Reputation
And now for a story that happened to me instead of others at my school. When I was at school, I was well behaved. As in I was paranoid about breaking the rules... or rather I was paranoid about being caught breaking the rules, I was terrified about getting told off. It's a habit that continues into adulthood though I'm getting much better at telling people to fuck off where necessary.

If you're 'good', then the odds are high that you're not one of the cool kids, and I wasn't. Not actively bullied but just not accepted really. I had some good friends, but none of us in the elite circles. I got excellent grades, did my homework on time and was generally a good pupil.

What is surprising is the power than this reputation can give you. While I might have been well behaved and decent most of the time... this didn't mean that I wasn't a little shite when I had reason to be. If you don't do it too often and lie with a good poker face you can get away with murder*. And if you get caught... apologise and look guilt stricken. So during my time at school, I got away scot free with many things. A few examples...

Calling a teacher a bitch to her face - in my defence, she was. Bluffed it by pretending I'd asked "Which?"
Punching a kid -hard- who was insulting me in the face in front of several witnesses - my phony defence was that he had a snowball in his hand and I was trying to knock it out of his hand.
Letting off a truly vile fart, loudly, in the middle of a class. During the staging of a scene from MacBeth - the stench was worthy of an entire QoTW on its own. Everyone was impressed except the girl who sat next to me, because I pinned it on her.

I am fully aware that at times I was a nasty little shit at school :) I've grown up since then, and realised just how much of a prick I could be, and have tried to change. With some success... I hope.

But it did teach me the lesson that if you're innocent 99% of the time and look it, it is often trivial to get away with the 1% where you're guilty as sin.

*Note, this technique will not actually let you get away with murder**
**Unless you are very very good at it
(calamarain just invented dehydrated water, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 17:14, 5 replies)

School was not a fun time
Ok so..

Right before my Maths exam at GCSE level I got shat on by a feking pigeon, literally as we are walking in so I could do anything about it.

I made a profit out of making fake pokemon cards, beating youngens with my superior powers and then trading the cards I'd won for cash from the little kids who live near me. My best incarnation was shitapoo, people went crazy over this card and ate it up so to speak.

In year 7 a friend of mine, bit of a pikey, had stolen 2 carrier bags full of porn, either from a shop or from his dad, but there was some dirty dirty stuff in there... we deposited about 20 mags in several lockers over the school premises and sold them for a pound a mag, I think by the time we were done my friend and I were an easy 40 quid each, a lot of money when you are 13...

I used to sit next to a girl in maths, one of the ones who decided at 15 she would fuck 20+ yr old guys, she proceeded for the next year to tell me in graphic details about her exploits to try embarrass me or turn me on... needless to say now she is a munting 20st beast who's been pregnant more times than I have been flamed on this forum...

A girl once asked me when she was 13 if when you play with some1's penis is something supposed to pop out of the end of is that weird.

The best story has to be when you have the occasionally tutor class with your local bobby..

I think my class were around 14.... The chat went some thing like this..

PC Plod: So kids I want to talk about drugs, can any of you name a drug..

Girl 1: Cocaine
Boy 1: Heroin
Boy 2: Ecstasy

PC Plod: Does anyone know any street terms for these drugs

Friend 1: Smack, whiz, Charlie, ket, coke, sniff, billy, blow,....

Me: Ganja, dope, weed, skunk, hash, K, E'z, jack and jills, scag, Harry monk etc...

PC Plod: ........ (dumbstruck)
Form tutor.......... (red-faced)

Friend: Shall we continue?


Needless to say from that point forward we were kept under a watchful eye most lunchtimes... until 6th form when the teachers used to share joints with us...
(zikki Is quickly making enemies, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 17:10, 4 replies)

Aw man...
Scaryduck – you may well have just given me something to take my mind of my impending redundancy this week.

Where do I start? My old man was and is a tit. He bullied me as a kid but I was a bright nipper so quickly worked out they had ‘rules’ at school that governed just what sort of retaliation teachers could mete out – and this was in the days of being able to throw a heavy wooden blackboard duster at your head and the administering of the leathery delights of ‘the belt’ (the Scottish equivalent of the cane but with an appropriate degree of added viciousness required to deal with miniature Glaswegians).

