» Bullies

I am a chubby ginger nerd, not gay, but fairly camp
I don't like sports, and was sent to an all-boys secondary school.

The bullies could smell me from miles away.

My entire school life was a misery. I was beaten, tortured, abuse was hurled at me from every direction, I was once bottled in the street for being ginger.

My mother called the school, who asked me who the bullies were, gave them one stinking detention (and let's face it, these kids probably had one every day anyway) which just fuelled the beatings, and my father did nothing as, apparantly, having your face rubbed in mud builds character.

I went the sensible route of telling people, the stupid route of attempted suicide, even the useless route of acting all friendly to your attackers, but nothing worked.

One day, when I was 16, I got pulled out of school early because my nan had died. In the time it took my mum to pick me up, and drive me home, my dog had also died.

The next day, I arrived at the school gate with a note for my form tutor explaining what had happened, and just asking to keep an eye on me if I got upset all of a sudden.
It was taken out of my pocket by a big fucker called David. He was one of those kids who must have hit puberty around 4 years old, and had a full beard before anyone else had pubes.
He read the note to his friends, ripped it up, and began to tell a delightful story about him having sex with my grandmother's corpse.

I know it is a cliché, but I realy don't remember much of what happened, as it was all a bit of a blur. All I know is that when I was found by the fence in the foetal position, all of David's 'friends' had abandoned him, and he was lying face down by the kerb, screaming, attempting to gather up his teeth.

It slowly came out as the school investigated it that I had literally jumped at him, onto his back, and hit him until he had fallen to the ground, then smashed his head against the floor.

I was about to be expelled when my favourite teacher of all time, Mr Wallace, who had, on many occasions councilled me through problems, and who I still consider a friend today, called attention to a folder.
In true 'Miracle on 34th St' fashion, it was emptied onto the head's desk. It contained no less than 100 sheets of paper, each of them chronicalling a bullying/attack incident against me over the course of around 5 years. The bottling to the head, my bag being set alight, being force-fed insects, they were all there, and nobody had done a fucking thing to help me except Mr Wallace, who saved my life.

I make no apoligies for length, but probably should for coming across as a mental-case.
(Mon 18th May 2009, 0:35, More)

» Advice from Old People

While out with a lesbian couple I know....
...a very old man was heard from across the street yelling "Bloody lesbians, get a cock!"

I laughed til I fell down in the street.
(Thu 19th Jun 2008, 19:04, More)

» Hotel Splendido

She is much flatter now...
On a school trip to Bude, aged around 10, we were all in rooms of about 6 people. 2 bunk beds and 2 single beds. Obviously, the rooms were organised by sex, all the boys rooms on one side of a corridor, and the girls rooms on the other side.

At around 1am, we heard a huge scream, and someone crying, coming from the room across the corridor. We ran across, and went into the room, revealing that this rooms 'bunk bed' was just 2 single beds on top of each other, and the top one had fallen onto the bottom one. The girl on the top was thrown off onto the girl in the single bed, so they are both crying, while all we could look at was the leg sticking out from the bed sandwich.

The bed was really solid wood, so as little kids, we couldn't lift it, so had to wait for teachers, by which point, I was crying too, because I had got bored, and sprayed one of the girls' perfume in my eyes...
(Mon 21st Jan 2008, 14:22, More)

» Awesome teachers

Cheeky pearoast
The wonder that was Mr Wallace.


I am a chubby ginger nerd, not gay, but fairly camp. I don't like sports, and was sent to an all-boys secondary school.

The bullies could smell me from miles away.

My entire school life was a misery. I was beaten, tortured, abuse was hurled at me from every direction, I was once bottled in the street for being ginger.

My mother called the school, who asked me who the bullies were, gave them one stinking detention (and let's face it, these kids probably had one every day anyway) which just fuelled the beatings, and my father did nothing as, apparantly, having your face rubbed in mud builds character.

I went the sensible route of telling people, the stupid route of attempted suicide, even the useless route of acting all friendly to your attackers, but nothing worked.

One day, when I was 16, I got pulled out of school early because my nan had died. In the time it took my mum to pick me up, and drive me home, my dog had also died.

The next day, I arrived at the school gate with a note for my form tutor explaining what had happened, and just asking to keep an eye on me if I got upset all of a sudden.
It was taken out of my pocket by a big fucker called David. He was one of those kids who must have hit puberty around 4 years old, and had a full beard before anyone else had pubes.
He read the note to his friends, ripped it up, and began to tell a delightful story about him having sex with my grandmother's corpse.

I know it is a cliché, but I realy don't remember much of what happened, as it was all a bit of a blur. All I know is that when I was found by the fence in the foetal position, all of David's 'friends' had abandoned him, and he was lying face down by the kerb, screaming, attempting to gather up his teeth.

It slowly came out as the school investigated it that I had literally jumped at him, onto his back, and hit him until he had fallen to the ground, then smashed his head against the floor.

I was about to be expelled when my favourite teacher of all time, Mr Wallace, who had, on many occasions councilled me through problems, and who I still consider a friend today, called attention to a folder.
In true 'Miracle on 34th St' fashion, it was emptied onto the head's desk. It contained no less than 100 sheets of paper, each of them chronicalling a bullying/attack incident against me over the course of around 5 years. The bottling to the head, my bag being set alight, being force-fed insects, they were all there, and nobody had done a fucking thing to help me except Mr Wallace, who saved my life.

I make no apoligies for length, but probably should for coming across as a mental-case.
(Thu 17th Mar 2011, 12:49, More)

» Drunk Parents

My dad lives on a boat
And since I don't often get the chance to visit, when I do we usually make a day of it. There are a lot of open fields down the river from where he is moored, so we sail down, moor up, and have a BBQ with more than a few beers between us.
On one particularly lovely day, we realised that I had forgotten to get buns for the burgers and so walked about a mile to the car and drove to the nearest shops.

Unbeknownst to me, while I was away, my dad had decided to move onto something a little stronger than beer, and knocked his keys into the canal.

When I got back, he was nowhere to be seen. I put the buns inside, looked in the kitchen, knocked on the bathroom door, nothing.

Going back outside, I saw one of my dad's plastic crates in the water, and assumed it must have fallen off the back of the boat, and so getting one of the poles, I hooked the box and lifted out of the water.

I then fell to the floor, and tried desperately not to wet myself, as, where the box once was, was my dad's head. He had jumped into the canal after his keys, taking the box with him, as in his drunken stupor, he had been sure that Dad + waterproof box = Submarine.
(Mon 28th Feb 2011, 7:07, More)