his time at school.

I didn't expect gratitude. I know all about undermining authority and such. I expected him to ignore me. I certainly didn't expect him to start calling ME names! Yes, he'd shout inanities at me from out of the window until I had to advise him that unless he wanted to experience previously unknown realms of bullying, he'd better stop.

I don't get it. I write this nearly 30 years after the event and I don't get it. If anyone does know the answer to this, I would be grateful if you'd tell me.
(eesnahk, Sat 16 May 2009, 23:38, 4 replies)

It's cool being tall and big
No one fucks with you and you get to beat up whoever you want! this one time I made one of younger kids stand against the burglar bars and then I closed the window behind him so he was trapped there for the whole of break time. then we chucked food at him until he cried. A lot of kids went hungry that day, but it was worth it. he was a cunt anyways so it didn't bother me.

I also recall making a kid sit in his locker for the whole of breaktime. He was also a prize cunt.

I like to think that I taught these kids a valuable life lesson early on in life. You can't be a dickhead and get away with it. Really and truly I should have charged for that sort of guidance, but being the big hearted kind guy I am I gave it away for free.

I'm just as nice now as I was then. In fact I'm probably nicer.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Sat 16 May 2009, 22:11, 1 reply)

Being a manipulative little bastard...
I'm not proud of this - I was a manipulative little bastard when I was younger.

At school I'd quickly learned that if you were a goody two-shoes for the first couple of weeks with any new teacher, that first impression stuck and you could get away with murder for the rest of the year. Thus, I managed to get through pretty much all of school without a single detention.

The one threat to my record came in year six, at the hands of a sneaky little kid in my class, the sort whose catchphrase was "I'm telling miss", with the holier-than-thou attitude to go with it.

My friend and I were sharing a packet of Polos at the back of class. We'd been caught doing this before, and warned that the next time it happened we'd end up in detention. Sneaky Kid was sitting in front of us.

"I can smell mints. You're eating in class! I'm telling miss!" he gloated quietly. We gave him that "you utter bastard" glare.

As it happened, the teacher had to dash off pretty quickly at the end of the lesson so he didn't have a chance to tell on us then, so swore he'd do it after lunch. At this point I decided to take matters into my own hands, went and found the teacher in the canteen and told her that this boy was making stories up against me.

Next, I went home, where my mum was quite surprised to find me turning up at half past one. I made out to her that I was being bullied by this boy. She (of course) marched straight up to the school and made a fuss, and the next day Sneaky Kid was made to apologise to me. And no detention for me - double result!

I haven't seen him since I left that school, but there's still a twinge of guilt in the back of my mind about the whole affair. Still, those Polos were very nice, and he never tried to sneak on me again.
(moogal has eggs, Sat 16 May 2009, 13:13, Reply)

RE: Teachers
Many stories told here have spoken of teachers who have either condoned bullying, turned a blind eye, or even taken part themselves. These are all terrible occurrences that are to be regretted and thought about, but this is no basis at all for the suggestions that, because of this, "all teachers are scum" or that "the profession as a whole has a long way to go".
I mean, come on, thats like saying "Those nazis, eh? All Germans are cunts".
Get a grip.
(Roopy all is not what it seams, Fri 15 May 2009, 21:43, 8 replies)

My school was a bit weird
There was virtually no physical bullying that went on (at least, that I was aware of), but the amount of verbal abuse was beyond belief. In particular, the amount of homophobia was appalling. Probably due to it being a single-sex school, the standard insult was "Gay". Well, that and the usual "your mum" crap.
Out of the entire year set I was in, not one out of about 100 pupils came out, and there were some people who very obviously were gay but were far too repressed to come out with it.
I'm ashamed to say that I wasn't at all without sin, and treated some people very badly indeed. I also happened to get a lot of stick myself, but that doesn't excuse my behaviour at the time.
The positive side I can draw from it is that over the seven years I was there, I learned to despise bullying in all its forms, and will not tolerate it at all these days. I'm only sorry that it still seems endemic in many schools, workplaces and institutions.
Bullies are, without exception, insecure and vicious little shits, and I'm currently looking at becoming a teacher. I'd like to think that in some way, I might be able to stop some small amount of this sort of crap, and if I can, it'll be a good thing.
( wynoh kills threads by his mere presence, Fri 15 May 2009, 18:10, 4 replies)

I've been
a longtime lurker here and I've gotta say this is, without doubt, the worst QOTW I've ever seen. Its just an incredibly dull subject which I don't want to read about - I just hope none of you think I'm bullying in any way by pointing this out. Fingers crossed for something better next week.
(Big Grant, Fri 15 May 2009, 17:15, 5 replies)

My sister
was bullied relentlessly throughout primary school - she was in a class of 5 kids, and 2 of them took against her in a big way, and were utterly vile to her. Pushed her over in the playground, tripped her up if she was walking past, threw mud at her - you know the sort of stuff. Mum and dad knew what was going on, although not who the perpetrators were, and told her she needed to stand up for herself, or it would just get worse. There wasn't much else they could do.

As her elder sister, I decided to stand up for her, as she clearly wasn't going to do anything for herself. With two friends, I cornered the chief bully (a weaselly little bitch called Gillian) one lunch time, and politely asked to leave my sis alone, and if not, she'd have me to answer to. That was it. We didn't touch her, just happened to be taller and brighter than her.

When I got home that evening, Gillian's mum was on the phone to my mum, complaining that I had been bullying Gillian and they were going to report it to the school the next day. My mother beat the living daylights out of me for being a bully, my father got home and gave me a stern talking to, and I was told repeatedly how ashamed they were of me. the next day, my teacher called me out to the front of the classroom, told me I had shamed her too, and I had to go to the head teacher, where I got another severe telling off, and threats of expulsion were made. Although I explained to everyone, repeatedly, what had happened, and that I was just defending my sister, I was told that I should not compound my bullying with lies. My two friends also got dragged over the coals for being accomplices.