So I set about a career of thoroughly enjoying school – I couldn’t understand those who hated school – you got to learns stuff AND rip the piss out of teachers. My attitude was similar to that of the WW1 captured airmen who were duty bound to hinder harass outflank and generally annoy the fuck out of their captors.

I feel one of my epic posts coming on but for starters…

We had a primary school teacher who was certifiable. Mr Saunders – never seen without his shit brown snorkel parka and Woolworth’s bag looking like your classic fiddler, 40 odd still lived with his mum. Seemed to genuinely believe terrorising 10-year-old kids was somehow both big and indeed clever. Odd/pervy behavior included peering at the tower block opposite with huge binoculars while informing a class of 10 year olds he could see old ladies getting undressed (always old ladies). Making all the boys do gym bare-chested and running up behind them to slap their backs at any provocation then make excited comments at the resulting hand shaped angry red welt. He treated us all to intensely camp flailing while playing ‘tennis’ (with himself against a wall) at lunchtimes, resplendent in baggy tennis whites. His WOEFUL singing and guitar playing, he had one of those little collapsible footstools and would imitate bob Dylan (badly) and get all lost in the music in front of a bemused class. Obsessing over HMS Pinafore. Sending almost every boy in the class to the same child psychologist (worried/incredulous mothers all found out through chatting). Regular beltings - Scotland had belting of the hands with heavy leather strap until the mid eighties.

A few years back I was working at a world heritage site where lo-and-behold Saunders turns up barking orders at a bus load of depressed looking 10 year olds - still in shit brown parka and ginger sideburns. Initially I was set to nip out and twat him one until I remembered I had got access to his full name once (he stupidly signed a school fire extinguisher during a routine check). So I strolled down and quietly told the first kid I encountered my insider info – as I walked away a wave of laughter spread among them then one called out JASPER BERTRUM SAUNDERS… yer a fanny!

I have many many more…

I’ll be back
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 17:10, Reply)

Truth in answers
I would have been 6 years old in first class. On our weekly visit to the school library. The librarian, whose name I forget but, shall call her Mrs Mosses for the point of the story (and the original Mosses may well have been her husband), found me with my bum perched on a desk or table.

"Do you sit on the table at home she shrieked?"

"Yes" replied the junior Bad Advice

"Well I hope you won't if I ever invite you to my house" said Mrs Mosses

"Don't worry" I answered "I wouldn't come"
(bad_advice QOTW survivor from the first trollocost!, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 17:05, Reply)

Dennis the Menace
You may have had to be there, but on a mufti day (own clothes day, you know), at an age where fashion had just started to REALLY matter, I spent days worrying about what to wear to avoid piss taking and beatings by older lads.

Luckily, a lad in my class managed to take the brunt of pain from the ENTIRE school by turning up in a cotton tracksuit with Dennis The Menace cartoons on the chest, and a little Gnasher cartoon biting at his ankles on the jogging bottoms. I remember a cartoon speech bubble said, "Gnash-Gnash!"

We were 15. Fifteen!
When I first clapped eyes on the poor lad, who was innocently just not as grown up as some, he already had the dead eyed look of someone ten dead-arms down before lunch and all chance of sex reduced to very high odds.

"I didnt know they made pyjamas like that," said a teacher.

I still smile about this sometimes. Gnash!
(whitehorse, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:54, 6 replies)

Snort
Hmm, got a few stories for this one.

First, let me tell the tale of some GSCE students at my school. Sixteen years old, naive and greedy. Add to the tale a mix of younger and even more naive eleven year olds. New to the school and desperate to fit in and be cool.

Now, these 16-year olds hit on a brilliant plan to make money by exploiting the 11-year olds' desperate need to be cool and do outrageous stuff.

So they sold them cocaine.

Or at least that's what they told them. They sold about 40 of these eleven year olds small packets of white powder at about ten pounds a shot. They were rich! All was well and brilliant.

Until the next day. When at least ten called in sick and several more turned up with red eyes and big red sore noses, inflamed beyond belief. And furious phonecalls from parents were pouring in as the story came out.

