Army Rumour Service

Register a free account today to become a member! Once signed in, you'll be able to participate on this site by adding your own topics and posts, as well as connect with other members through your own private inbox!

Bring back School Milk...

According to Wiki, the Wolf Cub name was dropped to Cub in 1966. I think my days in the 1st Wymeswold Cub Pack would have been 1969-74 or thereabouts; we were Cubs

From memory, I achieved the dizzy heights of Seconder; never troubled the promotion board beyond that. Never joined the Scout pack; couldn’t see the point as it didn’t mix with the Guides.

Get yer number dry!
 
And forgetting your PE Kit would result in you having the word 'Dunlop' on your backside six times after receiving said punishment from the PE teachers preferred weapon of choice.

Oh how we laughed...

No.

polnuD
 

PFGEN

GCM
There must have been some changes.

I don't remember any 'Senior Sixer' level. Sixer was as high as a 'Wolf Cub' (Cub Scouts didn't exist) could aspire. I think that a Sixer got two yellow bands for his mum to sew onto the sleeve of his jumper to denote his rank. The colour of the six of which you were a member was denoted, in a vaguely 'Dachau chic' way, by an appropriately coloured felt triangle attached to the upper sleeve (another little job for mum).

There was something to do with two small metal stars affixed to the cap, on either side of the 'Wolf Cub' badge. I can't quite remember for what these were awarded. LS&GC?

The leader of the Wolf Cub pack was 'Akela' and his/her various underlings and assistants were addressed by various 'Jungle Book' names.

Apart from the 'Grand Howl' ceremony at the start and the end of every meeting, there was a particular ceremony for cubs moving on into the Scouts, which involved stepping over a rope in front of the assembled Cub pack and the Scout troop. I think that there was a massive piss-up at the conclusion of the ceremony, but I may have misremembered this detail.

If you were a serious paedo, you went on to the Rover Scouts at the end of your time with the Scouts.

Girls didn't get into the Cubs or the Scouts back then. They had their own Brownies and Guides.

It was a hugely popular thing to be a part of. The pack to which I belonged was subdivided into two distinct units with distinguishing Indian tribal names and there was still a waiting list to get in.

"Dachau chic", classic! I only had a few poxy badges. Somewhere I still have the jersey which tell its own sorry tale. Badges for being able to tie shoe laces or being able to recognise a policeman. Made the dizzy height so seconder. Mum, was proud of my single stripe. When it came to scouts the badge collection was just as dismal but made it to patrol leader, two stripes. Binned it all and joined the spaceys.
 

PFGEN

GCM
We had a psycho PE teacher who was also deputy head. If anybody needed a good belting with the tawse they were often sent to him for punishment. Anything above 2 lashes often meant that the child had to be sent home for medical treatment and a subsequent belting from their parents. In Scottish parlance he was good at "drawing the gut". He achieved local fame by killing one of the art teachers by dropping a wall on him.
 
I was supposed to be getting some work done but balls to it.

The Gymnasium (never the gym).

A cubic acre of polished wood and instruments of torture, polished to a deceptively lustrous and welcoming glow by generations of thundering dap clad feet, droplets of prepubescent perspiration and copious weeping tears of desperation and pain. And not a little blood.

The odour was one of a powdered great Aunt who used to appear at Christmas mixed with a faint overlay of burnt rubber and boiled cabbage.

It would be lit by narrow, mesh covered windows, way up in the stratosphere and enhanced by the glare of enormous light bulbs, half of them blown, similarly encased in wire grilles. All the mesh work would have a collection of shuttlecocks, tennis balls and improbably, a medicine ball or two wedged into them. And Fatty Simkins’ beshitted Y Fronts lobbed up there for giggles by the educationally unsalvageable from 3F, kids born with pubic hair.

Various bits of kit would be strewn about the place. Gym mats with the consistency of sheet steel. A vaulting horse that had a chamois covered, horsehair “padded” top, polished at either end by numberless scrotums making crashing contact with it as the bastard in charge had set the height of it to 17’9”. Inside it was the skeleton of the kid caught waving his willy about when he thought RSM Psycho-Bastard, late Coldstream Guards, now PE ”coach” wasn’t watching back in 1956. And wall bars. Fecking wall bars.

