Sunken school

“On the last day of school, after my GCSEs, before leaving to go to college, I was cruising around with Sam Foster, we were doing bad things. Sam was my hero because he loved smoking weed, didn’t give a shit about school and got loads of attention from girls. I did anything he told me because I wanted to be as cool as him, so when he started going to every toilet in the school, clogging the sinks up with bog paper and turning on the taps so they flooded, I joined in. His last stop was the sports hall, which was amazing because our PE teacher was an arse, and we took great pleasure imagining him cleaning the mess up. Turns out that what started as a harmless practical joke actually flooded the sports hall, meaning that the special, squeaky floor had to be dug up and replaced at a cost of £10k. I spent the summer shitting it that I’d been caught on CCTV. Sam Foster just got stoned loads and thought it was amazing. Cool to the bitter end.”
Jimmy, via email


London piss take

“Our school trip to London was a riot. Someone snuck booze on, we got pulled over for mooning, then in London we got given the afternoon off to explore Covent Garden. Or that was the plan. Two guys made for Abbey Road, got lost and were only found about six hours later, while my mate and I went to Oxford Street and bought fake Ralph Lauren shirts and aftershave off guys who were selling them out of crates. I say aftershave, it smelt of piss – I know this because it leaked all over my bag meaning my clothes stank of urine. How bad was the stench? Put it this way, Griff Rhys Jones asked to be moved from three rows behind us when he had the misfortune to attend the same play as us that evening.”
Cal, via email


Bomb the students

“After the 7/7 bombings and the attempted attack on 21/7, I was accidentally caught up in a mass arrest when there was a dawn raid on my university halls of residence. I was studying at Birmingham Uni and living in the student area of Selly Oak. I got woken up one morning by a load of shouting and what sounded like the starting grid of an F1 race. Thinking this was just my fellow students dicking about I managed to get back to sleep. When I did leave the house at 7am, my bleary student eyes were confronted with a full riot van and armed police guarding the gate of the block I lived in. Outside of that there were loads of reporters including the BBC’s Rajesh Mirchandani. I finally made it to college and found out what the hell was happening. Turns out they’d seized a guy who was going out with one of the girls in my halls, apparently he spent most of his time there, until the police took him away along with all his girlfriend’s computer equipment!”
Pete, Coventry


Gangsters Paralised

"Coolio played at our university. The crowd encouraged him to do a stage dive then, when he did, they moved out of the way, he hit the floor and they nicked all his stuff. One of the rugby lads still has his watch. Then one of the journalism students sold the story to the Daily Star the next day.”
Tom Clasby, via email



“Swimming lessons were every Friday at school. We would all walk down knowing we were heading for two hours of humiliation as our peers mocked our not yet fully formed bodies. The light at the end of the tunnel was that at the end of each term we were allowed to mess about with the snorkels and masks. Cue the more aware boys diving deep to get a look at any passing girls. It also seemed to be an excuse for one portly lad to crap himself. The Invincible-class turd happily breached the surface and came to the attention of our instructor who called everyone out of the pool in a scene not unlike Jaws. Everyone got out except one boy called Adam who was trundling along on the bottom, unaware of the circling plop. As he swam to the surface we gasped as it narrowly missed his breathing tube, and settled daintily on the top of his mask. We screamed, he cried ‘What?!’ and casually pushed his hair, along with his smelly passenger, back over his head.”
Bill, via email