They'd sold the little brats packets of baking soda. And they'd gone home, thinking they were so cool and snorted it.

All the older kids got a two week suspension and detentions for the rest of the year. They were not expelled - for one very good reason

The teachers figured it was quite possibly the greatest and most effective anti-drugs lesson that the younger kids would ever get.
(calamarain just invented dehydrated water, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:53, Reply)

Dave Spence Bomb Maker
Where to begin…

I suppose I ought to start with a bit of background info. I went to a Catholic school, a school where teachers were sometimes Nuns and sometimes they weren’t.

Did I say it was a Catholic school?

Some of you, might, just might remember there was a weeny little problem over the water in Ireland, where the Protestants and the Catholics never always saw eye-to-eye.

So, with bombs and shootings all the rage over the water, some where along the line, my school receive a telephone call, from, we are guessing a ‘yoof’ who is desperately trying to put on an Irish accent and claiming that there is a bomb in the school.

Panic erupts and we are evacuated. Not in some noise sensitive way, but with the full on fire-drill (obviously, Sister Claire was so up on her bomb making, she had no doubt that the fire alarm wouldn’t set off a home made device, but that’s another issue). So there we are, the assembled masses, out in the playground a good 6 or 7 feet away from the building with the bomb in it.

Word soon spreads that this isn’t just a fire drill, but rather a sinister attempt to kill us all.

Dave Spence raises his hand and asks Mr Jeffery ‘if, being this close to the building with the bomb in it is a good idea?’

Unsurprisingly, Mr Jeffery agrees and moves us.

He moves us to the other end of the playground, buy the gym. That’ll be the gym with one wall made entirely of glass.

Dave raises his hand again and asks ‘Do you think we’ll be okay standing by all this glass if the bomb goes off?’

Mr Jeffery tells Dave to shut up. He (Mr Jeffery) was proper angry by this point, both at the inconvenience of being removed from class and then being given – a completely valid – health and safety lecture by Dave Spence, a mouthy chain-smoker who reckoned he could get his hands on any electrical item you desired.*

Anyway, the police are on scene by now, and word is going round that they are taking the threat seriously, so naturally, we are all buzzing with equal measures of fear and excitement

Did I mention it was a Catholic school?

So, within an hour of the call, we have a distressed Mr Jeffery, Old Bill, the Fire brigade and two green vans with members of bomb disposal squad ready to conduct the search, oh, and a Dave Spence who reckons he’d be able to defuse the bomb, all you need are scissors and a steady hand.

Clearly, this is going to take some time to sort out, by now on the sports field (the police made us move away from the gym and described the decision to make us stand there as, ‘frankly ridiculous’). We are all itching to go home (its coming up to lunchtime) and a free afternoon off school with no homework is just the ticket as far as me and my mates are concerned. Okay, none of us are sure how we’ll get home, given that there is no school bus at midday, but by god we’ll try!

And then it happens.

Sister Claire is clearly more organized than anyone ever gave her credit for, over the hill come 6 coaches. Brilliant we think, they’ve managed to get the school busses here early!

On we get, safe in the knowledge we’ll soon be going home and we’ll be there in time for the lunchtime edition of Neighbours! Only once we get on our respective coaches we notice we are joined by a few Nuns’ and a couple of teachers.

And then it happens. (pt2)

We are now sitting on a moving coach, harbouring plans to have a nice easy afternoon watching telly and we get told. ‘Settle down kids, you’ll be delighted to know that the police and army are continuing the search of the school and will let Sister Clair know in due course if there are any suspicious devices that need attention’

‘Many thanks are due to Sister Clair for her decisive action on hearing about this threat, from the caretakers house, she has organised sufficient busses for you all to travel on.’

(By now we are over the moon)

‘Our first stop, is at St Mary on the Quay church, where Father Joseph has generously agreed to read some passages from the Gospel of Saint Mark and you’ll be invited to discuss it’s meaning’

Oddly, that wasn’t the only bomb threat we received. Over the 5 years I was at the school, we must have had half a dozen or more, the format was usually the same, us put on coaches and driven to a church somewhere for bible discussions.

None of us ever knew who was responsible for the calls, but we all had our suspicions and no one ever owned up, either to mates or to peers.

