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Hi. I haven't got Photoshop, so I'll probably never post a single picture. Instead I'll post in the QotW, which are miles better anyway.
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Hi. I haven't got Photoshop, so I'll probably never post a single picture. Instead I'll post in the QotW, which are miles better anyway.
Recent front page messages:
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Best answers to questions:
» Your Weirdest Teacher
2 more...
1. Mr. Morgan, Welsh, and history teacher extrordinaire. Not especially weird, but a dude. His history is shrouded in mystery, but according to some he's ex-SAS, which isn't hard to believe considering his demeanour. This man was unrilable. Nothing got his back up. On the few ocassions his class didn't go silent the moment he walked in, he would stand at the front of the room, knuckles on desk, and speak quietly into the din the immortal words "If you don't shut up right now, I am going to go apeshit." There has never been an incident where it didn't work.
His defining moment, however, came at the end of last year. For the 2 years previous to that, he had be mocked by one Sam Deacon from the back of the room. Mr. Deacon is a world standard fat wanker; full of himself to the point of self-destruction, insufferably loud, and -crucially- extremely cheeky, but lacking in wit. His mocking came generally in the form of stupid questions that amused only him and the people who sucked up to him. Things like "If you were any weapon from World War 2, what would you be?", which eventually moved onto more personal inquisitions such as "Was your father one of the x thousand Welshmen who deserted in the war?". The Morganator would always tell him to be quiet, totally calm, or slam him with a witticism, generally with a rough message of "You are so stupid you don't deserve to be talking to me", which was fair enough.
In the final lesson he held a quiz, the losers of which would be subject to a punishment. When the doling-out time came around, he stood up, and delivered his awesome final speech thusly-
"To the group that came last, your punishment is this: to spend your sixth form years sharing a school with idiots like Mr. Deacon here. As for Mr. Deacon himself..."
At this point he went over to his jacket, and pulled something small and black from the pocket. Sam had the audacity to shout "It's a gun!" at this point, despite being in the middle of an obviously severe bollocking.
"No, Sam, it is something far worse than a gun. This is a high-powered tape recorder, with which I have been, well, recording, your little outbursts for the last 6 weeks. I think the headmaster will be interested to hear it. Goodbye class, and good luck with your exams."
That was the only incident in which I have experienced a shock-induced silence amongst a congregation of people. When it ended, there was a scramble to climb over the desks and point in Sam's face while laughing, followed by a round of applause for Mr. Morgan. What a guy.
2. Dr. Andrew. Chemistry teacher. Northerner teaching in a southern school. She was the most patronising, annoying, idiotic teacher I have ever known. She gave all her Year 11s "study buddies" to work with. She took obvious favourites. She would spend half a lesson teaching us the wrong thing, give us an exercise to do, and only realise her mistake when it became apparent that we couldn't do the exercise. After several people got lacklustre mock results, she was suspended for 6 months. Good, because even the other staff hated her.
What made her so weird? Her feminism. She detested all the boys in her class, and we made an effort to piss her off as much as possible as a result, rooting her hatred deeper. Girls could do no wrong, and got away with exploiting it. I personally was bollocked for having ink all over my shirt from where a girl sprayed me with it. I explained the situation, and she laughed, saying that "she's not the kind of person to do something like THAT! See me after class!"
Bitch.
I can't compete with the night-time practising teacher, oh well.
(Tue 15th Nov 2005, 20:25, More)
2 more...
1. Mr. Morgan, Welsh, and history teacher extrordinaire. Not especially weird, but a dude. His history is shrouded in mystery, but according to some he's ex-SAS, which isn't hard to believe considering his demeanour. This man was unrilable. Nothing got his back up. On the few ocassions his class didn't go silent the moment he walked in, he would stand at the front of the room, knuckles on desk, and speak quietly into the din the immortal words "If you don't shut up right now, I am going to go apeshit." There has never been an incident where it didn't work.
His defining moment, however, came at the end of last year. For the 2 years previous to that, he had be mocked by one Sam Deacon from the back of the room. Mr. Deacon is a world standard fat wanker; full of himself to the point of self-destruction, insufferably loud, and -crucially- extremely cheeky, but lacking in wit. His mocking came generally in the form of stupid questions that amused only him and the people who sucked up to him. Things like "If you were any weapon from World War 2, what would you be?", which eventually moved onto more personal inquisitions such as "Was your father one of the x thousand Welshmen who deserted in the war?". The Morganator would always tell him to be quiet, totally calm, or slam him with a witticism, generally with a rough message of "You are so stupid you don't deserve to be talking to me", which was fair enough.
