Precision sadism
One afternoon, when I was a young teenaged knacker with 30% added fatness extra free, I was making my way across the sports fields in preparation for rugby practice and chatting to a mate as I did so. We passed the two teachers on duty for the session, one of whom was the school's Head of Rugby, a Scottish alcoholic with anger issues. Both were holding huge string bags full of rugby balls.

We kept on walking until their conversation petered out of earshot, and were about fifty metres away when I heard the deadened thud of a ball being kicked. About a second and a half later I felt the undeadened impact of a rugby ball hitting me square in the back, itself followed by the hearty laughter of the Head of Rugby. I mustered my chunky teenage dignity and did not grace his uncouth gesture by turning round. In retrospect, the man earns grudging kudos for his aim.
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 15:27, Reply)