When murdering pupils was outlawed and RSM P-B had quietly “retired” to take a seat on the Parish Council, wall bars became the acceptable penal regime for malefactors - everyone basically. The accused was condemned to hang from the top bar by outstretched arms, usually for 6-10 days. Eventually the ankles were 14” in diameter, and black, at which point the brain, starved of blood gave up and a vertical fall to the ground, feet first and in the manner of a sack of shite ensued. Or it would have done if the toes of the highly polished daps hadn’t caught in the bars just as the corpse reached terminal velocity. The body would then rotate smartly through 90+ degrees, face first and in a manner always demanded and never achieved on the parallel bars, such that the face would impact the floor with enough force to lift the floorboards at the other end of the building. The school nurse would be summoned and in consultation with The Bastard would agree that the best treatment would be for the poor child to “stop snivelling, run to the toilets and put two bits of Izal bog paper up your nostrils so you don’t mark the floor”.

At one end of the gym would be a stage. It was shrouded in red velvet curtains that when closed would show a range of pinks in stripes where the sun had bleached the colour out. The act of closing the curtains was a dreaded prospect as there would be at least 3 bats roosting in them and the 15 cwt of curtain, supplemented by 4 cwt of dust was guaranteed to drag the kid pulling on the (wrong) bit of rope in the pulley system up into the ceiling, around the pulley where he’d hang wailing for a bit before crashing 40’ vertically downwards into the piano.

Ah, the piano. Donated in 1904 by Colonel and Mrs Barrington-Bolleaux MC, DSO and Bar, in memory of their son, 2Lt Lancelot Barrington-Bolleaux, alumni of the school, cut down in his prime at Rorke’s Drift whilst saving the 792nd Bn, Loamshire Rifles mess silver.

Miss Barrington-Bolleaux (no relation, she was actually Mrs Bollocks from Watford who’d run away from an abusive marriage for which all pupils were held personally responsible, and for whom the name of the piano benefactors was more socially acceptable and allowed her to join the WI) would thunder out All Things Bright And Beautiful, a quarter tone flat, at each school assembly. The piano was a quarter tone flat because the janitor, a long ago released sex offender but he’s paid his debt to society so we don’t talk about it, used to tune it with an adjustable spanner and the school cat used it as her preferred nest for the bi monthly dumping of a litter of kittens.

And so to the highlight of all things gymnasium, anything but Bright and Beautiful, PE. I’ll be back shortly.
 

Gout Man

LE
Book Reviewer
I’m not particularly fond of the little brats,(except my own), but I wouldn’t wish school milk on them.
Now that would be to cruel, iced up in winter and lovely and warm in summer with just a hint of turn on the bouquet.
Lovely.

Maggie did us all a favour, God bless her.
 

PFGEN

GCM
I was supposed to be getting some work done but balls to it.

The Gymnasium (never the gym).

A cubic acre of polished wood and instruments of torture, polished to a deceptively lustrous and welcoming glow by generations of thundering dap clad feet, droplets of prepubescent perspiration and copious weeping tears of desperation and pain. And not a little blood.

The odour was one of a powdered great Aunt who used to appear at Christmas mixed with a faint overlay of burnt rubber and boiled cabbage.

It would be lit by narrow, mesh covered windows, way up in the stratosphere and enhanced by the glare of enormous light bulbs, half of them blown, similarly encased in wire grilles. All the mesh work would have a collection of shuttlecocks, tennis balls and improbably, a medicine ball or two wedged into them. And Fatty Simkins’ beshitted Y Fronts lobbed up there for giggles by the educationally unsalvageable from 3F, kids born with pubic hair.

Various bits of kit would be strewn about the place. Gym mats with the consistency of sheet steel. A vaulting horse that had a chamois covered, horsehair “padded” top, polished at either end by numberless scrotums making crashing contact with it as the bastard in charge had set the height of it to 17’9”. Inside it was the skeleton of the kid caught waving his willy about when he thought RSM Psycho-Bastard, late Coldstream Guards, now PE ”coach” wasn’t watching back in 1956. And wall bars. Fecking wall bars.