In the final lesson he held a quiz, the losers of which would be subject to a punishment. When the doling-out time came around, he stood up, and delivered his awesome final speech thusly-
"To the group that came last, your punishment is this: to spend your sixth form years sharing a school with idiots like Mr. Deacon here. As for Mr. Deacon himself..."
At this point he went over to his jacket, and pulled something small and black from the pocket. Sam had the audacity to shout "It's a gun!" at this point, despite being in the middle of an obviously severe bollocking.
"No, Sam, it is something far worse than a gun. This is a high-powered tape recorder, with which I have been, well, recording, your little outbursts for the last 6 weeks. I think the headmaster will be interested to hear it. Goodbye class, and good luck with your exams."
That was the only incident in which I have experienced a shock-induced silence amongst a congregation of people. When it ended, there was a scramble to climb over the desks and point in Sam's face while laughing, followed by a round of applause for Mr. Morgan. What a guy.
2. Dr. Andrew. Chemistry teacher. Northerner teaching in a southern school. She was the most patronising, annoying, idiotic teacher I have ever known. She gave all her Year 11s "study buddies" to work with. She took obvious favourites. She would spend half a lesson teaching us the wrong thing, give us an exercise to do, and only realise her mistake when it became apparent that we couldn't do the exercise. After several people got lacklustre mock results, she was suspended for 6 months. Good, because even the other staff hated her.
What made her so weird? Her feminism. She detested all the boys in her class, and we made an effort to piss her off as much as possible as a result, rooting her hatred deeper. Girls could do no wrong, and got away with exploiting it. I personally was bollocked for having ink all over my shirt from where a girl sprayed me with it. I explained the situation, and she laughed, saying that "she's not the kind of person to do something like THAT! See me after class!"
Bitch.
I can't compete with the night-time practising teacher, oh well.
(Tue 15th Nov 2005, 20:25, More)
» How I Skive Off Work
A friend of mine...
...and another chap who I quite intensely dislike used to have maths lessons together, taught by an exceedingly fit teacher. They would sit next to each other, either side of an aisle, and alternately ask the teacher questions. While one was being talked to, the other got to stare at her arse, and the talk-toer got to look down her top when she bent over to show him how to do it. They would repeat this for whole lessons at a time, and became heroes for their commitment to the cause of skiving, as their actions allowed the entire class to doss.
(Sun 1st May 2005, 19:21, More)
A friend of mine...
...and another chap who I quite intensely dislike used to have maths lessons together, taught by an exceedingly fit teacher. They would sit next to each other, either side of an aisle, and alternately ask the teacher questions. While one was being talked to, the other got to stare at her arse, and the talk-toer got to look down her top when she bent over to show him how to do it. They would repeat this for whole lessons at a time, and became heroes for their commitment to the cause of skiving, as their actions allowed the entire class to doss.
(Sun 1st May 2005, 19:21, More)
» Your Weirdest Teacher
3 in 1!
Firstly, my French teacher. Mr. Carnall, his name was. He was English, yet had a French name, and was obsessed with all things to do with the nation he called home.
He was an effortlessly bonkers man; he looked like a crack addict, was vegan (and suffering from vitamin deficiencies because of it), he flirted with 12 year old girls, occassionally bounced around the class while in a good mood, flew into fits of rage because of chewing gum on the floor (I was once almost reduced to tears after being caught in the overflow of one of these rants), and would go into great detail about his exploits in Paris with very little prompting. We killed half our lessons simply getting him to repeat the same stories whenever possible.
The piece de resistance came to light in my second year, when his unusual living arrangement came to become public knowledge. His room had its own store cupboard, the door of which was angled so that it was impossible to see anything inside it other than what was immediately opposite. One day curiosity got the better of us, and several young lads went in to see what was in this cupboard.
There was a roll mat, and several changes of clothing.
The news spread, and it soon emerged that he was going to "retire" at the end of the year. Good thing really, since I didn't learn a thing in 2 years of being taught by him.
I saw him a few months later, and he had a Harry Hill collared purple shirt on under the outfit he had worn while our teacher.