I reckon it was Dave Spence.

Not exactly a laugh a minute that was it? Never mind eh, I’ve written it now.

I also have vivid memories of when we all went to some god-awful camp site in Exmouth for an ‘activity week’ (read, God and occasionally swimming in a freezing cold outdoor pool’), evil PE teacher, Mr Davis was (as we all did in the days pre mobile phone), using a phone box to make a personal phone call. That’ll be him taped (and stuck solid) in a red phone box desperately trying to get out as various ‘pranksters’ have gone round and round the telephone box with sellotape.

A whole roll.

Tell ya, whole roll of tape around a phonebox makes it nigh-on impossible for the unfortunate trapped inside, and there escape is not helped by about 30 4th years pissing themselves laughing, he was in there a good half hour or so.

The Sellotape-massive had, by now, buggered off. Why? I don’t know, they didn’t have any sort of disguise and were laughing the whole time they did it. Eventually, Mr Davis gets released and back at camp, we are all lined up and shouted at. The lads responsible had their reasons for perpetrating this particular crime. Apparently they were bored shitless and knew that if they misbehaved enough, they’d have to go home.

The father of one of them drove down and collected them all.

At school, we were all desperate to know what punishment they received when they got back home. Turns out, they’d collectively lied to their folks about the quality of the food, the violence with other schools also staying and the leaking tents and that the only way they’d get home without losing face was to misbehave.

Their parents were, so they said, happy enough with that explanation.

The school weren’t, as well as being banned from all future trips, they were all on ‘litter duty’ for a month.

Mullered
*The closest Dave Spence ever came to fulfilling his ‘I can get you anything electrical’ claim, was nicking all of the batteries out of the calculators in Maths and knocking them out at 10p a time to kids with Walkmans.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:53, 2 replies)

Mixed PE.
Ahh...mixed PE. Doing PE with girls.

Imagine the swimming pool, me, the moderately talented midfielder (or whatever they are) defending the goal with the passion of a young (insert famous water polo-er here). The seats either side of the pool lined with the buxom beauties of my year, all cheering us on. Imagine having a stiffie thinking off all those girls in their bikinis.

Imagine the ball coming your way, high up. Imagine thinking "I can make this". Imagine jumping as high as you possibly can. This is the moment that I will impress all of them.

Imagine your shorts not leaving the pool with you as you jump.

Now imagine thinking about that for about 21 years, the horror never receeding.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:51, 2 replies)

I have too many of these..
My Mum was a teacher at my school - still is, but I haven't been there in 10 years so that's irrelevant..
I never had her as a teacher, only as a sub a couple of times. Now I'm sure everyone knows that having a substitute teacher means you don't do any work for the entire lesson.
In one class where mum was our sub, a few mates and I were sitting around talking shit and just generally doing no work. My friend Alana* was sitting on the table, since her chair was over the other side of the room.
So I guess my mum said something like 'Alana, why don't you go back to your own table and do some work?' to which Alana replied 'Why don't you get a spoon so you can eat my ass?!'
She got kicked out of class, a couple of detentions and didn't come round to my place much after that..

*Is her real name, actually..
(r0ach, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:51, Reply)

Last one: Special school bus
On the walk to our school, we had to pass through a council estate. The gene pool was low in this area, and the nearby special school taught some of the kids from the estate. These kids were picked up by the special school bus, and we would always see the flapjacks and window lickers on the bus as it waited for the other spacks to board.

There was always one kid on the bus that cracked us up as we walked past. His mum and dad must have hated the poor little sod.

He was inflicted with the old 'Nyerr! must spang my head against the window!' disorder and was obviously made to wear a helmet.

It was a Sanfransisco 49ers American Football helmet complete with face guard.

Seeing this kid rock back and forth with this thing over his head every morning would reduce us to tears.

