On top of a French teacher who told us that "he was going home to beat his wife" at the end of every lesson, our English teacher was asked his opinion of gay men during the discussion of a Shakespeare play. His response of "men, women, tried 'em both, much the same" was so witheringly put that we could only stare helplessly at him.

My fifth form tutor shagged Sue Cooke (of TV's "CrimeWatch" fame). There was a story about it on page three of The Sun. And a picture of some tits.

It's spelt, 'inappropriate', by the way.
We know. It's, um, ironic. Oh piss off you KEENER.

In Upper Sixth, our form-tutor noticed a boy called Gideon, who happened through no fault of his own to be Jewish, fiddling absentmindedly with some lab apparatus. To a shocked classroom, he called out "Stop that, you thieving little Jewboy."
From then on, that teacher was owned.

It's spelled 'spelled' by the way. Irony in a basket.

Mingepiece - M.I.N.G.E.P.I.E.C.E.
This is a spelling contest right?

We had a woodwork/metalwork teacher who would announce, when he entered the workshop at the beginning of a lesson, "Open a window. This place smells like the inside of a Turkish brothel". Every single damn time.

I can only assume that he frequented the kind of Turkish brothels that reek of sweaty teenage children, swarfega, wood shavings and oxyacetylene torch gas. In which case, he must really have loved his job.

(Also nice that he distinguished from the smell of the outside of a Turkish brothel, a smell which must have tormented him until he finally plucked up the courage to go inside.)

Mr Torpy, our physics teacher, would often chastise pupils in his class who were playing with the gas taps with the killer line "this isn't Auschwitz, boys."

Our sadistic, moustachioed CDT teacher became rather excitable and worked up during one of his lectures, spraying a nearby girl with a shower of spittle. His only response was, "Don't worry, love. You need a pint to get AIDS".

Kevin Presley (an unfortunate boy who looked like Chunk from The Goonies and had to screw up his whole face to blink) was feeling particularly flatulent one day. Our Geography teacher, somewhat concerned with Kevin's wellbeing, took it upon himself to advise him, "Go to the toilet now, before you shit yourself!".

In 5th year Geography I knocked my pencil case onto the floor at the end of the lesson. I bent to pick it up and experienced a very definite *slapping* sensation across my buttocks. I stood up and slowly turned around. Amazingly, there was Mr Nicholas holding a ruler. The pupils left in the classroom were staring in shocked silence. The teacher laughed nervously and said "Sorry Susanna, but some targets are too good to resist."
Nice save sir. Nice.
Peter Sutcliffe writes: Oh bum! If only I'd thought of that, rather than my frankly piss-poor 'God told me to do it' defence!

My dad and some other teachers conspired to ensure that the first letters of each line on some kid's report spelled out 'LITTLE SHIT'. Brilliance.
Hold on, I'll just get the bullshit detector. Beep beep beep BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP.
Oh, go on, then - mansh

Listening to your english teacher call his fellow staffmate a 'fucking wanker' is just heavenly.

Kathryn Wakeman had to leave A-level physics early one afternoon for a dentist appointment. At the appropriate time, she was excused, and squeezed past Mr Howarth's desk where he was explaining a particularly complicated bit of physics. In doing so she managed to knock some papers onto the floor and bent over to pick them up.

Mr Howarth immediately turned around and pretended to shag her from behind. He did a 'phwoar' face and everything. It's fair to say we were astonished.

Pupil A: "Pupil B is a gay icon, you know, miss!"
Teacher: "Well, he can't help being attractive."

This was made all the worse by the fact that said teacher was the fattest cake-mountain ever to roll her merry way into our school. I mean, she once told us there might be stains on our books because she'd been eating chocolate cake while she marked them. If that isn't asking for it, what exactly is?

The year after I left school, I discovered that one of my old RE teachers had, in his new group, an Arabic boy named Osama. On discovering this, he remarked "Oh, so you're a little terrorist."
I hear he has been suspended.

Our headmaster allowed a playground fight between the two thickest boys in the school to escalate to the stage where one participant was hospitalised and the other suspended, simply because it was the week before the SAT tests and the school's league table scores ended up being a lot higher without those two dragging the average mark down.

*checks score on chinometer* Hmmm. Ah, fuck it. I suppose it COULD have happened.

Mr Moretto, AKA Mario The Legend, was the best year head we've ever, ever had.

My form tutor at the time was a disgusting creation with absolutely no redeeming features and a peculiar notion of what should be punished and what shouldn't. Basically, I should be punished and the rest of the class shouldn't.

We had many an argument, and every time she went to Mr Moretto and complained. She would then send me to see him too. I was in his office once and he said, in his brilliantly stereotypical and funny Italian accent, "She piss me off too, but we both have to put up with her eh? Just deal with it for my sake, OK? I cannot stand the bitch."

I have worshipped the man ever since. I also managed to trick a boy into saying "fuck off" really loudly in Italian in his lesson. Mr Moretto got furious and sent him out, then as soon as the door shut he started giggling and said "He tell me fuck off!" in a delighted tone.

Legend.

When I was 7 we had a teacher called Miss Woodcock who would wield complete control over the rowdy boys in the class by threatening to KISS them if they didn't behave.
So terrifying was the prospect of Miss Woodcock's lips making contact with us that instead of having to shout at us to sit down and shut up, she would simply go to her handbag, get her lipstick out and slowly start applying it.
I should point out that she never actually made good on her threat. I suspect, also, that she never tried this on secondary school boys.

Even when I was in school we still used the customary Joey Deacon spastic impression.
And it was for this that the headmaster of my primary school pulled me, and a group of mates into his office for 'bullying'.
By way of 'punishment' he proceeded to perform the most outrageous impression of a handicapped since Daniel Day Lewis:
He flailed his arms and legs all over the place, whilst spitting and drooling, and made primitive grunting and hooting noises.
His idea was to shock us into realising how unpleasant we had been, but the result was simply 4 naughty boys with tears rolling down their faces as they dismally failed to stifle their astonished, choking laughter.