When murdering pupils was outlawed and RSM P-B had quietly “retired” to take a seat on the Parish Council, wall bars became the acceptable penal regime for malefactors - everyone basically. The accused was condemned to hang from the top bar by outstretched arms, usually for 6-10 days. Eventually the ankles were 14” in diameter, and black, at which point the brain, starved of blood gave up and a vertical fall to the ground, feet first and in the manner of a sack of shite ensued. Or it would have done if the toes of the highly polished daps hadn’t caught in the bars just as the corpse reached terminal velocity. The body would then rotate smartly through 90+ degrees, face first and in a manner always demanded and never achieved on the parallel bars, such that the face would impact the floor with enough force to lift the floorboards at the other end of the building. The school nurse would be summoned and in consultation with The Bastard would agree that the best treatment would be for the poor child to “stop snivelling, run to the toilets and put two bits of Izal bog paper up your nostrils so you don’t mark the floor”.

At one end of the gym would be a stage. It was shrouded in red velvet curtains that when closed would show a range of pinks in stripes where the sun had bleached the colour out. The act of closing the curtains was a dreaded prospect as there would be at least 3 bats roosting in them and the 15 cwt of curtain, supplemented by 4 cwt of dust was guaranteed to drag the kid pulling on the (wrong) bit of rope in the pulley system up into the ceiling, around the pulley where he’d hang wailing for a bit before crashing 40’ vertically downwards into the piano.

Ah, the piano. Donated in 1904 by Colonel and Mrs Barrington-Bolleaux MC, DSO and Bar, in memory of their son, 2Lt Lancelot Barrington-Bolleaux, alumni of the school, cut down in his prime at Rorke’s Drift whilst saving the 792nd Bn, Loamshire Rifles mess silver.

Miss Barrington-Bolleaux (no relation, she was actually Mrs Bollocks from Watford who’d run away from an abusive marriage for which all pupils were held personally responsible, and for whom the name of the piano benefactors was more socially acceptable and allowed her to join the WI) would thunder out All Things Bright And Beautiful, a quarter tone flat, at each school assembly. The piano was a quarter tone flat because the janitor, a long ago released sex offender but he’s paid his debt to society so we don’t talk about it, used to tune it with an adjustable spanner and the school cat used it as her preferred nest for the bi monthly dumping of a litter of kittens.

And so to the highlight of all things gymnasium, anything but Bright and Beautiful, PE. I’ll be back shortly.

I'm laughing so hard my sides are hurting. People are wondering who the idiot is that's chuckling away and dabbing his eyes. That is all so close to the truth, the curtains and the piano; icing on the cake! Thanks, that made my day.
 
We had proper climbing frames at primary school.
A0C20EBD-72B9-40F2-8A45-699345A396E1.jpeg
Chaps on the right, distaff on the left.

ETA: And to keep on thread, summer and winter the milk crates were stacked against the sandstone wall at the right of the classroom block seen here.
 
Last edited:
Maybe it’s just my memory but we used to have 62 PE lessons a week. They were uniformly hideous experiences.

The gym was the epicentre of much suffering and I’ve highlighted a few of the entertainments on offer above. Let’s dig a little deeper.

The rings. Two leather bound steel rings, about 8” in diameter hanging from the ceiling, 450’ above the floor. You’ll have seen these things demonstrated by experts in the Olympics, hanging there as if they’ve been crucified, sinewy muscles quivering, holding a rock steady position before executing a series of dazzling twists and turns and dismounting elegantly to land on tip toes to rapturous applause from the audience.

The primary school version is somewhat at variance to this, save the appearance of being crucified. A kid is hoisted up onto the rings, usually by a helping hand to the crotch, and left to dangle. After 9 false starts and with Herculean effort they eventually execute some kind of forward roll. Gravity and rotational inertia step in and the kid executes a variety of interesting manoeuvres, none of which are recognised by international gymnastics governing bodies and which resemble a kind of blurred swastika. Increasingly frantic attempts to get the whole thing under control merely accelerate the inevitable as each action is half a second out of synch and the whole shambles develops into what smart people would call an unbounded divergent error, one that merely gets worse with no end limit. Except of course there is an end limit, usually the point just short of the kid dislocating their shoulder and inserting their forearm up their arse. The Classic Dismount is an elegant full body flat plant onto the floor to rapturous howls of derision from the audience.