Secondly, there was Mr. Brunsdon. He was clearly bipolar, and would engage in lewd conversations about his sexual exploits with other teachers in lessons, shouted at everyone, would break anything presented to him that he deemed sub-standard, and almost got the sack after bedding an 18 year old female student. A git on all counts.
Finally, Mr. Wood. He was an alcoholic for several years, until the gin bottles in his office were found (they were lined up against the bottom of the window, and it took them years before someone noticed!). He then went away for a while, and came back just as manically depressed and unpredictable. He came in 2 modes-
1. Looking like Bernard from Black Books, which meant he was hungover and so grumpy he would tear up a UCAS form if it were put before him.
2. Looking like a slick-haired ponce, which meant he was drunk and had had time to preen himself. While drunk he was more likely to be nice, but occassionally also went on a slurred rant.
His dismissal was possibly the funniest thing to have happened at my school since its construction. He and an upper 6th girl were friends (or maybe he liked her, and she found him repulsive, I forget), and he made a pass at her. When she said no he got irate, and claimed she had been harassing him. It went to court, and he lost, obviously. This disgrace, plus his alcoholism and erratic behaviour led to him being put on "garden leave", where he has been for some time now. Good, because he was a cnut too.
Metaphorical prizes if you know what my school is!
(Wed 9th Nov 2005, 17:26, More)
3 in 1!
Firstly, my French teacher. Mr. Carnall, his name was. He was English, yet had a French name, and was obsessed with all things to do with the nation he called home.
He was an effortlessly bonkers man; he looked like a crack addict, was vegan (and suffering from vitamin deficiencies because of it), he flirted with 12 year old girls, occassionally bounced around the class while in a good mood, flew into fits of rage because of chewing gum on the floor (I was once almost reduced to tears after being caught in the overflow of one of these rants), and would go into great detail about his exploits in Paris with very little prompting. We killed half our lessons simply getting him to repeat the same stories whenever possible.
The piece de resistance came to light in my second year, when his unusual living arrangement came to become public knowledge. His room had its own store cupboard, the door of which was angled so that it was impossible to see anything inside it other than what was immediately opposite. One day curiosity got the better of us, and several young lads went in to see what was in this cupboard.
There was a roll mat, and several changes of clothing.
The news spread, and it soon emerged that he was going to "retire" at the end of the year. Good thing really, since I didn't learn a thing in 2 years of being taught by him.
I saw him a few months later, and he had a Harry Hill collared purple shirt on under the outfit he had worn while our teacher.
Secondly, there was Mr. Brunsdon. He was clearly bipolar, and would engage in lewd conversations about his sexual exploits with other teachers in lessons, shouted at everyone, would break anything presented to him that he deemed sub-standard, and almost got the sack after bedding an 18 year old female student. A git on all counts.
Finally, Mr. Wood. He was an alcoholic for several years, until the gin bottles in his office were found (they were lined up against the bottom of the window, and it took them years before someone noticed!). He then went away for a while, and came back just as manically depressed and unpredictable. He came in 2 modes-
1. Looking like Bernard from Black Books, which meant he was hungover and so grumpy he would tear up a UCAS form if it were put before him.
2. Looking like a slick-haired ponce, which meant he was drunk and had had time to preen himself. While drunk he was more likely to be nice, but occassionally also went on a slurred rant.
His dismissal was possibly the funniest thing to have happened at my school since its construction. He and an upper 6th girl were friends (or maybe he liked her, and she found him repulsive, I forget), and he made a pass at her. When she said no he got irate, and claimed she had been harassing him. It went to court, and he lost, obviously. This disgrace, plus his alcoholism and erratic behaviour led to him being put on "garden leave", where he has been for some time now. Good, because he was a cnut too.
Metaphorical prizes if you know what my school is!
(Wed 9th Nov 2005, 17:26, More)
» Near Death Experiences
Another one
When I was about 11, my borther and I were dragged on holiday with our father to Newquay, to stay in what was essentially a big trailer.
Nearby was a beach, so off we went to play in the sand and piss in the sea, as you do. Then we walked a bit of a way round the beach, and came face to face with the most tempting cliff you have ever seen. Not fully realising the implications if we fell off, we set about climbing round it. Yes, round it. A lot of it was narrow ledges and fingertip stuff, but the fact that there were always little safe bits just ahead kept us going for about a mile.