Kids are cunts.
(Spaff_Quaffer Wise fwom your gwave., Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:46, Reply)

Book him!
Being, as mentioned in a previous story, an army brat I attended many schools while growing up. After a while though I tired of endlessly moving and opted for the stability of a boarding school. Although probably not the best place to spend your formative years there were a few things I liked about it. Mostly the pointless things that had been devised by generations of school kids to counter the boredom of being forced to be at school for weeks on end. These included:

Dorm-raids: A dorm-raid was a great way to bond with your new dorm-mates. Often planned with military precision the aim was to infiltrate one of the other houses armed with pillows, often filled with hard things, and mount a surprise-attack on the sleeping occupants, pummelling them back into the waking world at some ungodly hour, usually whilst shining a light in their eyes. Of course small-scale dorm-raids where one room would attack their neighbours in the same house were also fun but a full-scale inter-house dorm-raid was always an experience to be relished. It often took all the military tactics I believed I inherited from my father to get us all in, spring the attack and then retreat before the housemaster busted us. Often as you lay there afterward pretending you were asleep as if nothing had happened a shiver would run down your spine as retaliation was never far away. Those were the days.

Lampposting: Often employed in dorm-raids but often used as a prank against the lazy (meaning this happened to me on more than one occasion) was lampposting. This involved three of us lifting the bed of the victim to a 90 degree angle and leaving it there. The head of the bed usually had a cupboard on either side further trapping the victim with hilarious consequences.

Booking: My personal favourite. I forgot about this little gem a few years ago and on remembering it I took half an hour to explain it to my friends because I was laughing so hard. At school we were subjected to chapel six days a week. 15 mins at the start of the day Mon-Fri and a whole hour on Sunday. You would think that any chance of a prank in this ecclesiastical environment would be impossible but we were resourceful. Each chapel session involved at least two hymns and other instances where standing was necessary. In front of every pupil was a thick hymn book and a hard-back, thin-spined service book. It was only a matter of time before someone came up with the genius of 'booking'. This involved waiting for a standing part of the service and placing your service book upright on the pew in front and waiting. If positioned correctly, in alignment with the ass-crack of the person in front, the victim would sit down right on the spine putting their whole weight down on it bouncing back up again with a stiffled yelp (no taking in chapel!). As we had two fellows over 100 kg in my house they were the most sought-after victims (on one occasion one of them put a permanent crease in one of the service books as it nearly disappeared up his volumous backside) but woe betide anyone who decided to slump back down without sweeping a hand under their arse first. I had a sore coccyx for a week once!

The length? THE LENGTH?! You can't handle the... sorry nearly lost it for a second there.
( Raindance Work is inversely proportional to post-count, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:43, Reply)

Oh and
if youre parents do teach at your school, just remember that adults are often friends with each other outside work. At least once a week, at tea, we'd be joined by one of my teachers.

Its the stuff of nightmares. Still is.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:43, 2 replies)

Dont
go to the same school that your parents taught at. It fucks you up, to quote Larkin.

Primary school? My mum was teacher, and then head. High school? My dad was deputy head.

One memorable occasion, I was chewing gum in German. "Are you chewing Coke??".

"Sorry miss.." and I threw it away.

Cut to 6.30pm, dinner table. Dad speaks between mouthfuls.

"So son, I hear you were chewing in German today."

FFS. Every fucking night *SOMETHING*, for about 13 years. Not right.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:42, 1 reply)

The Question
Year 9 (13 - 14 year olds) sex education/science class. The very earnest and open teacher was taking all questions without fear or favor.

One young innocent sweet looking thing, we shall call her Debbie for that was her name, raised her hand to ask.

"why does sperm taste salty?"

to which our teacher replied quietly,

"does it?"

and for some reason rather than taking the easy out, with a far away look in her eye, her reply was,

"mmmmmmmmmmmm"

Debbie was very popular with all the boys for the rest of her school years as I remember.
(bad_advice QOTW survivor from the first trollocost!, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:39, 1 reply)

Mr Howells
was a PE teacher and every one called him Strauss. Mainly cos he spoke fast - "hellomynameismrhowells" and it comes out Strauss.

He was a bit of a cock though and I liked to remind Strauss' best mate - Mr Fosh, my Geography teacher about this occasionally, for no other reason than i was a bit of a twat.

Mr Fosh snapped one day on a field trip. He took us all for an Indian, and on the way there, I asked him quite loudly, "why is Strauss such a cunt?". He grabbed me by the neck and held me against a wall, my feet not touching the ground. It fucking hurt.