Football. A gaggle of shivering children are herded out onto a frost hardened piece of waste ground by the Latin teacher whilst his comrades shove another log on the roaring fire in the staff room. Their attire ranges from the full rig of the First Division team of choice (no Premier League back then), proper football boots with white, ironed laces, as sported by the kid whose Dad’s a bank manager through to a vest, everyday school shorts and two left foot daps as sported by the kid whose Dad is also involved in criminal activity but less successfully so. The ongoing prison sentence bring testament to the fact.

First up, the ritual humiliation of picking teams. The Latin teacher, Signor Bastardi will have picked the above two kids as team Captains as he needs a bank loan from the former’s Dad to pay off a gambling debt to the latter’s Dad. The First Draft would be the sporty lads (girls didn’t play football, they did netball or something) or at least lads that could recognise a football three times out of five in good light. The Second Draft were the thugs who had no particular talent beyond battering other people off the ball, not that it was generally deployed as a tactic as if you had the ball and one of them approached you, the smart move was to leave the ball and move in the general direction of away. And then there were the rest, huddled ignominiously and hoping against hope that they could salvage at least some dignity by not being the very last to be not so much picked as allocated by default.

Next came “organisation” of the team using the 1-9-1 formation; a goalie, a centre forward and the rest. Centre forward was the star roll as it was a legal requirement that only they could score goals, goalie was a bit more nuanced. It meant standing around doing not a lot and required little prowess as a ball whistling past your ear could always be blamed on the rest of the team for allowing the goal scorer to get through the “defence“ which in reality was 9 people going wherever the ball went. Standing around in the netless goal was fine if it was a warm day but was less popular if cold but at least you could warm up with a desultory jog for 3/4 of a mile, across the ring road and a railway line, to retrieve the ball that Slugger Mullins had hoofed past your head and into oblivion.

After about 40 minutes of that it was time to redistribute the accumulated mud from your knees across your whole body with a quick paddle in a communal shower. These were a concrete tub, about 10’ square with a single shower head dribbling tepid water onto the biggest lad who’d thump his way under it. The drain would be blocked with 20 years worth of accumulated grass and snot so everyone else splashed a bit of water up their forearms and dashed off to see how much of their clothing was still accessible rather than hanging from nearby trees and gymnasium light fittings courtesy of those less weak than them.

Coming up next: Athletics
 
Last edited:
Senior Sixer wore 3 stripes on left sleeve: think lance jack, full screw, Sergeant.
The two stars were for progression through the ‘test’ programme - 1st Star, then 2nd Star - not the proficiency badges.
They were said to represent the opening of a cub’s eyes as new experiences and life skills were learned.

I can vouch for that, colour me surprised when Akela promoted me from Seconder directly to Senior Sixer, and gave me Silver AND Gold Arrow in the same presentation. I think she'd finally got her arrse round to going to the Scout Shop to actually buy the badges that I'd qualified for.

It was like going from a Class 2 lance jack to SSM in a one-er. The badge wasn't three equal stripes, the middle one was thinner, like an RN or RAF 2 1/2.

I distinctly recall a wholesale regime change at Cubs, the old Akela (one who promoted me) left, and the new Akela appointed her own staff. Baloo and Kaa looked completely different. I only had a few months of that regime before going up to Sea Scouts.

An early bullying experience took place in Sea Scouts. I've been 6'2" since I was 12, and so I must have been about 6' joining Sea Scouts at 11. One of the little cnuts who was 12 or 13 took an instant dislike to me and would hit me for no reason other than I was a foot taller than him. I was ever such a polite kid, and never hit him back at Scouts.

Then I went up to Grammar School, and who should I see there? The very same twat. A couple years went by, and I dropped out of Scouts, being a) bullied and b) discovered rugby and girls (in that order). The bully never really grew much, but still gave me shit. One day I'd just had enough and leathered the cnut in "The Copse" at lunchtime. He goes whining to the Deputy Head. I end up tapping the boards and explained that I'd endured years of this shit and that I'd just snapped. "Don't do it again". No punishment. Yay for sensible Deputy Heads.

