You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » Awesome teachers » Page 1 | Search
This is a question Awesome teachers

Teachers have been getting a right kicking recently and it's not fair. So, let's hear it for the teachers who've inspired you, made you laugh, or helped you to make massive explosions in the chemistry lab. (Thanks to Godwin's Lawyer for the suggestion)

(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:18)
Pages: Popular, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

dolly
we had a teacher in secondary school called mr. blanchard. for reasons that were never revealed to me, the entire school knew him better as dolly.
the man was insane. he scared the shit out of first years but, by the time you'd made it to second year, the awe had hit you.
the man was a dead shot with a piece of chalk. he wore 4 wristwatches, all at once. he wore a blazer that was clearly designed for someone with much shorter arms than his. you NEVER tok the piss in his class. if you did, he would immediately point at you and yell "YOU, BOY! THE ONE WITH THE GIRAFFE ON YOUR JUMPER! GET IN THE BIN AND EXPLAIN YOURSELF!" it wasn't a giraffe, of course, it was a slazenger logo. fred perry shrts were described as "the ones with the bush on the tit".
he once yelled at me for giggling in class. at least, i think it was me he shouted "YOU, GIRL! THE ONE WIT THE HAIR! YOU SOUND LIKE A GIBBON! SHUT UP!" at.
despite almost wetting myself from sheer fright, it still stands out as one of my funniest moments in school.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 13:00, 2 replies)
Ok, let's get it over with
So, I never knew my dad because he died before I was born. I was brought up by my aunt and uncle.

Something, something, Death Star, something...
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 12:49, 2 replies)
Cheeky pearoast
The wonder that was Mr Wallace.


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.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 12:49, 12 replies)
Tucker
"And that lads," said Dr 'Tucker' Jenkins, his bright blue eyes piercing us to the very depths of our corrupt souls, "Is how you make nitro-glycerine."

We marveled at the wispy threads forming on the other side of the protective screen, and jumped out of our skins as Tucker set them aflame with an extraordinarily loud bang. We loved - LOVED - School Science Club, the only time when you could stick things into the power outlets for shits and giggles, or play "ACHTUNG! FLAMMENWERFER!" with the bunsen burners without getting into trouble.

"Now," he continued, "Promise to me that you won't try this at home. It's very dangerous."

We promised.

I still have the scars.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 12:40, Reply)
A career's advisor
In 6th form we had a career's advisor called Peter Niskin, or as it was written on the leaflet:

P Niskin

We cried with laughter for 2 years over that one.

Nice enough guy, but best. name. ever.

Perhaps his career's advisor should have told him not to go into a field whereby you predominantly meet a lot of idiot teenagers with a name like that though.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 12:39, 5 replies)
Head of Lower School
Used to organise extra-curricular activities. Some of the boys had their first sexual experience with him*.

*Not me.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 12:34, 4 replies)
Bonkers Busby
At secondary school we had a science teacher called Mr Busby. He was your archetypal science bod. He always wore a white coat, had mad white hair and had glasses that made is eyes seem huge. A bit like Doc from Back to the Future if you will.

During one lesson he and another teacher decided to put on a science show which basically consisted of them alternately freezing things and blowing things up. He also gave copius electric shocks to various terrified kids.

We also had a lesson where we distilled pure ethanol and we were allowed to taste it!

The best of all came during one lesson where we were all told to heat up flasks of a substance called Xylene which is very flammable. He made the classic mistake of telling everyone that it would catch on fire if it got too hot. Cue all of us turning up the bunsens too full-blast. Flame on! Within minutes, there was a jet of flame coming from almost everyone's flask. He came up with the bright idea of dousing the flames by covering the top of the flasks with something. Generally a good idea. However, using a plastic tray was not such a wise idea. When it came to my flask, it appeared the flames were out but as he lifted the tray up, the flask came with it ,as the tray, being plastic, had melted somewhat. We all knew what was coming next. The flask (still full of very hot Xylene) plummeted down and shattered on the workbench (those big wooden work benches with lots of sinks and gas points on them), spilling hot (and now on fire) Xylene everywhere. Our books, pencil cases, the lot were now on flames. After a moment of panic and shock, mad Busby rushed into the back room, grabbed a fire exinguisher and sprayed foam all over the place, inluding a few kids.

By the end of the lesson, about 5 people were half-covered in foam and were left with smouldering books and a few charred pencils.

From that moment, mad Busby was a legend in our school. I suspect, at that moment, at least one kid realised that sicence was not so boring after all. Maybe that was the plan all along.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 12:31, 1 reply)
I'm sure there have been many...
..old fashioned, sexist woodwork teachers over the years but I give you Mr Buchanan. Firm but fair, you all spent the first year being terrified of him as he took no crap and the woodwork shop was in the area reserved for first years. You would find him puffing away on his pipe during breaks, he wrote your report in perfect copperplate handwriting and encouraged enthusiam when he saw it (yes, even if you were the only girl in the class and he thought you should be sewing or cooking)and I believe he was well known for running various boys only trips before my time there.
The bit I never got was how he could so regularly slice his thumb on the circular saw (without swearing)and just calmly wander back in with it wrapped in a hankie and tell us to turn everything off while he nipped out to get it bandaged up at the office.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 12:12, 2 replies)
My old chemistry teacher was called Al Keen (honestly)
Oh how we laughed when we started studying organic chemistry.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 12:08, 6 replies)
Probably my defective personality here, but
this QOTW is pretty much impossible to give a meaningful answer to.