With his other hand he punctuated the sentence "do. not. call. my. friend. MISTER. Howells. a. CUNT. again" with violent jabs to my solar plexus.

And I tell you what, I never fucking did.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:39, Reply)

Oh, another one..
In year 9 and 10 (Form 3 and 4? Around 15 years old, anyway..) I was part of the school debating team. Mainly because I like to argue, and got out of all kinds of other school work to do it. Once a month one of the English teachers used to drive us to another town about 2 hours from where I'm from (Ballarat, in Western Victoria, if anyone is interested..) to compete against a bunch of other schools in debates. She was a terrible driver, so sitting in this shitty old mini-bus the school owned driving home at around midnight was always a bit scary.
She'd always sit on about 80 (kilometers, not miles..), so plenty of cars would be overtaking us and giving angry looks if they happened to get stuck behind us through a no-overtaking zone. One such car got the pleasure of seeing four 15 year-old's bare asses pressed up against the back window of the bus (Mrs P was totally oblivious - concentrating on the road, since she was practically blind..).
Things began to get really funny when the car overtook us, and was subsequently pulled over by a police car. Things got absolutely hilarious when WE were pulled over by the same police car a few minutes later! The police came on to the bus and asked everyone if we had been mooning cars. Of course we all said no, and they were fairly easily convinced - I think they were expecting a football team or something, not a secondary school debate team..
We were all questioned by the principal the next day at school, and although they just fucking knew we had done it, there wasn't much they could do..
Hmm.. reading back it doesn't sound that funny anymore. Trust me though - mooning people is ALWAYS funny..
(r0ach, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:39, Reply)

the amazing mr Gordon
he was a maths teacher. he sued to wear this incredible eyesore of a tweed suit, it was kinda yellowy-greeny-beige. he wore this daily. i mean daily, we soaked that fucker's back in fountain pen splashes and not ONCE did they get washed out. the underside of the sleeves was shiny.

this man, was categorically NOT cut out for working with kids. he was impatient, unhelpful, borderline stupid, and a social leper even among other teachers.

one time, the illustrious from these very boards got kicked out of class because he'd copied my homework and got a lower mark than me. when he asked the reason for the same results being marked differently, the reply was 'if you hand it in late why should i mark it correctly?' to which the reply 'because you're paid to sir' (nice...) sent him into a towering fury so great he nearly lost an eye in all the spluttering.
the fact that phil, after being sent outside, spent the remainder of the lesson kicking fuck inot the metal lockers and the door did NOT help.

another time, being a number-tard as i am, i was struggling with algebra. after saying i didn't undertsand, three times, to which the response was to get closer to my ear and repeat the same explanation with added spittle and dog-breath, he finally exploded 'for god's SAKE boy!! a trained MONKEY could do this!!!'

i replied 'perhaps you should have me work it out in bananas then!' which, predictably, threw him into a fit of the mentals like you never did see as a whole class of kids pissed themselves with laughter.

i still have nightmares about the way that as his writing progrssed futher along the width of the board, rather than walk alongside like a normal human, he would go inot this preposterous lunge, meaning his sentences got more straggly and drooped down at the ends.



wherever he is now, he's making a child miserable, whether it's be being a shit teacher, or something involving homemade dungeons.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:35, 2 replies)

Snow Day
On the coach ride into school we allways had to go past the local comp. The inhabitants of said school were of the ilk that their shoe size dwarved their IQ and an average evenings entertainment was to go and kick over wheelybins and mug someone.
To set the scene, today comp and compette, (clad only in the finest burberry, timberland and adidas 2 stripe money can buy)are stood outside the gates pelting passing cars with iceballs for japes, they then made a fatal mistake and pelted our coach. The driver, Wilf god rest his soul (he must be dead by now) was very proud of his sharabang and promptly stopped to get out and inspect it for dents and whatnot, closely followed by 50 of us, all with the same evil childish glint in our eyes. Comp and Compette went down in an absolute shit storm of snow, ice and anything we could find. Before they knew it they were on the ground in air raid mode, behind or under any available cover ducking and covering like the untermensch they were. Even old Wilf had a punt. Once they managed to get off their arses they got straight out of dodge in a blur of stripes, cheques and purple whelts.

