| Report for Skid Marx | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 2 |
| Pending stories | 11 |
| Summary | Shows promise |
Mister Ferguson the Music teacher was known as Teapot, for occasionally standing with one hand on hip with the other pointing at pupils with the wrist in a rather relaxed repose.
He was made painfully aware of this, usually by the Schemers from the bottom scheme of the local town, who would sprint past the open windows of his classroom during one of his excellent lessons on syncopation, screaming ‘TEAAAAAAPOOOOOOTT†at the top of their voices, whilst he pretended not to hear them.
Everyone assumed he was gay, because he wasn’t married, lived with his mum - but most tellingly - enjoyed listening to Shostakovic. The old poofter.
He was made painfully aware of this, usually by the Schemers from the bottom scheme of the local town, who would sprint past the open windows of his classroom during one of his excellent lessons on syncopation, screaming ‘TEAAAAAAPOOOOOOTT†at the top of their voices, whilst he pretended not to hear them.
Everyone assumed he was gay, because he wasn’t married, lived with his mum - but most tellingly - enjoyed listening to Shostakovic. The old poofter.
As the 3rd year medical approached for the boys, rumours would abound that upon dropping your trousers, the nurse would encourage you to get an erection, then hit it with, depending on who was telling you the story, a variety of implements, most commonly, a big stick or a wooden spoon. What the purpose of this was meant to be, I’m not sure. And then to get you to lose the erection, she would use a cold spoon under the testicles. You would also have to cough as she generously fondled your bollocks, and if you didn’t cough then you were probably homosexual, which resulted in 13 year old boys coughing so violently they nearly coughed up their own spleens.
After another horrendous day on the rugby pitch in torrential rain, someone dared Alan Nichol to jump into the indoor swimming pool on the way back to the changing room. He did so, turning the entire pool a light muddy brown colour.
Someone once also dared him to play football wearing only his pants, next to the girls who were playing hockey on the adjacent pitch, in the forlorn hope that the girls might be encouraged to do the same. They weren’t.
Mrs Reising, the Science teacher from Poland, was nick-named Basher, because Basher Reising, sounds a little bit like Bash Her Eyes In. It was a rubbish nickname for a rubbish teacher, who ran out of term time and so never got the chance to teach us Section 6.6 of the science curriculum, the bit about the fanny and all that.
Mr Lacy the Science teacher started up a lunchtime video club, which was a thinly disguised way of him getting to watch 18-certificate 1980’s-style video nasties on school equipment. Watching Death Wish 2 (yes, the one with the gratuitous rape scene) as impressionable third-year pupils was certainly enlightening – and it also helped re-artex the ceiling of the TV room.
Went like a dream until Miss Healy found out what he was doing. She walked in halfway through the Evil Dead (yes the one with the gratuitous rape scene) and that was the end of Mr Lacy’s video club.
The filthy wee perverted, wanking, borderline-kiddy-fiddler.
Our teachers’ admin and staffroom corridor was, for some reason, painted a bright pink. Pupils would occasionally be dragged up for various disciplinary matters.
Fortunately, we were sophisticated and mature enough to appreciate and capitalise on the significant double-entendre opportunities. "Sir had to take her up the pink corridor for a punishment." Teachers could be asked if they were "going up the pink corridor for lunch".
Fortunately, we were sophisticated and mature enough to appreciate and capitalise on the significant double-entendre opportunities. "Sir had to take her up the pink corridor for a punishment." Teachers could be asked if they were "going up the pink corridor for lunch".
An oft used insult at my Glasgow-based secondary school would involve the insulter making a reference relating to the odour of the nether regions of the insultee’s mother, whilst suggesting that there had been a degree of physical intimacy between the insulter and the insultee’s mother. The insulter would simultaneously invite the insultee to enjoy the fruits of the said intimacy.
Viz:
A: Oi you ya wank. Your team’s shite at fitba’.
B: Aye, smell yer maw (holding out index finger under A’s nose).
The expected response would be A, in turn holding out his own index finger in front of B’s nose, and retorting: -
A: Aye, smell yer ain.
The famous Scottish humour at work.
Hilarious primary school gag involving everything you want from a joke for 10-year olds, namely hilarity and extreme physical violence aimed at a third party.
A: What month was Hitler’s birthday?
B: Don’t know.
A: (Shouted in a rubbish faux-German accent) “YOU-LIE, YOU-LIE†(made to sound like “July, Julyâ€), whilst slapping the person in the face very hard several times, re-creating the imagined interrogatory style of a member of the Nazi SS during the Second World War. Possibly.
In Primary 3, in order to show off my academic prowess and mastery of the English language, I rather wittily called John Wightman “John Shitemanâ€. Thanks to him I got a bollocking from Mrs McRitchie, after he grassed me up.
As well as grassing people up, he was also rather adept at wearing his wellies on the wrong feet, getting pencils stuck up his nose and smelling of piss. Usually all at the same time.
‘John Wightman Shags Dead Cats’. Written on a table in the theatre at Barrhead High School, circa 1981. Probably true.
Generic name given to those crap, plastic unbranded trainers that were sported by remedials, dirty schemers, and one-parent children in the 1980s. They got their name from the price - about 20p - and the fact that they only seemed to be sold by Pakistani gentlemen in their emporia of miscellany. Also known as Borstal Break-outs.
Red Dot crisps: one of Presto’s poorer marketing ideas exacted upon vulnerable pupils who brought in packed lunches during the early 80’s. A plain white packet of crisps, tasting of heavily-salted cardboard, which, when produced from a tuckbox at lunchtime, would usually prompt looks / comments from other pupils, variously of disdain, derision, pity, nausea, hilarity, etc. Normally accompanied by spam or banana sandwiches.
Usually inflicted on schoolchildren by harassed, time-poor, or thoughtless mothers, not realising that all the other pupils would be parading their fancy packets of Smith’s Salt ‘n’ Shake, or Golden Wonder Tomato Sauce. Cunts.
As 16-year olds in December 1985, we thought it would be supremely adult to buy some beers, dog off school, and go round to Stephen Wyper’s house to watch the Australia v Scotland World Cup qualifier. Just like real men. At 9.30 in the morning. Rather surprisingly, it wasn’t such a good idea.
Mark Sneddon spent the match complaining that he was never going to lose his virginity, went into French class pissed up after the game, told Miss Cumming to fuck off, vomited all over his jotters, and got us all called up in front of the headmaster. And it wasn’t even a decent game.