My maths teacher was awesome, is probably the biggest infuence on who I am today, much moreso than my parents.

But, a) He didn't do a lot to have had that influence, most of it was who he was, and the fact I was a complete cunt at school, but somehow decided I wanted to be like him and b) To try and describe this would be irrelevant and boring to anybody but me.

I reckon the stories about awesome acts by teachers will work fine, but the rest. Hmm.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 12:07, 9 replies)
Night of the Burning Arseholes
Poor, dead Mr Harman.

Our metalwork teacher was a teaching God, and always, always had a story that would have you crying with laughter whilst trying to operate rapidly rotating machinery.

I'll never forget the day we were supposed to be setting up for the school Christmas Carol concert at the local church - we finished the job in ten minutes, and sat round, smoking and playing cards as he told his stories of night-shifts in the engineering factory where he worked before he went into teaching.

If somebody was skiving off in the toilet, he said, they'd go upstream, and float a burning oily rag down, until it reached the primitive hole-in-the-ground shitter... "That always taught the fucker," he said as we roared so much the vicar came running in thinking there was a riot.

We shall never see his like again. He taught us stuff too.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 12:05, 4 replies)
I once went on a school hillwalking trip
The teacher in charge was head of the computing department, a big guy you wouldn't mess with. Come night-time, we're settling into the bunks in the hostel when in he wanders, wearing a pair of paisley y-fronts, a head torch and a smile.

Magnificent.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:56, 10 replies)
Mad Harry

My schooldays are so long ago that I can't actually remember his real name, but I can see his wildly grinning face as if was only yesterday.

Mad Harry was the metalwork teacher. The man in charge of all sorts of amusing ways to kill or maim yourself including bench drills, lathes, high-speed buffing machines and all sorts of assorted files, chisels, punches, hammers - you name it, he had it.

Annoying Mad Harry wasn't a good idea. For minor infractions he'd put one of your hands in a vice and leave your there for the whole lesson. You'd be pinned, standing up, to bench for an hour and a half. More serious offenders would have two hands in a vice so you were straddled across two benches, impeding a walkway. And Harry would encourage students to give you a quick slap as they ducked underneath your arms.

Mad Harry was also a hurler. That is, he used to throw anything within his reach at an inattentive or whispering school kid. Again, hammers, files, random bars of metal - they were all thrown with terrifying violence and amazing skill. He never actually hit anyone - but he did part the hairs on peoples heads on a regular basis.

He was also, genuinely, paranoid. He had fixated on the IRA and was convinced they were out to kill him. So much so that he had a mirror-on-a-stick (it was a telescopic stick) that he used to check under his car for bombs. Every. Single. Day.

But my favourite memory of him was the one day he was late for school. He arrived at around 9.30, hammering his car through the school gates. Engine revving and screaming at about 6000 rpm, him travelling at about 10 miles an hour, when some six former yelled:

"CHANGE FUCKING GEAR!!!"

Harry did change gear and tried to run the six former down.

Fucking Hell Harry - I miss you....

Postscript: When Harry died in the late 90's, over 1000 former pupils turned out. Most of us were stuck outside the Church, smoking fags, swapping stories... The wake was fucking EPIC....

Cheers
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:56, 3 replies)
I'll always remember this chap fondly.
t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT5iCI16JbTA1QGrplHD6S_L1ZFE7gq_u_zCFzQoOJXh0KUk1T_OA
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:56, Reply)
Ohh and also
One of our teachers who's first name was Penny married a Chinese man with the surname Chiu.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:53, 3 replies)
I won't name him but..

Our deputy headmaster was quite simply the single most respected man I have ever met despite his frankly terrifying reputation for discipline. A veritable colossus of a man who actually treated you more like an adult as you progressed through the school even turning up at one of our larger house parties once with a can of Guiness in hand and a cigar in mouth. The initial panic response to seeing a fearsome teacher appear at such an event was dealt with when he demanded to see the 'host' and then promptly suggested that he fetch him a new drink. When we left after sixth form he took the whole year out to the pub and bought a round for everyone. A scholar and a gent.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:46, Reply)
Following on from below,
Quite early on in my secondary school education, we had a French substitute for a week for some reason or other. I can't remember his name but he was definately from Guadeloupe and could hardly speak a word of English. 20 minutes into a lesson on verbs you could see him suddenly think 'Fuck it!' (or the french equivalent) and gesture for us all to go out side. We then had an hour of kicking a football about while shouting 'JE JOUE FOOTBALL', 'IL JOUE FOOTBALL', 'VOUS JOUE FOOTBALL' and the like, depending on what was going on.

