| Report for Simon Choppin | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 1 |
| Pending stories | 1 |
| Rejected stories | 1 |
| Deleted stories (hidden) | 1 |
| Summary | Could Try Harder |
Some unknown wag had carved the words 'The Dick Seat' onto the back of one of the chairs in our French classroom. As if controlled by some higher force, the location of the dick seat could never be reliably predicted from one lesson to the next. It was, of course, accepted without question by everyone that sitting in the dick seat would make you a dick. In some kind of ghastly parody of Musical Chairs, you therefore had to get into the lesson as early as possible to ensure that you secured a normal chair.
The seriousness with which this was treated was such that even the entrance of a teacher wasn't enough to put a stop to the titanic struggle between two boys having a tug-of-war over the last remaining safe seat at the start of a lesson.
I still check the back of every seat I sit in.
The seriousness with which this was treated was such that even the entrance of a teacher wasn't enough to put a stop to the titanic struggle between two boys having a tug-of-war over the last remaining safe seat at the start of a lesson.
I still check the back of every seat I sit in.
So unfunny I don't even want it.
Year 8, French field trip, one of the funniest moments of my life.
Instead of educating us of the wonders of French culture, we were often driven into a French town and dumped there for a couple of hours. The French, being French never actually opened any of their shops so we often wandered about giggling at the condom machines scattered around the centre. That was until an industrious pupil found a joke shop (the kind that isn't there when you go back, only a unexplained draught and a cackle of laughter); so, 10 minutes later loaded with bangers and stink bombs we descended on the centre once more.
A group of us were walking down a street when we noticed another group of pupils further down the street. "Wouldn't it be fantastic if we chucked a stink bomb at them?", the thought seemed to arrive in our heads simultaneously. So we gathered round. One of the small glass vials of yellow stench was unsheathed, and it was held purposefully, catching the sun and shimmering with menace. The kid drew back and let rip, and we all followed the path of the bomb, which to our horror and suprise, was anything but straight or true; it veered horribly to the left and collided with the forehead of a French woman laden with heavy shopping. As it made contact it sheared in two, both halves heading off in opposite directions. The yellow liquid dribbled down her forehead and she stopped dead, dropped her shopping, brought one hand to her head, and pointed straight at the perpertrator. Then she unleashed a foray of indecipherable French (bodysnatcher style), but all the kid could mutter was "Sorry Lady" before the chase ensued. They both sprinted off down the street, her shopping abandoned, whilst the rest of us pissed ourselves.
We used to call these 'wallies' one long boring summer a group of us were experimenting with this time wasting activity. One guy insisted that if you concentrated on one thing whilst being 'wallied' then you would consequently fall into a trance like state and continue to act out the 'soldier, terminator, porn star' fantasy you had envisaged. Everybody quickly fell in line and insisted this was the case. Of course it was balls, I was the only gullible one that didn't realise that they were simply 'pretending' to faint. I didn't even catch on when one guy didn't quite pretend to faint soon enough, passed out and fell straight forward like a poker, smashing his face up. Another guy went into a fit after being wallied, and spent ages afterwards pulling bits of glass and dirt out of his nostrils that had lodged there whilst twitching. Why did we do this?