We were nice kids really
( Tosh and Becks, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:34, 1 reply)

Tongs
I forgot this one.

At 13 years old, we had a kid in our class for a while named Michael. Michael was a bit of a weirdo. He was a loner, and a bit thick. His mum was in a wheelchair and he smelled like Weetabix.

Another kid in our class was Steven. A funny looking boy, who had oversized K9 teeth and fuzzy hair, which earned him the nick name 'wolfy.' I quite liked him, but he attracted the attention of the 'hard nuts' and was bullied occasionally.

Michael sat behing my group of mates one day in science and we noticed that he was heating a pair of tongs on the bunsen burner whilst keeping a close eye on the teacher who was flitting between groups checking on various tumblers of liquid bubbling and smoking etc... (thats how I remember it. The scene may be stolen from a film now)

We asked him what he was up to, but he kept shtum.

When they were red hot, he casually walked over to where Wolfy was working with his little group of misfits and stuck the tongs up his arse.

Wolf leaped foward with an almighty "YOOOOOWWWLLLLL!" which only went to further his wolf-like status, and he bawled his eyes out and clutched his mudflaps.

We never saw Michael again.

Years later in 6th form, Wolfy was reminded of the story, and he dropped his keks and showed us the brutal scar on his arse cheek.
(Spaff_Quaffer Wise fwom your gwave., Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:33, Reply)

There were reports of a funny looking man hanging around near the school
so, blatantly a child molester. Instead of heeding the warning for the children to stay inside (which one of my mates did, whilst crying his eyes out over his turkey twizzlers), most of us roamed the school grounds and field in gangs armed with whatever improvised weapons we could find, most of us wearing our ties around our head rambo-style

we were well 'ard
( Bobson I who milks the milkmen?, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:27, 1 reply)

I was homeschooled.
Well, I say homeschooled, I lived on a farm in the middle of nowhere with relatives, and most of my "schooling" consisted of vocational training in maintenance and manual labour. I hated it, I wasn't cut out for the rural lifestyle and I wanted more from my life than decades grubbing in the dirt. I just wasn't a farmer. Every year I'd beg my uncle to let me attend the academy in a nearby town, and every time he'd say they needed me on the farm, but maybe next season I'd be able to go.

Thanks to a wrongly delivered missive, I eventually met up with a local chap who agreed to tutor me. He took me travelling after the death of my aunt and uncle, and led me to an old colleague of his who took over when he too passed. They were both religious, and thanks to their teaching and the faith they gave me I’m now a very successful chap. I’m widely travelled, well regarded by the current government and am head of the new Jedi Academy on Yavin 4.

So, basically, school ain’t all that.
(off is getting pretty fucking sick of all this, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:26, 9 replies)

The odd couple.

She was widely considered to be the ugliest girl in the school.

He was widely considered to be a gay.

She claimed he threw himself at her while they were having a fag.

He denied it.

She claimed he was all over her like a bishop on a choirboy.

He denied it.

She claimed he'd barely escaped his underwear when he went off all over her jeans.

He denied it.

She was widely considered to be a bit easy after that.

He must have longed for the good old days when people only called him gay.
( Moey, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:24, Reply)

Breaking into the special needs room every lunchtime
To sit on the beanbags and play chucky egg on the BBC computers.
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:22, 4 replies)

So sad. Singer John Martyn died today.
Sorry, I know that this off subject but John was my favourite singer and there doesn't seem to be much mention of it in the news. Don't know if any other B3tans out there liked him, but I saw him many times and will miss his wonderful music.

On topic, I hated school. :C(
(Woofie, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:19, 3 replies)

High school chemistry
Remember the experiment where you drop some magnesium in hydrochloric acid and watch it fizz?

Remember the teacher saying that the bubbles that were formed were hydrogen?

Remember what happens when hydrogen gets near a spark?

Now imagine the class Beavis getting an idea in his dim little brain and sparking a lighter over the top of a glass test tube.

I'm very glad I wasn't nearby.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:16, 2 replies)

In chemistry...
We were doing an experiment which involved indentifying hydrogen from a "squeaky pop" from combustion.