Two days later we roll in to French, having spent the time sice thinking how weird/cool that lesson was. The teacher was nowhere to be seen, until it was noticed that he was ostanding outside on the grass with his footbal and clipboard waiting for us there.

Monsieur substitute teacher, I thank you. Best couple of lessons ever.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:46, 1 reply)
Awww Mr Wilkes! :(
I love this man, he was a substitute teacher employed by the school, he was the lead in a Jazz band and had led a really interesting life. We used to pray a teacher was ill so Mr Wilkes would stand in, no matter what the subject you could say "Mr Wilkes, tell us a story" and he would spend the whole lesson regaling tales of his youth and the mischief he got up to. He'd sometimes bring along his banjo and play songs for us too.
I can remember one science lesson he was talking about how he and his mates had made a paper airplane that he claimed flew the same distance as our schools astroturf pitch, we were all like "aww no way Mr Wilkes, this is a tale too far that's just not possible" the next thing we knew we were all up on the astroturf making paper airplanes and bugger me, he only went and made one that went the distance. We all thought we'd managed to get out of learning that day but when we got back in the classroom he began to teach about aerodynamics and the science behind airplanes using his little paper plane.

He also ran the schools drama club and made sure that absolutely anyone who wanted a line in his show got one, he never picked the people who got all the main parts and went for the underdogs to give them a chance. He wrote all his own plays and music and set up a jazz band where he played trumpet, piano and banjo.

He brought so much joy to learning and being at school and he is and always will be my most favourite teacher ever. Sadley Mr Wilkes passed away in 2006 - I never got the chance to tell him how awesome and inspirational he was. I learned more from him about being a decent human being than anyone else.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:45, 1 reply)
I always hated maths
...so like the rest of the class I'd spend the lesson trying to cajole Mr H into telling us one of his frankly rather hard-to-believe anecdotes about his life before becoming a teacher.

He claimed to have invented, among other things, the credit card but our favourite story was about how he'd helped to design the Hawker Hunter jet aircraft. He related how they were still in the flight testing stage when one day a hotshot American test pilot was visiting and was offered the chance of a flight. As he was flying, he decided that, if he went high enough and flew directly towards the ground, he'd be able to go supersonic. Unfortunately for him, the canopy was under too much strain and flew off, the turbulence pulled the eject ripcords and he was shot out of the plane at high speed...minus his feet, which were tangled up in the controls.

I have no idea if it's true or not but it and many other fanciful tales kept us all amused during what would otherwise have been exceedingly dull lessons. So, thank you Mr H!

However, I did get an E at AO level maths.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:39, 1 reply)
A genuine one...
On the first day of secondary school, our form tutor (a chemistry teacher by trade and ex-FA Referee so stand up bloke) said "OK kids, come with me to the playing field!"

Sure enough we went to the playing field, and he brought with him a bucket of water and a large, dark brown glass box. He turned to us and said "OK guys, when I say run, run as fast as you can down the hill, but try and get a look back if you can!"

"RUN!"

...

BAAAANG!!!

Turns out in the brown box was a fecking huge lump of Sodium. Kablooey
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:38, 5 replies)
asseyez-vous s'il vous plaît
Mr Bergin our French teacher was awsome without realising it. We loved going to lessons with him, not for his knowledge on his subject, or his way of inspiring his pupils, no, it was mainly due to the fact he was from Yorkshire and taught French in a school in the Midlands. Being told to "asseyez-vous s'il vous plaît" in a broad yorkshire accent ended in a class of sniggering children.
The school trip to Paris resulted in puzzled looks from gendarmes, shop keepers and the like as we all spoke French with a Yorkshire accent.
So Mr Bergin, I salute you. You taught me that foreign languages can be fun to learn and whenever I go to France I always use what you taught me.
I only wish we'd had a German teacher from Wales as well.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:35, 3 replies)
I'm almost certainly not the first to do this
but I'd like to thank your mum for making me a man.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:28, 10 replies)
I've got one!
If it moves and it shouldn't, use duct tape.

If it doesn't move and it should, use WD40.
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:26, 16 replies)
3rd...Bugger! I'll go to the back of the class
I had a great form teacher one year, Mr Nicklas-Carter, he gave a double lesson about STD's which was more useful than some of the other stuff on the curriculum...and that's about all I can think of for this QOTW...
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:24, Reply)
I knew a teacher who once taught autistic kids how to get the first and second post on a new QOTW

(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:24, 14 replies)
I done wrote an early post go me.

(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:24, Reply)
I'll have second as well
As there appears to be no one else here
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:21, 3 replies)
first
I'll come back with a story later, after I've stopped being so pleased with myself for such a childish victory
Edit:
I've spent all week hungover, so my only contribution is that we had a teacher called Ken Dough.
Sorry for lack of funnies but I've drunk my brain into submission,
(, Thu 17 Mar 2011, 11:19, Reply)

This question is now closed.

Pages: Popular, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1