| Report for sam gisoad | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 2 |
| Rejected stories | 5 |
| Deleted stories (hidden) | 5 |
| Summary | Mean Boy |
In fact it did work, as i found out by accident. I was trying to poke the guy who sat next to me - he's now a lawyer, so i won't say his name - in the leg with the blunt end to get his attention, and he jammed my (very sharp indeed) pencil back into the top of my thigh. It bled. To this day I have a black mark on my right thigh where the pencil left graphite in the epidermis. The moral of the story is you always have to suffer to get a tattoo. And vicious little sods go on to become lawyers.
Jamie Rogers was absurdly proud of his pencil case, possibly because he had ammassed so many of those grey ink-eraser pens. He was really protective of it. I had a friend in China. You could buy stamps on tick form the school shop.
The conclusion was obvious.
It was even funnier the second time.
The conclusion was obvious.
It was even funnier the second time.
The repetitive monotony of this game in no way prevented us from playing it day in, day out, for two solid years.
An early warning system in his face (when stifling anger, he would hold his breath, and go bright purple) allowed you to take cover before the metal-legged chairs went airborne.
Once game ended in the smashing of two BBC Model Bs and a printer. After that, we really had to raise our game.
An early warning system in his face (when stifling anger, he would hold his breath, and go bright purple) allowed you to take cover before the metal-legged chairs went airborne.
Once game ended in the smashing of two BBC Model Bs and a printer. After that, we really had to raise our game.
On a similar note, a six-year-old Mark Tilson penned the less graphic ode 'Black Poo / Bamboo'. Only three words, but they rhymed.
Two decades and two English Lit degrees later, it still has a pleasing cadence and - to my mind - happily rivals the greatest stanzas of Eliot or Auden.
Two decades and two English Lit degrees later, it still has a pleasing cadence and - to my mind - happily rivals the greatest stanzas of Eliot or Auden.
not, apparently, the correct answer when a work experience teacher asks if there isn't "a little word ending in -y that you should say to her"
1) take one plastic camera film case, sans lid.
2) Cut out two squares from the lip, opposite each other, to form a groove in which a pencil can rest
3) wrap thick rubber band around case.
4) ready made crossbow!
These were lethal. Potentially *actually* lethal - they could certainly go a decent way into pin boards and - presumably - skin. You could do similar nasty things with a comb with the middle tines removed.
Such harmless fun was totally ruined when my friend Tom let fly as a teacher walked into the room. it missed, thankfully, but she went albino white and - I fear - did herself a mischief.
2) Cut out two squares from the lip, opposite each other, to form a groove in which a pencil can rest
3) wrap thick rubber band around case.
4) ready made crossbow!
These were lethal. Potentially *actually* lethal - they could certainly go a decent way into pin boards and - presumably - skin. You could do similar nasty things with a comb with the middle tines removed.
Such harmless fun was totally ruined when my friend Tom let fly as a teacher walked into the room. it missed, thankfully, but she went albino white and - I fear - did herself a mischief.
Sung to the tune of 'Two World Wars..." (or, more properly 'De Camptown Races') when playing any school more pikey than your own.
Snobbery? Medium. Chances of starting a fight that you will lose? High. Seeing a teacher who used to sing it when at the school himself singing along? PRICELESS.
Snobbery? Medium. Chances of starting a fight that you will lose? High. Seeing a teacher who used to sing it when at the school himself singing along? PRICELESS.