And what was my sister's response? Fuck all. She said she knew nothing about it, and her bruises were all her own fault.

Bear in mind that we were 5 and 7 years old. It's only been recently, 20 fucking years later, that she'll admit that she lied to the teachers because she wanted to see what would happen to me (WTF?).

I tried to defend her at secondary school when she was bullied too, but to no avail, then when her partner was beating her up a few years back. You would think that one of us would have learnt by now, but no - when I heard she was being bullied at work, I immediately got that urge to rush up to Glasgow and protect her.

Anyway, the whole incident made me deeply distrustful of teachers, so when I was verbally and physically abused at school, I tended to just let it happen, and not do anything. It was only whilst studying for my PhD and dealing with an overbearing prick of a postdoc that I learnt to stand up for MYSELF, and after a small breakdown (which could have been a lot lot worse), I finally realised that we both need to look out for ourselves, and there's nobody out there who will protect us. I'm much better at dealing with bullies these days, and my sister is still a twerp who couldn't find her arse with both hands.

One odd postscript is that the EXACT same thing happened to my father, who stood up to bullies who were targeting his elder brother - so dad has apologised to me, and mum may do one day too. Not holding my breath mind.
( ascorbate, Fri 15 May 2009, 16:39, 1 reply)

I wasn't going to share this one but...
...the post from Captain Placid got me thinking.

My 11 year old daughter is a great kid - very considerate of others, wicked sense of humour and has always loved school. Recently she has been very different, she has been getting very upset when it's time for school. After some encouragement from mum and me she confided that the boy she sits next to at school has been using some very choice threats and language to bully her. We have a meeting with the school and are advised that the boy - who happens to be the school captain - has been reprimanded and that this will "never happen again". All is good for a week and then my daughter seems worse than before.
The boy in question has told her that he is able to find out her home address from her email address and that he will come around when she is sleeping and break in and rape her. I ask her if she told her teacher and she says she did - this somewhat confuses me as the teacher had said nothing to me about it.
The teacher is confronted by a very pissed off me (I'm a very placid guy usually) and I demand to know why she hadn't contacted me about this. She actually had the gall to state that "Look, shit happens." I told her she was being flippant and she replied that the boy probably doesn't even know what rape is. I point out that my daughter does know. I very angrily demand immediate action that will ensure that the boy never bothers my daughter again and I politely point out that the local paper love running shame stories about schools that don't address these problems. The teacher has the balls to suggest that my boss wouldn't approve - my boss is married to the school's assistant principal. I point out that (a) I'm not in uniform right now, and (b) that I couldn't give a flying fuck what anyone thinks.
After a lot of ducking and weaving and denials of responsibility by the teacher, I suggest we see the principal if she can't see her way to addressing the problem.

Things seemed to have improved a bit and my daughter seems okay going to school now.

Today she bought home the school newsletter and there in bold type, less than a week after my latest complaint, were details of a school award for this boy (who is still school captain). He has been recognised for his "Exceptional Organisational Skills". I asked my daughter what she thought about this and she replied with her typical good sense of humour "Oh perhaps he threatens the girls in alphabetical order?!"

I'm not anti-teacher, all my daughters' other teachers have been great. Also, this boy may have problems and needs help, but I'm there for the welfare of my daughter.
(emadex thinks the world will end on, Fri 15 May 2009, 16:06, 30 replies)

i feel i should do my duty to the community here
and tell you,if you are being bullied,that the most effective weapon ever devised by man for 'dirty combat' is freely available*.
The Bic Biro is the most effective weapon for interpersonal combat freely available on the market today.The biro,and a basic knowledge of pressure points, is the necessary prerequisite for anyone experiencing physical bullying,and it is undetected by security,as well as being cheap and offered in a wide variety of colours.
From personal experience.
* aside from the Honda Accord,obviously.
(Fuckpig "That's not even a pound a midget.", Fri 15 May 2009, 14:18, 6 replies)

Bully deterrent: Steel Toe cap shoes
I never had that much trouble with bullies at school. The last couple of years the bullying dropped off to almost nothing.

Maybe it was because I had grown into a 6 foot, wide shouldered, long haired metaler. Maybe it was because I had a pair of shoes that I used to kick plaster off walls whever bullies were around.

I loved my steel toecap DM's. I used to kick everything with them. From walls to railings, bottles to bricks. Within a couple of weeks of owning them they'd developed a nice corrigated look and I'd had to take a hammer to them to knock the steel back into place and stop cutting my toes with the edges.

The bullying stopped completely once I accidentaly kicked my mate in the balls, causing him to pass out for a good 10-15 seconds. (I was aiming for his stomache)

Lesson: To discourage bullies, get some steel cap boots and demonstrate them infront of said bullies. Would you want to fight someone that can kick holes in walls?
( Crap Little Monkey Deathstar, so good they built it twice, Fri 15 May 2009, 11:22, 5 replies)

I used to bully everyone at school.
If you had glasses, were slightly over weight, ugly, had dandruff or I just didn't like the look of you, I'd give you a verbal or physical beating.

It made me the coolest, cleverest, hardest and sexiest bloke in the school.

Happy days.
( The Awful Puppy Bakery is still bored, Fri 15 May 2009, 10:50, 2 replies)

What goes around...
When I was in primary school, I was big for my age. Being a child and being bigger than everyone else, I exerted my dominance by picking on the smallest, weakest kid in our year. Ben his name was. Not a day would go by where I wouldn't make him cry and, more often than not, leave him with a new and interesting bruise. I made his school life pretty much hell for about three years or so until we left primary school and went to different secondary school.

