Shithole power station in which geography students were invited to attend for a week's school holiday (pikey kids went to the Outdoor Pursuits Centre). The week's activities generally involved walking the streets and questioning frightened old ladies about delta plains and longshore drift, walking along the beach throwing sharp stones at each other, and for those of us who didn't go out on the town at night, developing a scary proficiency for table tennis in the dingy little cellar.

Sleeping was frowned upon, as anyone who so much as closed their eyes for longer than a few seconds had their eyebrows shaved or lots of shaving foam spunked on their forehead. There was always someone who'd drop off first, usually Roger, and he'd usually end up going apeshit mental when we tried to put a banana in his mouth, crazy scamps that we were.

I'm pretty sure every school in South East Anglia had to endure the torture of Bradwell power station at some time in their life, unless you took pissy History and spent all day looking at Mr Newton's gay little drawings on the blackboard.