Gary Brizlea, you cnut :)
 
Maybe it’s just my memory but we used to have 62 PE lessons a week. They were uniformly hideous experiences.

The gym was the epicentre of much suffering and I’ve highlighted a few of the entertainments on offer above. Let’s dig a little deeper.

The rings. Two leather bound steel rings, about 8” in diameter hanging from the ceiling, 450’ above the floor. You’ll have seen these things demonstrated by experts in the Olympics, hanging there as if they’ve been crucified, sinewy muscles quivering, holding a rock steady position before executing a series of dazzling twists and turns and dismounting elegantly to land on tip toes to rapturous applause from the audience.

The primary school version is somewhat at variance to this, save the appearance of being crucified. A kid is hoisted up onto the rings, usually by a helping hand to the crotch, and left to dangle. After 9 false starts and with Herculean effort they eventually execute some kind of forward roll. Gravity and rotational inertia step in and the kid executes a variety of interesting manoeuvres, none of which are recognised by international gymnastics governing bodies and which resemble a kind of blurred swastika. Increasingly frantic attempts to get the whole thing under control merely accelerate the inevitable as each action is half a second out of synch and the whole shambles develops into what smart people would call an unbounded divergent error, one that merely gets worse with no end limit. Except of course there is an end limit, usually the point just short of the kid dislocating their shoulder and inserting their forearm up their arse. The Classic Dismount is an elegant full body flat plant onto the floor to rapturous howls of derision from the audience.

Football. A gaggle of shivering children are herded out onto a frost hardened piece of waste ground by the Latin teacher whilst his comrades shove another log on the roaring fire in the staff room. Their attire ranges from the full rig of the First Division team of choice (no Premier League back then), proper football boots with white, ironed laces, as sported by the kid whose Dad’s a bank manager through to a vest, everyday school shorts and two left foot daps as sported by the kid whose Dad is also involved in criminal activity but less successfully so. The ongoing prison sentence bring testament to the fact.

First up, the ritual humiliation of picking teams. The Latin teacher, Signor Bastardi will have picked the above two kids as team Captains as he needs a bank loan from the former’s Dad to pay off a gambling debt to the latter’s Dad. The First Draft would be the sporty lads (girls didn’t play football, they did netball or something) or at least lads that could recognise a football three times out of five in good light. The Second Draft were the thugs who had no particular talent beyond battering other people off the ball, not that it was generally deployed as a tactic as if you had the ball and one of them approached you, the smart move was to leave the ball and move in the general direction of away. And then there were the rest, huddled ignominiously and hoping against hope that they could salvage at least some dignity by not being the very last to be not so much picked as allocated by default.

Next came “organisation” of the team using the 1-9-1 formation; a goalie, a centre forward and the rest. Centre forward was the star roll as it was a legal requirement that only they could score goals, goalie was a bit more nuanced. It meant standing around doing not a lot and required little prowess as a ball whistling past your ear could always be blamed on the rest of the team for allowing the goal scorer to get through the “defence“ which in reality was 9 people going wherever the ball went. Standing around in the netless goal was fine if it was a warm day but was less popular if cold but at least you could warm up with a desultory jog for 3/4 of a mile, across the ring road and a railway line, to retrieve the ball that Slugger Mullins had hoofed past your head and into oblivion.

After about 40 minutes of that it was time to redistribute the accumulated mud from your knees across your whole body with a quick paddle in a communal shower. These were a concrete tub, about 10’ square with a single shower head dribbling tepid water onto the biggest lad who’d thump his way under it. The drain would be blocked with 20 years worth of accumulated grass and snot so everyone else splashed a bit of water up their forearms and dashed off to see how much of their clothing was still accessible rather than hanging from nearby trees and gymnasium light fittings courtesy of those less weak than them.

Coming up next: Athletics
Dare I ask, is this all your own work based on happy memories illucidated with lashings of vivid imagination? Or is it part of an existing work previously written. Brilliant. As an ex Club Swinger it has warmed the cockles of my heart.