I can't remember what the original compound we were supposed to get said hydrogen from, but we needed bunsen burners to do it.

So, I choose to work with one of my best friends in this experiment. Whilst I set up the bunsen burner and the other equipment, he went off to get a splint to light to get the flame from another bunsen to ours.

He walks back with a lit splint to our work-area, he holds the lit splint over the bunsen and I turn on the gas tap.

Nothing happened.

I turned the tap off, and then back on again.

Nothing happened.

My mates looks down, and says "you've turned the wrong tap on!" There is nothing particularly funny in this. The funny part is that he then reaches down to turn it off with the hand he had the splint in, resulting in a ball of fire erupting from the gas tap, hitting his hand and travelling half-way up his arm before I turned the tap off.

The general consensus was "shit..."

If you can think of a knob joke suitable here, well you're cleverer than me...
(General_Manchego, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:16, 2 replies)

Primary School
this time. Every Primary school had a teacher that was frightening, old and capable of random acts of violence....i suppose it was expected, a different era, etc.

We had one, Mrs Ginesi. An old Italian monster, she must have been about 300 years old and only ever taught the P6's and P7's. Presumably because she would have eaten the younger, smaller kids. As fate would have it we got her in Primary 6....the whole class was gripped with terror. i could go on and explain in great detail one or two of her finest moments, but instead i am gonna be lazy and do a small list.

- she would always ensure that the milk was left in the sun and drank as late as possible, hmmm cottage cheese.

- never ever taking us for PE..even though we got it EVERY week up until then

- allowing the mongo daughter (not really, but a blithering twat) of the assistant head to be as shit as she wanted to be with no retribution

- she smelled like cats piss and human shit. a very bad combo.

- calling us all 'zombies' on a daily basis, which was a bit, pot, kettle, black

but the funniest, by far, was the day she flipped.

There was a slightly tinkerish guy in the class called Mark Payne (oh the fun she had with that name), who came from a large family and always smelt of pish. Mrs Ginesi absolutely fucking HATED him, with a force so black it was pathetic. Anyway. After a misdemeanor, Mark Payne, (or Darkie Bacon as he was known to us, or even Darkie Pagan, Markie Pavement, Nigger Payne, or simply Nigger) had to take his desk out to the front and get on with his work there.

10 minutes later and he must have been transfixed by a pigeon or something, because his jaw was slack and his gaze fixed...he never heard her say his name...so she said it again......he kept staring, she shouted his name..his jaw remained slack. Collectively we held or breathes as she pounced as quickly as a 300 year old woman could and whacked him on the side of the head, causing it to bounce off of an ancient metal radiator with a very satisfying, 'KLANG'

Being a tough peasant he simply bounced up and was launched bodily into the corridor along with his desk, where he sat for the rest of day. the stupid old cunt should have been sacked, but i think she died a few months after we went to high school.



Yay for death.
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:15, Reply)

I found my school yearbook a few months ago
Boy did I go to school with some gimp-faced fuckers.

Ugly as shite.
(teebie jeebie, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:14, Reply)

An old story of mine but it bears repeating.
The Swimming Gala at Upper School.
In which various pimply herberts competed for glory in the piss infested, nadger reducing over chlorinated puddle that was Sudbury Upper School's pool.

Anyway, we would have been around 15.
I was too piss poor a swimmer to be let near the events but my mate Eddie, who was a fine adept of the back stroke, was.

The pattern would go that the girl's event would take place, followed by the boys event of the same 'class'

Most of the lads competing had, in view of the fact that it was the one time in the year you'd get to see the girls out of their shapeless uniforms wisely opted to wear swimming cossies in the 'baggy shorts'. Not Ed.
He was wearing skin tight Speedo's.
So the whole YEAR could see his erection straining at his speedos.

The backstroke event started.
Then had to be restarted as all competitors bar one had collapsed(or would have done, had they not been being supported by the water of the pool) laughing at some wag shouting 'that's not fair Eddie's using a rudder!'

Even to this day, getting on for 20 years later he still is occasionally addressed as Rudder.
But only WELL out of his earshot.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:14, 4 replies)