Fast forward two years and Ben moved school to where I was going. Only now the tables had turned. In the year or so that we hadn't seen each other, he had grown about a foot and I hadn't. He was now MUCH bigger than I was. Not a day would go by where he wouldn't give me a new and interesting bruise. He pretty much made my school life a hell for three years or so until we left secondary school.

Fast forward about five years, I'm stood in a pub with a couple of lads from the gym I kickboxed out of and who should walk in? Ben! For years, I'd harboured rage about the misery he'd made my life. It was basically why I had taken up kickboxing - not only to get revenge but also so it never happened to me again. I'd always thought about what I'd do when I saw him next and it almost always ended with me being stood on his neck.

And here he was in front of me.

I ended up buying him a pint, we chatted about what we were doing with our lives for a bit and went our seperate ways. I still see him sometimes when I go back to Liverpool.
(ScousersPet, Fri 15 May 2009, 10:24, Reply)

Bullies Reunited
Maybe someone could bang a site together, so that we could name our tormentors and what they've done and then other people could post what these ex-bullies are doing now, so that the victims can have some peace of mind that bullies never prosper. Invariably, those who bullied me, seem to have ended up with fairly miserable existances. It'd be nice to have proof of them getting their come uppance.
(lardyboy Next stop, Fissplap Central, Fri 15 May 2009, 0:19, 2 replies)

School Assembly
The School Councillor took the assembly about bullies. She said that "Everybody who puts their hand up who has been bullied, and everybody who leaves their hand down should be ashamed.".

Bit harsh, I thought.
(rhyswynne - on every social network mullarkey known to man, Thu 14 May 2009, 19:28, Reply)

Bullying and all that...
I can't really think of a creative way that I used to get back at the bullies I once knew, but, heres my story.

1990s South Yorkshire High School

I was never really the popular one at school. In fact, I was the one that always seemed to attract the punches from the bullies. I wasn't the most intelligent one around, but I knew enough to get by.

There were 4 or 5 lads in my yeargroup that seemingly made it their sole objective in life to make my life hell. Each one finding new ways in which to get at me without drawing the attentions of the teachers.

I seemed to become more and more withdrawn, which, for some reason, didn't make anyone wonder why this was happening. My grades began to suffer, I put on weight, and I had no confidence to do anything.

I tried fighting back. I know I tried fighting back. But, for all the efforts I made in trying to fight back, I just got hit harder. I suppose I could have shouted for help, but, at 14 years old, without anyone I could call a friend for support, I just panicked.

It drove me to the brink. I considered extreme action, starting at overdoses and ending with a rope. I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

All that came to a head about 6 months later.

It was before a German lesson, and one of the lads from my year who wasn't a bully as such, decided he wanted a piece of me.

I saw him coming a mile off. Running at me, arms windmilling like some circus strongman, and then it happened without me even thinking.

I stepped forward, and as he was running straight at me, held my right hand out like a 1960s policeman attempting to stop a pursued car. The bridge of his nose caught the heel of my hand, his glasses cartwheeling one way, his head snapping back, and him ending up flat on his back.

You could almost hear the gasp come from the students, all stood milling about waiting their next lesson.
They all began to circle round, in the typical school fight way. He got the next punch in, then decided to throw caution to the wind, trying to connect with a kick to my face. He missed, and that allowed me to get the upper hand.

I suppose the plus side of putting on weight due to the bullying I was subjected to was that I could use it to my advantage, and I did.
I connected with a left hand to his cheek, rocking his head back.

He swung a wild right hand, that was more danger to the passing flies than me, which was followed by a right hook from me. In all of my 26 years on this earth, I don't think I've ever thrown a harder punch.

I think it was the 2 and a half years of stress all coming to a head, and, speaking to people I know since then, they all said it was a perfect punch. It seemed to come from somewhere far behind me, and my right hand connected just beneath his right eye.

He staggered round, like a Friday night alcoholic walking home after one too many, before crumpling in a heap.

I'd like to say that all the bullying stopped completely after that, but it didn't. It seemed to get slightly worse for a week or two, then, when the lad who'd been subject of my punch got back, all the trouble seemed to gravitate towards him. I wasn't sympathetic towards him, he'd tried throwing his weight around, but had come off worse, and, in the eyes of the bullies, he was fair game.

I've still been subjected to bullying, mainly in the workplace, but fortunately, nothing as bad as the stuff I was subjected to at school.

Bullying? Some say its character building. But it isn't. It takes us back to tribal times, and survival of the fittest, and has no place in our times. Some people weren't as fortunate as me, and couldn't fight back.
(Code of Post lives at the moment in time that is..., Thu 14 May 2009, 18:45, Reply)

Children are cruel
But in my experience, teachers can be horrific too, and worse.

Mrs Morley

You fucking short-arsed, acidic old whore.

At junior school, I had this hellspawn as my second year teacher. A sour bitch overall, but she had moments of unrivalled cruelty sprinkled throughout her behaviour. Two moments stand out in my mind. One was when she was berating one of my fellow pupils (a troublesome, freckly fuckwit named Paul) for being a twot, and made to deliver some punishment to the moron with the aid of the blackboard rubber. For those of you who weren't educated in the mid-1980s, these were wooden blocks with fabric 'cords' on one of the flatter sides.

She threw it at his head. I don't remember if she took aim or not, though I doubt it.

Because it hit me in the head.

MOTHERFUCKER! She never apologised to me until my parents contacted the school. And then she was clearly unhappy about it. My parents lodged a complaint and she must've had it in for me from then on but then I might be paranoid.

