| Report for Rik Burke | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 4 |
| Rejected stories | 4 |
| Summary | Exemplary Child |
Attending school with the surname Burke would have been bad enough; quite why my parents thought it would be a good idea to prefix it with a name commonly abbreviated to "Dick" I don't know.
To prove they were taking the piss, they also gave my the middle name Alan. For some reason I found this more embarrasing than my surname for many years. I now try to kid myself that it's acquired a certain amount of ironic post-Partridge chic, but deep inside I know it's a shitty name.
To prove they were taking the piss, they also gave my the middle name Alan. For some reason I found this more embarrasing than my surname for many years. I now try to kid myself that it's acquired a certain amount of ironic post-Partridge chic, but deep inside I know it's a shitty name.
A game played by myself and Greg Sullivan at primary school. The premise of the game was that we ran a hotel built entirely out of poo. (Imaginary) guests would come and stay, and we would try and ensure that they never realised the true nature of the hotel. It wasn't just the walls etc that were excretal in origin, however - hilariously, the menu was mainly made up of such delicacies as "burnt sausages" and "lemonade". We also offered a fine range of after dinner cigars.
In retrospect, it's hard to escape the suspicion that the entire game was a a flimsy bolt-on to a rather poor pun - but it still kept us out of trouble. Readers may also be interested to know that as a mature(-ish) adult I harbour no cloacal tendancies and that this was obviously "just a phase".
In retrospect, it's hard to escape the suspicion that the entire game was a a flimsy bolt-on to a rather poor pun - but it still kept us out of trouble. Readers may also be interested to know that as a mature(-ish) adult I harbour no cloacal tendancies and that this was obviously "just a phase".
Nobody ever believes me about this, but I swear to god I had a pair of trainers from another coloured "Flash" range. Improbably, they were "Brown Flash".
Quite which marketing genius came up with that I've no idea. But I sincerely hope they've changed careers since.
Actually, knowing my mum she's probably still got them stored away somewhere. I shall try and get a photo.
Quite which marketing genius came up with that I've no idea. But I sincerely hope they've changed careers since.
Actually, knowing my mum she's probably still got them stored away somewhere. I shall try and get a photo.
My school used to serve pack lunches on Saturdays rather than a hot meal (presumably so the inbred kitchen staff could leave the school grounds, get drunk and sleep with each other).
Amongst other things, these contained a handmade ham roll. If I say that these consisted of a large bap containing a huge slab of butter, underneath a thick slice of ham, it sounds quaintly rustic. In fact, they were repellent, made from fatty ham of the lowest quality imaginable, and thus were normally used as ineffectual missiles when the supplies of fruit and soft drink cartons of highlighter-hued liquid were exhausted.
However, in an act of culinary criticism that even Michael Winner couldn't top, somebody removed the ham from their roll, lovingly crapped into its place, replaced the top and left the whole ensemble, invitingly, on a plate in the toilets. With the cleaners being off over the weekend as well, it remained on the windowsill until Monday morning.
Brilliantly, nobody every confessed to the crime. The smart money was on Glen Gamble, but he never coughed.
Amongst other things, these contained a handmade ham roll. If I say that these consisted of a large bap containing a huge slab of butter, underneath a thick slice of ham, it sounds quaintly rustic. In fact, they were repellent, made from fatty ham of the lowest quality imaginable, and thus were normally used as ineffectual missiles when the supplies of fruit and soft drink cartons of highlighter-hued liquid were exhausted.
However, in an act of culinary criticism that even Michael Winner couldn't top, somebody removed the ham from their roll, lovingly crapped into its place, replaced the top and left the whole ensemble, invitingly, on a plate in the toilets. With the cleaners being off over the weekend as well, it remained on the windowsill until Monday morning.
Brilliantly, nobody every confessed to the crime. The smart money was on Glen Gamble, but he never coughed.
What do you find up an Ethiopian's arse?
Cobwebs.
Cobwebs.