Christ only knows how we made it without dying to the end, where there was a tiny inlet. Waves crashed below us, and as the water level changed we could see that the area was lined with jagged rocks, just to make things even more interesting. There was no way across, but the jump from one side to the other looked possible if we got a bit lower, so I foolishly edged my way along a ledge about 6 inches wide, made out of slate, to a boulder from which I could get onto a lower level and make the leap.
First near death experience that day was when the slate broke beneath my feet, leaving me hanging by my fingers and scrambling for something to stand on. Eventually made it across, as did my brother (he was only 8 at the time, brave little tyke). From the boulder I could see a small ledge below that I could us to jump, so down I went, arse to the jagged rocks and waves.
About half way down I became aware of the fact that I could feel the rocks moving beneath my fingers, and knew that if I dropped to the ledge it would either break, or I would be thrown off balance and tumble jacksie first into the aforementioned deadly swirl.
"For fuck's sake, help!" I screamed, thrusting a hand out to my brother. He almost took it, then pulled away, uttering with a grin that almost killed me there and then-
"What's in it for me?"
"TAKE MY HAND UNLESS YOU WANT ME TO DIE!!!"
Second near death experince of the day. Reluctantly he helped me, and I proceeded to beat the snot out of him for fucking with my life in the first place. Cnut.
So, we went back the way we came (almost) and soon came to a section that was impossible to cross, having jumped down on the way there. So we backtracked a bit and found a dirt slope (similar to the one in my previous post, only a LOT steeper). Being light, he made it up no problem, but I had a hard time of it (it was about 40 metres of scrambling and praying). One time I slid about 15 metres on all 4s, and could see the edge of the cliff coming at me. Third near death moment in 10 minutes. Made it to the top, and spent half an hour walking back through eerily peaceful fields.
Never climbed a cliff since then.
Apologies for length
(Fri 26th Nov 2004, 20:13, More)
Another one
When I was about 11, my borther and I were dragged on holiday with our father to Newquay, to stay in what was essentially a big trailer.
Nearby was a beach, so off we went to play in the sand and piss in the sea, as you do. Then we walked a bit of a way round the beach, and came face to face with the most tempting cliff you have ever seen. Not fully realising the implications if we fell off, we set about climbing round it. Yes, round it. A lot of it was narrow ledges and fingertip stuff, but the fact that there were always little safe bits just ahead kept us going for about a mile.
Christ only knows how we made it without dying to the end, where there was a tiny inlet. Waves crashed below us, and as the water level changed we could see that the area was lined with jagged rocks, just to make things even more interesting. There was no way across, but the jump from one side to the other looked possible if we got a bit lower, so I foolishly edged my way along a ledge about 6 inches wide, made out of slate, to a boulder from which I could get onto a lower level and make the leap.
First near death experience that day was when the slate broke beneath my feet, leaving me hanging by my fingers and scrambling for something to stand on. Eventually made it across, as did my brother (he was only 8 at the time, brave little tyke). From the boulder I could see a small ledge below that I could us to jump, so down I went, arse to the jagged rocks and waves.
About half way down I became aware of the fact that I could feel the rocks moving beneath my fingers, and knew that if I dropped to the ledge it would either break, or I would be thrown off balance and tumble jacksie first into the aforementioned deadly swirl.
"For fuck's sake, help!" I screamed, thrusting a hand out to my brother. He almost took it, then pulled away, uttering with a grin that almost killed me there and then-
"What's in it for me?"
"TAKE MY HAND UNLESS YOU WANT ME TO DIE!!!"
Second near death experince of the day. Reluctantly he helped me, and I proceeded to beat the snot out of him for fucking with my life in the first place. Cnut.
So, we went back the way we came (almost) and soon came to a section that was impossible to cross, having jumped down on the way there. So we backtracked a bit and found a dirt slope (similar to the one in my previous post, only a LOT steeper). Being light, he made it up no problem, but I had a hard time of it (it was about 40 metres of scrambling and praying). One time I slid about 15 metres on all 4s, and could see the edge of the cliff coming at me. Third near death moment in 10 minutes. Made it to the top, and spent half an hour walking back through eerily peaceful fields.
Never climbed a cliff since then.
Apologies for length
(Fri 26th Nov 2004, 20:13, More)