The other occasion was during PE. I'm nowhere near the epitome of physical health and wasn't as a child - never have been. This is coupled with a fear of heights - even that of a standard Box - a familiar piece of gym equipment, but if you don't know it, Google it. So once class I found myself on this torturous item, shaking as I slowly got to my feet on top of it - thus making the distance to the floor (and my certain death) even greater. Beelzebub then starts calling me all the names under the sun to get me to jump from the Box, making me cry in the process. I mean for fuck's sake, I got called all those names by my peers (though why I should call those bastards peers, I don't know. I am and was certainly better than them, but more on that later) every day as it was, I didn't need it from an authority figure as well. Hateful, hateful waste of blood and bones. I'm starting to well up now recalling this - I'm right back in the school hall, sun shining outside, the sweet pea bush by the door growing out of control. I want to add here that this is all true and I urge anyone who ever bullied or is doing so, consider the affect on the bullied party. The incident I have just relayed happened to me when I was eight years old and for it to make me feel useless and pathetic over two decades later should give you some idea of the repercussions.

For a teacher to sink to the same level of bullying as their charges is unthinkable but as I've shown, possible. What I find scary is I now believe there are worse people out there than Mrs Morley and perhaps I got off relatively lightly. A horrific experience nonetheless.

Mr Glover

Bitter and hairy ginger giant

Mr Glover taught CDT at my senior school and before I even started attending, I'd heard of this person through my older brother. As a side note, both he and his wife (the imaginatively-titled Mrs Glover) taught at the school and she was a sour-faced old hag who never smiled. Though it can't have helped being married to a monstrosity such as Mr Glover. Mr Glover was never out rightly cruel to me, though I can't say I looked forward to his classes. I think this was because I had a tomboy streak in me from an early age which found me helping my father in DIY around the house, indulging my creative side with scraps of wood in the shed and getting the knack for hammers, saws etc, so consequently Mr Glover couldn't really pick holes in my technique. However I remember one time one of the class clowns was acting up as usual so Mr Glover dealt with it thusly:

The room was furnished with rectangular work tables with two vices fixed at either end of each long side. Mr Glover wound open one such vice and asked said clown if he would put his wrist into the open vice, with his back to the table. Mr Glover then wound the vice closed so it pinched the clown's skin but didn't break his arm or leave physical damage. He then repeated this with the vice at the opposite end of the table and forcibly put the clown's other wrist in the open vice and closed it. He then proceeded to shout (think Brian Blessed volume) at the poor sod for what seemed forever but was probably less than five minutes. This was done in front of the entire class. I don't know if complaints were ever lodged, but it made me scared of the bastard, on top of disliking him intensely already.

As someone (probably dead) once said, power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Mrs Morley and Mr Glover were / are two people who I'd not wish on the offspring of my worst enemy. I write '/ are' as I know Mrs Morley is still kicking about at my old junior school. I know this for two reasons. She spotted my poor nephew's surname (the same as mine) in her register and made some hell for him until my brother put a stop to it in no uncertain terms. I understood from that that Mrs Morley had been a bitch to my brother some six years before my year of hell. And about five years ago I attended an open day at the school in the role of aunt of a current pupil and the vision of death appeared by my side (by which time I'd reached my adult height of 5' 8" - apparently a little tall for a woman, but not some lanky Amazon) and tried to be the personification of sweetness and light to which I turned to my right to face her, gave her a splendid death stare (I've been told I can creep people out with a single glare) and stalked off without uttering a word, leaving her doing a decent impression of a suffocating guppy. Of course I've thought up a thousand witty retorts since that moment but I feel I got the message across nicely.

Of course I was subject to the bullying of my fellow pupils throughout infant, junior and senior school and I know I'm not the only one, and it was just about my weight. Yes, I came home from school in tears many times, and now I still have difficulty telling whether people are being genuine or not, I've developed an appalling penchant for swearing (as you may've gathered) and I'm often too sharp when I speak to make new friends easily. During my fourth year at senior school (age fourteen to fifteen) I never spoke to anyone who wasn't a teacher or one of my four close friends. I was fed up with giving people ammunition. This bottling things up attitude led to me thinking it was an ideal way to handle bad situations, to which end I found myself in counselling and on anti-depressants in my early twenties, and I've since learnt it's not ideal!

However, I know other people've had it worse and since the age of sixteen I've tried not to wallow in self-pity and get on with life, brush with depression notwithstanding. To this end, despite appalling academic failure at 6th Form college, that place was one of the best things to happen to me. I had a whole lot of new people to mix with, as well as my close friends from school - our circle of five all went to the same college. I learnt to be me again, the lively and friendly daughter my parents raised me to be. Okay, I'm still shy in large groups and have had jobs where I've been content to work on my own but I now I'm part of a large team, try to make friends carefully and get paid to spend all day chattering on the telephone to faceless customers which is ideal for me. I've got miles and miles of BT cabling to hide behind!
(Sahara Desert http://www.twitter.com/thesaharadesert for swears, Thu 14 May 2009, 17:21, 1 reply)

Bullying Teacher…..Bah
I was never one of the cool kids at school and never really got any grief like the rest of the replies. So until i can think of any bad puns, movie references or traumatic incidents I have blocked from my mind this entry comes from my other half C and her cousin, R.

My wife and all her family went to a local catholic school where things were very religious (As in they had a couple of nuns teaching lessons in RE etc etc). One of the non servant of god teachers Miss Passman (Name not changed) was a tad demented. She would single out certain pupils and make it her job to make her lessons a living hell for the poor individual. Her victims were usually the easy targets such as the timid girl in the class who would burst into tears as soon as Passman called her a dirty little cow for dying her hair, wearing jewellery etc etc.

Then one day she chose to pick on R. R is a great bloke and has always been a bit on the tall side, not scrawny either. The problem is that (during the time at school anyway) he was a little timid and would not stick up for himself when challenged by an authority figure.