Now get some fecking work done before the prefect grasses you up to the head of sheds.
 
Shiver.

The gyms. Those fucking gyms.

We had five state of the art gyms in a building the size of a multi-Zeppelin hangar. Three for the boys and two for the girls (so I learned at an early age that girls were probably brighter than boys, or at least less inclined to getting concussion and bone fractures).

They were a mystery to me, but sadly didn't remain that way. We never had gyms at primary school - I think the closest we got to gymnastics was "Music and Movement" which was mostly poncing about in bare feet, your underpants and vest.

I went to the London Dungeon once and it reminded me of going into the gym for the first time. Surrounded by instruments of terror designed to humiliate you, break your body and soul and crush your spirit and humanity.

Medicine balls, wooden club things that looked as if they came from a bowling alley, the monkey bars, ropes. parallel bars and vaulting horses. WTF is all this shit for?

Beasted over all this mad stuff by a psychotic sociopath who hated children and looked like a johhny bag full of scrap metal wearing tight shorts that (at the very least) must have contained two watermelons and a salami. If they were any tighter you would be able to tell not only his gender but his religion as well.

Freezing cold in winter. Japanese POW torture box in summer. Showers that were bettered only by a cat lick.

Summer wasn't too bad in that you could go out and play cricket. Even then Psycho would get you with the sneering "Tedsson, you can be silly point. You will get loads of catches". Yeah sure, in between the concussions and extensive bruising. I got the last laugh though as I proved fairly adept at it (in between short bouts of unconsciousness).

Winter was worse than bleeding Stalingrad. At least there you could curl up in a foxhole or a burning tank.

When I got to the Lower Sixth we had a thing called "Sixth Form Choice" which meant you could do virtually anything on Wednesday afternoon. In winter I chose to do cooking with the Fifth year girls. Warmth, pies. girls, heaven.
 
I can vouch for that, colour me surprised when Akela promoted me from Seconder directly to Senior Sixer, and gave me Silver AND Gold Arrow in the same presentation. I think she'd finally got her arrse round to going to the Scout Shop to actually buy the badges that I'd qualified for.

It was like going from a Class 2 lance jack to SSM in a one-er. The badge wasn't three equal stripes, the middle one was thinner, like an RN or RAF 2 1/2.

I distinctly recall a wholesale regime change at Cubs, the old Akela (one who promoted me) left, and the new Akela appointed her own staff. Baloo and Kaa looked completely different. I only had a few months of that regime before going up to Sea Scouts.

An early bullying experience took place in Sea Scouts. I've been 6'2" since I was 12, and so I must have been about 6' joining Sea Scouts at 11. One of the little cnuts who was 12 or 13 took an instant dislike to me and would hit me for no reason other than I was a foot taller than him. I was ever such a polite kid, and never hit him back at Scouts.

Then I went up to Grammar School, and who should I see there? The very same twat. A couple years went by, and I dropped out of Scouts, being a) bullied and b) discovered rugby and girls (in that order). The bully never really grew much, but still gave me shit. One day I'd just had enough and leathered the cnut in "The Copse" at lunchtime. He goes whining to the Deputy Head. I end up tapping the boards and explained that I'd endured years of this shit and that I'd just snapped. "Don't do it again". No punishment. Yay for sensible Deputy Heads.

Gary Brizlea, you cnut :)
A bit rapid that promotion?
Were you slipping akela a length on the quiet? Dyb dyb
 
I was supposed to be getting some work done but balls to it.

The Gymnasium (never the gym).

A cubic acre of polished wood and instruments of torture, polished to a deceptively lustrous and welcoming glow by generations of thundering dap clad feet, droplets of prepubescent perspiration and copious weeping tears of desperation and pain. And not a little blood.

The odour was one of a powdered great Aunt who used to appear at Christmas mixed with a faint overlay of burnt rubber and boiled cabbage.