Fly Bomb

“There was a bully called Pete who lived on the street where I grew up. Standard issue arsehole with a tattoo of a nude lady on his arm. It was a shit tattoo, but it made him look hard. The fact that he’d happily beat the stuffing out of any kid who strayed onto his driveway didn’t damage his rep either. Pete also had a car – a red Golf GTI. When he wasn’t beating the shit out of the local kids for ‘looking at him funny’, he’d be out the front of his house cleaning his pride and joy. He loved that car, and the thing was legendary in my area. If you so much as looked at it in the wrong way you could expect swift retribution from him in the form of a punch. One fateful day I was messing around with my mate Sam on the way home and I came off my bike straight into the side of said motor. Not good. We duly legged it and watched in fear as Pete stalked the street trying to find out who scratched his car. A evening spent in hiding pushed us too far. It was time to take revenge on the big prick. The next day we went to the fishing tackle shop a few streets down. As we walked I explained how my uncle had told me about something that happened to him once when he went on holiday and forgot he had a jar of maggots he’d bought as bait in his shed… We went home, put the larvae in a big glass jar with some old bacon, screwed on the lid, knocked in a few air holes, and waited. A week later we were ready. Seeing Pete distracted from cleaning his car by some innocent passer-by, we saw our chance and snuck over to his precious motor, loosened the lid on the jar that was now filled with fat, furious flies and slipped it through the open window, then retreated to a safe distance. We watched as he returned to his car and opened the door, instantly disappearing into a cloud of furious buzzing insects. Pete continued his reign of terror, but at least he had to put up with even the meekest of kids making buzzing sounds as he walked past.”
Chris, via email


Disaster dance

“Our school prom was held at a big hotel in Edinburgh’s George Street and, predictably, it was complete and utter carnage. We began with underage drinking, then moved onto snogging and then ended the evening dancing on the posh oak tables. Posh oak tables that could take the weight of three 17-year-olds, but not four, as the school’s star footballer was about to find out. No sooner had he leapt onto the table occupied by three of his mates than it collapsed, sending him flying. He landed in a heap, and that’s when we heard it, the screaming and saw it, the blood. His left knee had landed on a pint glass, which had shattered and cut right through a couple of veins and his tendon. Was he bothered? At the time, no. He was hammered and clearly didn’t realise the extent of the situation (he still limps and would never play competitive football again), so instead of moaning or getting angry, he asked for a cigar and was still smoking it when the paramedics turned up. The vision of him, blood all over his shirt and suit, being wheeled into the ambulance puffing away on a big Cuban, while the absolutely slaughtered head teacher tried to comfort him remains one of the most surreal images of my life.”
Murray, Edinburgh


Winner takes it all

“There was a guy at school who was regarded as ‘a bit slow’. Most days he’d find himself being teased by a group of jeering morons. Their favourite game was to offer him a 50p piece and a pound coin. They knew he’d always take the 50p as it was bigger. After seeing this one too many times I stopped him. ‘Don’t you realise that they’re making fun of you with the whole 50p/pound thing, mate?’ I asked. ‘I’m sure you know that a pound is worth more!’ ‘Yes,’ he replied, looking up at me shyly. ‘But if I took the pound they’d stop doing it,’ and walked off shaking his head like I was an idiot.”
Matt F, via email


Hair of the dog

“One weekend we were round a friend’s having a few beers as her parents were away. One of our group got wankered and took a liking to our host’s dog, Oscar. He sat there with it for ages, chatting, feeding it crisps and beer. The dog was putting it away until his irate owner noticed. ‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? THE DOG’S PISSED! LOOK, HE CAN’T EVEN WALK PROPERLY!’ ‘Nor can I!’ he replied. ‘You could kill him! You can’t go around getting dogs pissed!’ ‘Well, he seemed to like it...’ ‘Do you know how old he is? He’s about 75 in dog years!’ And then my mate came out with the best line I’ve ever heard. The room’s dead silent, everyone watching her going mental… ‘Well,’ he replied, matter of factly. ‘He’s old enough to know better then, isn’t he?’”
Jiggling John, via email


Jump start

“For no reason other than that I was a little bit tall, I was put into the high-jump competition while at school. Fine, what’s the worst that can happen? I fluff it first time and go out of the competition. No one ever got laid for being a medal-winning high jumper, did they? As I lined up for my first practice jump I eyed the school set-up warily. Not the lightweight contraption you see in the Olympics, this was built from what looked like scaffolding. I took my run up and, realising that the Fosbury flop was beyond me, I went for the standard scissor kick and totally ballsed it, doing instead a sort of flying kick and booted the heavy bar straight into the face of someone standing close by. He screamed, then screamed a lot more when the rest of the device collapsed on him, I was not asked to compete again.
Harry F, via email