The practice of rolling up a towel diagonally, so it tapers to a fine point. This can then be used to whip people coming out of the shower.
I could never perfect the whipping action, which made it all the more surprising when I caught Francis Gotto on the end of his cock with an absolute corker of a flick. However, something (I presume a label from my towel) went flying off just as the crack (and subsequent howl of agony) happened. For a few horrid seconds I was convinced that I had literally whipped the top of his dick off like popping some sort of phallic champagne cork. Images of expulsion and/or prison rampaged unchecked through my head.
I never rat's tailed anybody again.
I could never perfect the whipping action, which made it all the more surprising when I caught Francis Gotto on the end of his cock with an absolute corker of a flick. However, something (I presume a label from my towel) went flying off just as the crack (and subsequent howl of agony) happened. For a few horrid seconds I was convinced that I had literally whipped the top of his dick off like popping some sort of phallic champagne cork. Images of expulsion and/or prison rampaged unchecked through my head.
I never rat's tailed anybody again.
One of the many ritual humiliations at my school were assorted sporting events in which everyone had to participate. Runs, swiming competitions, and, memorably, athletics. House scores were kept on the basis of not just wins, but who turned up - the house was deducted points for skivers.
This was bucked by Dave Viva, who (despite being the antithesis of fit) volunteered for the 1500m to slack jaws all round.
Come the day, the starting pistol went, and off everyone plodded, saving themselves for the duration. Everyone, that is, except Viva -who stormed past people half his weight in a blazing display of hitherto unsuspected power. Literally every other event around the field ceased to watch this unexpected turn of events - a sort of athletic equivalent to James Bond driving his lotus out of the sea.
It couldn't last of course - at the first curve, approx 50m into the race, Dave simply carried on running straight, all the way up the hill back for a shower. He was later able claim with some truth that he had turned up, so docking him a point would have been unfair.
Interestingly, he didn't get into any trouble, as clearly the teachers just felt instinctively that "going there" simply wasn't worth it.
This was bucked by Dave Viva, who (despite being the antithesis of fit) volunteered for the 1500m to slack jaws all round.
Come the day, the starting pistol went, and off everyone plodded, saving themselves for the duration. Everyone, that is, except Viva -who stormed past people half his weight in a blazing display of hitherto unsuspected power. Literally every other event around the field ceased to watch this unexpected turn of events - a sort of athletic equivalent to James Bond driving his lotus out of the sea.
It couldn't last of course - at the first curve, approx 50m into the race, Dave simply carried on running straight, all the way up the hill back for a shower. He was later able claim with some truth that he had turned up, so docking him a point would have been unfair.
Interestingly, he didn't get into any trouble, as clearly the teachers just felt instinctively that "going there" simply wasn't worth it.
Sage advice, and sadly not heeded by one J.C. Royston in his efforts to skive the once-yearly school run. His effort consisted of ducking under a bridge approx 200m from the start/finish line, and treating himself to a crafty kip.
On waking, he peeked out, troll-like, from under the bridge, and saw the finish line was absolutely deserted of everyone bar the timekeepers. Coming to the natural conclusion that everybody else must have finished, he came out from his hiding place and put in an impressive sprint finish.
On crossing the line, however, he was informed by a (curiously unimpressed) teacher that he had just knocked 28 minutes off the previous school record of 44 minutes.
J.C. Royston was not promoted to the school team on the basis of this superhuman feat; he was put into detention, where he presumably had to write out "I must not run at twenty five miles per hour" a thousand times.
On waking, he peeked out, troll-like, from under the bridge, and saw the finish line was absolutely deserted of everyone bar the timekeepers. Coming to the natural conclusion that everybody else must have finished, he came out from his hiding place and put in an impressive sprint finish.
On crossing the line, however, he was informed by a (curiously unimpressed) teacher that he had just knocked 28 minutes off the previous school record of 44 minutes.
J.C. Royston was not promoted to the school team on the basis of this superhuman feat; he was put into detention, where he presumably had to write out "I must not run at twenty five miles per hour" a thousand times.