It would be lit by narrow, mesh covered windows, way up in the stratosphere and enhanced by the glare of enormous light bulbs, half of them blown, similarly encased in wire grilles. All the mesh work would have a collection of shuttlecocks, tennis balls and improbably, a medicine ball or two wedged into them. And Fatty Simkins’ beshitted Y Fronts lobbed up there for giggles by the educationally unsalvageable from 3F, kids born with pubic hair.

Various bits of kit would be strewn about the place. Gym mats with the consistency of sheet steel. A vaulting horse that had a chamois covered, horsehair “padded” top, polished at either end by numberless scrotums making crashing contact with it as the bastard in charge had set the height of it to 17’9”. Inside it was the skeleton of the kid caught waving his willy about when he thought RSM Psycho-Bastard, late Coldstream Guards, now PE ”coach” wasn’t watching back in 1956. And wall bars. Fecking wall bars.

When murdering pupils was outlawed and RSM P-B had quietly “retired” to take a seat on the Parish Council, wall bars became the acceptable penal regime for malefactors - everyone basically. The accused was condemned to hang from the top bar by outstretched arms, usually for 6-10 days. Eventually the ankles were 14” in diameter, and black, at which point the brain, starved of blood gave up and a vertical fall to the ground, feet first and in the manner of a sack of shite ensued. Or it would have done if the toes of the highly polished daps hadn’t caught in the bars just as the corpse reached terminal velocity. The body would then rotate smartly through 90+ degrees, face first and in a manner always demanded and never achieved on the parallel bars, such that the face would impact the floor with enough force to lift the floorboards at the other end of the building. The school nurse would be summoned and in consultation with The Bastard would agree that the best treatment would be for the poor child to “stop snivelling, run to the toilets and put two bits of Izal bog paper up your nostrils so you don’t mark the floor”.

At one end of the gym would be a stage. It was shrouded in red velvet curtains that when closed would show a range of pinks in stripes where the sun had bleached the colour out. The act of closing the curtains was a dreaded prospect as there would be at least 3 bats roosting in them and the 15 cwt of curtain, supplemented by 4 cwt of dust was guaranteed to drag the kid pulling on the (wrong) bit of rope in the pulley system up into the ceiling, around the pulley where he’d hang wailing for a bit before crashing 40’ vertically downwards into the piano.

Ah, the piano. Donated in 1904 by Colonel and Mrs Barrington-Bolleaux MC, DSO and Bar, in memory of their son, 2Lt Lancelot Barrington-Bolleaux, alumni of the school, cut down in his prime at Rorke’s Drift whilst saving the 792nd Bn, Loamshire Rifles mess silver.

Miss Barrington-Bolleaux (no relation, she was actually Mrs Bollocks from Watford who’d run away from an abusive marriage for which all pupils were held personally responsible, and for whom the name of the piano benefactors was more socially acceptable and allowed her to join the WI) would thunder out All Things Bright And Beautiful, a quarter tone flat, at each school assembly. The piano was a quarter tone flat because the janitor, a long ago released sex offender but he’s paid his debt to society so we don’t talk about it, used to tune it with an adjustable spanner and the school cat used it as her preferred nest for the bi monthly dumping of a litter of kittens.

And so to the highlight of all things gymnasium, anything but Bright and Beautiful, PE. I’ll be back shortly.
Kinhell that made me chuckle
You are Tom Sharpes sock puppet.
 
At my boarding school, the desks had storage at the furthest end, so you could make a pretty good trebuchet by lifting up the lid and laying a ruler so the end overlapped and dropping it.
Were we at the same skool?
We found out a large 'glob' of toilet paper mixed with snot, gob and ink would stick to the ceiling above teachers desk, and the let go sometime during the day.
Well, it passed the time....
The swotty kids and the girlies had to be bribed/threatened/coerced into keeping shtumm.
Also the advantage of the lobbed projectile over @Toasties' more direct weaponry was the majority of the room hadn't a feckin clue from which direction owt was raining down on 'em from.
Happy days.
 
A bit rapid that promotion?
Were you slipping akela a length on the quiet? Dyb dyb

I've no idea, I think as I say, she just hadn't been to the Scout Shop to buy the badges in far too long. Maybe that was part of why she was subjected to regime change and political overthrow of the 6th Bebington Cub Scouts.
 

Latest Threads

Top