Mid way through his first day at school he had a lesson with Miss Passman. Upon entering the room the harpy teaching the lesson realised that R had a wart on his finger, and being the sensitive soul that she was she decided to point it out to the rest of the class by waving her arms manically and yelling at the top of her lungs that R was filthy, dirty little boy etc etc until R left the room, visibly upset.

While Miss Passman went back to add a sticker to her chart of pupils she has beaten down emotionally, out in the corridor R bumped into C (My guess is C was off for a sly smoke at the time). C saw that R was upset and he told the entire story to her and C snapped, while C was one of the popular kids at school she hated bullies.

She burst into the lesson and gave Miss Passman a full on bollocking in front of the class, mentioning the fact that Passman should pick on people her own size instead of her little cousin (Despite the fact that R was a good foot taller than C).

One of the teachers in the neighbouring classes heard the commotion and realising it was someone else’s voice other than Miss Passman came to investigate. When the said teacher came to the room he found a very pissed off C stood at the front of the class and a very scared looking Miss Passman attempting to hide under her desk (Maybe she had an escape tunnel under there).

C left the room with a final line to leave her cousin alone and the incident was never brought up again (Although Passman stayed well away from the whole of my wifes family throughout the rest of their school lives)

Bullies- no matter what form they come in, they don’t like it when the boot is on the other foot.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:12, Reply)

Must agree with /talk comments on this week's QOTW.
The tales of "I overcame adversity."
"I was bummed, survived and saw them - they're now a chav with 6 kids, I'm so much better."
"Thank you for all your beautiful comments."
"Hugs."
If I was bum raped/bullied, I wouldn't come on the net and tell the world. I CERTAINLY wouldn't come on B3TA ffs.
Yeah, shit happens to everyone. Deal with it.
Can we have a SpankyHanky long, rambling pervy tale of sex and wanking now please?
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Thu 14 May 2009, 9:28, 12 replies)

Story Number 3, Cheshire Kids are Cunts (pearoast)
Well, I feel I should give a bit of a back story to this tale, so apologies in advance for length,

I moved, and moved schools between year 11 and 12 (aged 16 to our merkin friends). At my old school, I was always known as the one with the risque sense of humour, always telling the jokes that would make people nervous, and greatly enjoying the debate that would inevitably occur over one of my many sexist jokes. So I decided to implement this at my new school asap (in hindsight, not the best idea)

It was 2 weeks into the new term, and we had a "Driving Safety Talk" in which a woman stood at the front and plied 150 bored sixth formers with facts. By the end, she was having a bit of a laugh and joke, so people were shouting out responses to her facts.

One of her facts was "Lads, you're more likely to be in a car accident", so I quickly responded "Isn't that because women crash into us?". Silence.

Complete silence, as everyone (bar the only two people who would speak to me)looked at me as if I was something they'd just stepped in (even the lads ffs).

Handily, the woman gave a bit of a snigger, and carried on, so I didn't think anything more of it. I was very wrong.

For the next week, I had people shouldering into me in the corridor, lads trying to start a fight with me "because i'd offended their girlfriend" and so on and so forth. Basically, utter bullshit.

However, out of this mire, one group of 8 stood out in their nastiness more than others. They would follow me, threaten me, abuse me. At one point, they even wrote an email claiming to be from me, insulting every member of that group, and stuck it on the common room wall early one morning. The problem with their theory? I was late that day, and the entire group saw me arrive, as they were stood enjoying a mid morning cancer stick. So that plan was fucked. The most entertaining fact was that they still tried to blame me, after I pointed out the numerous spelling errors ("You might have done that on purpose?") and when i pointed out they'd seen me arrive that morning ("Maybe you got someone else to put it up for you"). At this point, I was going to snap, as I'd been trying me hardest to be nice to this lot, and they were just being childish.

And snap I did.....I started absolutely laughing my tits off! Half dying, I couldn't even finish sentences. "So you're saying.....hahahaha.....that.....I got someone else?.....hahaha....to put this up....BULLSHIT!". Then continued to giggle. I asked if James Bond was also involved, and should I contact MI6 and ask where I was at 0900 that morning.

However, they were so thick they didn't actually get that I was insulting them, usual cheshire really.

Oh...Karma? Ok, i'll get to the point...

The next week, they were insulting a nameless person while I was sat there, and I knew full well they were talking about me. It was one sentence that day, that stuck in my mind when I finally decided enough was enough (as I'm not a violent person anymore), and went to the head of 6th form, as I'm sick of being bullied.

That phrase was, "Sexists never get anywhere in life, he'll end up getting sacked from McDonalds straightaway". Now, they knew I was starting at McDonalds the next week, so it was fairly obvious they were on about me.

Now comes the fun...
It's been 3 years since then, and here's what's happened to that group. (Initials because I can't be arsed to type full names, they're the real initials)

JS - Now 20, with a baby and still living with his mummy.
KL - Discovered her beloved boyfriend was shagging her best friend - haven't spoken in over a year. Now failing at Uni somewhere.
S - Regularly seen in Costa Coffee, cleaning the floor as I walk past after work from my well paid job.

Those three made my life a living hell for two years, so I'm glad they're unhappy.

Bullys are cunts, not matter what age they are.

Length? Seems longer now it's bald!
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Thu 14 May 2009, 9:23, 4 replies)

What happens to make a person into a bully?
Reading some of the posts on here make me realise that apart from one or two events I led a charmed life during my school days.
On the few occasions someone had a go at me I had one response.
I would slap them across the face.
This did result in a few full on catfights, and boy did I fight dirty.
If any of their flesh happened to be in front of my face I would bite it.
After one girl had to go for a tetanus jab and told everyone I'd given her rabies I was pretty much left alone.
Until the school hardcase, a girl even the teachers were afraid of noticed me.
I cant remember what she said, but in front of her gang I slapped her face.
Then closed my eyes and waited to get killed in a hundred different ways.
When I opened them she and her gang had gone
WTF?
I spent days waiting for the inevitable attack
Then on the weekend I happened to be walking down an alley and there she was.
With a very odd look on her face
She grabbed my arm and pulled me through the yard and into the house.
I was expecting a room full of girls with weapons but it was empty.
And I mean empty, Ive never seen a home so lacking in comforts.
Bare floor, a couple of ramshackle chairs and little else.
She asked if i wanted a drink, and kept looking at the door nervously.
Then we went upstairs to her bedroom, (dont ask I was just coasting)
I think I asked her if she was going to hurt me, i was seriously confused where this was going.
Then this man walked in and asked who the fuck was I and to get out.
She gave me this scared look asked me to stay.
But I decided it was best I got out of there because this was scary in ways I didnt understand
I remember her face as I made for the door and this man shouting at her to get undressed and asking me if i wanted to stay and play.
Ok back then I didnt understand this, as an adult now I do :(
After that if we saw each other she acted like she didnt know me, was like that never happened.

Being a kid I just got on with things and forgot about it, until this QOTW.
I've no idea what became of her

The only other incidents of being bullied were by teachers.
The first when i was in infants school, she had the same surname as me and made my life hell. I got the slipper on a daily basis ( outs my age there ;) ) for no real reason.
She used to make me stand in the corridor when interesting things were happening in class, called me every name under the sun.

Was only many years later I realised she was my dads first wife, pfft

So I now understand what made them into bullies, but......

The 2 PE teachers
One who slapped me across the face leaving bleeding nail marks acros my cheek,
Ok Fair play I called her a slut (she was) but she did call me a rebellious cow ( i probably was, I would backchat any teacher who I thought was being unfair)

And the other who made me continue gymnastics after I dislocated a toe, FFS my big toe was at 90 degree angle to my foot and she said i was faking it.

Shit happened to me, but I didnt ever become a bully

Well not until much later when I got paid for it ;)
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Thu 14 May 2009, 0:33, Reply)

lol bullies
I have a cleft palate / harelip, so obviously i got bullied all the time as a kid. but i'm fucking awesome so it didn't really matter. now i look a bit like jesus. \o/ (jesus with a cleft palate that is...)
( Shiodome has realised numbers in names aren't cool., Thu 14 May 2009, 0:25, 2 replies)

Does anyone else get school bullies trying to add you as friends on Facebook?
With me they weren't really bullies (not to me anyway) but they picked on me a bit and weren't particularly nice people.

Why would I want to be friends with them?

Of course everyone knows the best way to get rid of someone on Facebook is to add them (so they lose the 'friend requested' thing) then delete and block them so you get a chance to have a look at how far they've got in life, usually not far, and have a laugh. :)
( thistle, Wed 13 May 2009, 19:47, 3 replies)

Fuck'em
My first office job in England, my boss was a total bitch - but only towards me. Probably because I hate authority figures. Or maybe because I like correcting people when they're wrong, and she was wrong *a lot*.

After a year or so of her torture, she was up the duff and had recently hired her bloke (nepotism in action). Out on the chrimbo bash. She's pissed and draped over another guy from the office, one nobody likes. Five pints on an empty stomach conspire to make me think "why not?"

I sidle over to her bloke.

"I think it's very good of you to put up with her. Y'know, after..." *gestures to boss and bloke she's draped over*

"After what?"

"But, but, are you sure you want someone else's kid calling you 'daddy'?"

Our sysadmin, a charming stoner from Bristol, dragged me off to partake of some herbal relaxants back at his. Apparently, violence happened shortly after we left. Best of all, her bloke couldn't remember where he'd heard the rumour - too pissed by far - but held on to a burning resentment that lasted long after I'd quit and moved to a different city.
(DigitalRaven will have to make do with gin, Wed 13 May 2009, 19:34, Reply)

Teenage kicks ...
Wish I could find some funnies in this one but no joy. Usual apologies for length.

When I was a little girl I was a fat, innocent, speccy little bugger who adored her parents and didn't pull the legs off spiders. A nice kid, in other words. We lived in a council house on a council estate but my mum had delusions of grandeur and would not talk to let alone mix with the other mums, so automatically our family (mum, dad, me, cat) were assumed to be fair targets for a hate campaign. It didn't help that my dad could never turn the other cheek and thought that anything these twunts could do, he could do better - next thing you know it's all out fucking warfare.
Such jollities included the neighbor next door trying to poison our cat, the kids next door trying to chase it into a main road, and my dad and the neighbor coming to blows on the front lawn after years of winding each other up by "parking in my spot", drilling holes in the wall before nine o clock on the morning on a weekend, playing their radios and tvs louder than the other guy (got so bad that mum and I had to wear ear defenders in our own house - no word of a lie), and calling the police round for every slightest neighborhood annoyance. They were worse than children.
Said blows being rained down on each other as me and the bloke's daughter (me aged seven and her about five) stood on our doorsteps in our jarmies one summer evening crying in fear and my mum and her mum shouting abuse at each other from the sidelines whilst the rest of the street looked on. Sigh.

Anyhoo -- you can imagine that because my mum and dad didn't talk to the rest of the street, the only side our fellow residents got was the neighbors'. Which made me public enemy number one with the kids.
The thing was - I mighta been fat, four eyed and a girl, but I lamped 'em like I came from a family of Navy boxers (which I do), so I never got much real aggravation from the kids my same age, because we were always kicking the shit out of each other, and laughing about it. I thought it was how life was to be honest.
However, one household had an older kid of sixteen or so (when I was nine) and he took it upon himself to absolutely persecute the fuck out of me. He encouraged the younger kids to back him up, and before you could say "bullied big style" I was, well, bullied big style.
His favourite stunts included:
- finding half an old grapefruit in the bin and running me down, catching me, stealing my glasses off my face and squashing it into my eyes. It hurt like a bastard.
- tying me into a stolen pram (one of the old style big wheeled ones) and pushing it out into the main road that bordered our estate at rush hour. The pram got clipped and jolted round by some silly old bat who probably shouldn't have been driving. I don't know who was more terrified - her or me.
- force feeding me poisonous berries. I had to have my stomach pumped at the local hospital.
- getting two older girls to pretend to help me when he tripped me up and I cut my knees, but what they really did was not put antiseptic cream on my cuts but put bathroom cream cleaner on them instead. And then show me the bottle and laugh.
And a host of other unpleasant past times. He was at least inventive, the evil fucktard.

This list could go on, but it would be piss boring and have no point but here's an interesting (to me at least) epilogue. Well, two epilogues really.

One day I was ditty bopping along on my bike, minding my own business, when the local kids call me over with sneaky looks. I go (like a twat - but the younger ones, as explained above, were at least half friendly - when we weren't smacking the crap out of each other).
On the hill near my house, they've constructed a scary looking bike ramp in the road, fashioned out of bits of scavenged wood. They're looking for some dumb bunny to try it out first.
They dare me. I - like a tool - can't lose face, so I agree.
So I get back on my bike, ride a fair distance away, and start pedalling like a little dervish towards said ramp.
Now - I mighta been a plucky (or indeed stupid, which often amounts to the same thing) little shit, but at that age I knew exactly fuck all about physics and its effects on bike ramps. I didn't know that the idea is to give the handlbars abit of a pull up before you hit, to facilitate your smooth transition from road to wood. As a result, I hit the thing going flat out with my little chubby legs pumping - and promptly fly over the handlebars as my front wheel stops dead on the edge of the wood. The force of this is so intense that the milk bottle lenses of my glasses actually fly out of the frames - the frames amazingly still on my face - and twinkle their way through the air to then land, totally fucked, on the road. I pitch forward and clear the ramp, and land with a face shredding thump on the tarmac.
Silence from the on lookers.
Silence from me - I'm totally winded.
When I finally recover, blood pissing down my face and my nose all but shattered (amazingly flesh wounds were all I received I managed to figure later), my first thought is "Why the fuck can't I see anything ?"
I was extremely short sighted even then - nowadays that pathological myopia means I am blind in one eye and have no central vision in the other due to the extraordinary shape of my the back of my eye and the strain that puts on your retina (which just splits or bleeds out and causes blindness). Then I couldn't see anything but light and dark about four inches away from my face without the glasses.
I'm probably five hundred yards away from my house, but have no hope of getting home without further injury. That scares me completely and I burst into panicky tears.
The assembled kids laugh and run off and I am standing there in the road bleeding and having a full scale panic attack.
Some boy comes over and takes my arm.
He has the lenses from my glasses, and gives them to me. He wipes my snotty phiz on his sleeve and says, "Don't worry, I'll get you home."
He then picks up my bike with the other hand and leads me home, rings the doorbell, and hands me and croggled bike over to my mum, explaining what happened and that my glasses need fixing.
She thanks him and takes this bleeding snot fountain that looks vaguely like her ten year old chick indoors.

And who was this knight ? You can probably guess. The very teenage thug who'd had made my life absolute hell for the previous years.

Next day he was back to his old vindictive self. Normality was restored.

The second epilogue is that some years later, said thug was imprisoned for attacking a nightclub bouncer (he wouldn't let thug in). By driving at him and crushing him against the nightclub's exterior wall with his car.

As the song says, "People are strange." And you don't even have to be a stranger.
(womanwhocanonlylivewithdogs, Wed 13 May 2009, 19:33, 2 replies)

Schools are prisons
Bullying will occur in them as both are overcrowded shitholes full of people who have nothing in common other than not wanting to be there. Also the odds that you will be sat next to a psycho or sexual deviant approach one, over the length of stay.

Think about it the gangs, the pecking order, the code of silence against authority, uniforms, universal antipathy towards newbies. I am I describing strangeways or your local comprehensive? hint- the only difference is that in one of these two places the swastika tattoos are actually biro

With that in mind it seems obvious that people are going to get picked on. Both parties are immature and unable to fully control their hormonal impulses in a environment that encourages conflict.

When looking at these posts keep the shawshank redemption as a handy guide. sure Andy Dufrane came out on top in the end, but he had to endure a whole lot of bummings beforehand. But when Andy reminiscences over his prison life he will always be telling people about hanging out with morgan freeman (good times! once we like totally made the guards get us beer on the roof w00t). Likewise you cant really fault the people who had a crap time of it at school for wanting to post about the one time they got revenge.

try not to stay bitter and remember the words of the great philosopher Johnny rotten "shools are prisons".

now I'm off to write apologies for length 100 times
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Wed 13 May 2009, 19:04, 1 reply)

My story......
I was fine till I started my last school, I was reasonably good looking and intelligent however some people didnt like the fact that some girls liked me more than them so they started to spread rumours about me.....

Well these rumours got worse and worse....

Then my health started to suffer due to them and I started to suffer from depression...

The rumours got worse and then the kids who wanted to be cool in the year below me started to join in....

Despite protesting my innocence for over three years things got too much for me and I ended up leaving school in the first few months of sixth form, a few months after that I left hom due to mental problems....

I don't remember what I did while I was away from home as it is all a bit of a blur....

But nearly 20 years on I have doubled in size and have drunk and snorted just about everything I could get my hands on....

I've been medicated so much I shook like I had parkinsons, I spent an afternoon in a psychiatric hospital which scared the life out of me...

I've seen psychiatrists and undertaken loads of therapy courses...

All because a few kids were jealous....

And the worse thing about it is I'll never be rid of them, it's still playing in the back of my mind, what happens if I get a job and some of them work there? could I cope with this being brought up again?

I don't think I could but at least this time I could do something about it legally....or illegally....

arseholes....
(Lip Up Fatty Fatty Reggae still loves BBQ food on, Wed 13 May 2009, 18:19, Reply)

True Story....... possibly.
I was bullied at school by a teacher. He taught French and for a while was my Form tutor.

All I wanted to do was art, but he was having none of it, we clashed constantly, in the end I bunked off so much, everyone had pretty much given up on me.


In the end, I stole his car and died.
Kendaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Wed 13 May 2009, 17:02, 4 replies)

Work cnut
A few weeks ago I left my job of five years.

This was partly due to the fact I was getting bored and not learning anything new, partly because I wanted more job security, but a far larger part due to the fact that a few months previously my MD saw fit to hire a person whom I can only describe as a mysogynistic, racist twat. And that's me being polite about him.

We took him on because the company was doing badly and he was recommended as an amazing salesman. And he was good, to be fair, and in his first two months made a good deal of money for the company. However, he was also acting like a complete cnut. Here's a few things he thought acceptable:

- kicking and punching a bookcase repeatedly because his computer broke (actually, he made it overheat because he'd covered the fan on the hard drive with a pile of folders - I did tell him this but he didn't pay any attention)
- trying to kick the door in when he got an email he didn't like
- throwing a chair across the room because he thought someone was ignoring him
- refusing to speak to certain members of staff as they 'did not carry out his orders' and instead insisting that messages had to go through a third party
- slamming the phone down on people that didn't want to buy from him and yelling around the office "fucking paki/wog/other"

This continued with various complaints to management but it wasn't until he went completely mental, physically threatened another member of staff and called her a cunt (she was a 50 year old woman, one of the nicest people I've ever met and a good foot shorter than him - brave guy!) that my boss finally took the decision not to sack him, but at least to move him off site.

So, the complete twat got his own off-site office, as well as a new mobile phone, expense account and computer. Meanwhile, he refused to apologise to any of us about what happened and the nice woman whom he yelled at got made redundant.

It was at this point that I started to look for new jobs, but with the recession I was worried that I wouldn't find anything. I actually applied for a ton of stuff - some paying a lot less than I was on, just because I was desperate to get out of the company - even though he was off-site, just the sound of his voice when he phoned in (mainly to shout at someone down the phone) made my skin crawl and by this point I didn't want to work for my MD any more, given the way he'd handled the situation. Lucky I did, because two months later the decision was made that the twat was being moved back on site as we couldn't afford the separate office.

I went for an interview just a week later and got offered the job straight away. I actually now have a far better job with more pay (more than he's on), lovely people around me (no chairs flying across the room), free food (including a dessert!) every day, really close to where I live (no more sweaty summer tube journeys for me!) It also looks as though the place where I worked before will soon be going bust...

Part of my job is to book advertising space, exactly the sort of thing my last company sells. He will not be getting any money from me. I look forward to telling him this when he cold calls me and realises who it is at the other end of the phone.

In a few more weeks or so, when I've been away long enough it doesn't look suspicious, the twat is being signed up to a number of 'interesting' websites with his personal email and mobile number. My housemate also advised mailing lists, such as those offering free samples of male incontinence pads and the like - any other suggestions greatly received...
( hanabanana, Wed 13 May 2009, 16:49, 4 replies)

Back at school, some kid who barely came up to my elbows
once walked up to me, bold as brass, and triumphantly yelled "You're UGLY!!!!!" before running away as fast as as little legs would propel him, cackling like a loon all the while.

Well, that certainly told me.
( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Wed 13 May 2009, 16:47, 4 replies)

I was bullied at school
That said, if I met me aged 14 I would punch me in the face. I was an aloof, trite, annoying little fuckstain with ideas way above my station. I needed taking down a few pegs.

I'm now pretty normal, I think.
( Anthropos Was making beer on, Wed 13 May 2009, 16:00, Reply)

I'm a bully and I like ruining people's parties
Last year I invited myself to a girl's party and because she had a strange long face I decided I'd go round and burst all her balloons which made her do a sad face. The worst thing I've ever done though is I went to a party and told a young girl that Harry Potter books are rubbish and she ran off and got reinforcements and I was told I was no longer welcome at the party so I went home and played Wings on my Amiga.
( Imhotep is Invisible - Consider this a divorce, Wed 13 May 2009, 15:46, Reply)

If I'd been bullied
I really wouldnt find catharsis in sharing it with you cunts.

Not even if the bullying had lead to me doing 3 years of martial arts and weight lifting in secret then hunting down my bullies with a knife and bumming them till they cried.

But if I had been bullied I probably would have done that martial art/bumrape combo thing. Probably.
( Goatworrier had your mum and she was shit, Wed 13 May 2009, 15:37, 1 reply)

The best way to deal with bullies
is to flounce off of b3ta in a huff, then return a couple of weeks later with a comedy account.
( Goatworrier had your mum and she was shit, Wed 13 May 2009, 14:41, 2 replies)

I was bullied at school.
It really does build character. I approve of it with hindsight.
(Seance Trumpet has got no beef with a man enjoying a croissant, Wed 13 May 2009, 13:22, 4 replies)

Typical...!

I've just come back from the bookies, having staked my life savings on the dead cert of the QotW ending on Thursday.

As-per-fucking-usual.

Some people are just born unlucky.

Edit: Erm...to stay on (new) topic. Click this you fuckers or I'll give you a slap.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 13 May 2009, 12:37, 2 replies)