Posts Tagged ‘B3ta’

Lazy post – have an old B3ta QOTW reply:

Some people shouldn’t be allowed to teach
This was recalled by someone much earlier telling tales of scientists doing stupid things.

For my sins, I am a science teacher in what would be politely referred to as a ‘Comprehensive’ school. Seeing as we’re in the near-vicinity of several grammar schools, we are in fact more of a bottom-feeder. Needless to say, any illusions I once possessed of being a cross between Mr Chips and Robin Williams in Dead Poet’s Society have been crushed under the sheer weight of imbecility I have to deal with while attempting to be inspirational.

Most of the teenage twunts I have to deal with aren’t permitted to go near glass or tweezers, let alone Bunsen burners, because of their incessant need to attempt to burn, lacerate or throw things at each other, rather than carry out the carefully-planned and sterile experiment I had in mind. The aforesaid seem to be very contented with the ‘turn to page 152 and copy this diagram’ style of teaching. It keeps them out of my hair while I sit at my desk and read b3ta and my email under the guise of ‘writing reports’.

But every now and then, I get a fresh intake of wide-eyed youngsters who are pretty well-behaved and I feel inclined to show a bit of practical work to. So the first thing we do is a little Health And Safety exercise. I say ‘little’ – this can often drag on for several lessons. We’re talking here about youngsters who will look straight down into a lit Bunsen to ‘see if it is working properly’, and take a sip of sodium hydroxide because they weren’t sure what it was and thought their gustatory senses would be better able to cope with it than the complicated business of reading a fecking great big label with ‘caustic soda – harmful’ written on in child-friendly 50-point Comic Sans.

So, eventually, we work our way round to ‘safely handling glassware’, for which I have to demonstrate the use of a test tube rack. I make sure to warn the little chitterlings not to put anything containing glass on the edge of the bench and never to put an empty tube straight onto the bench, because it will roll straight off and break. I also deliver a stern lecture on the perils of broken glass, not trying to clear it up themselves, and making sure they don’t have more contact with it than necessary. I tell gruesome, and largely fictional, tales of what happens to people when fragments of glass get into the bloodstream or the digestive system. To be honest, I terrify this bunch of 11-year-olds about as much as amorphous silica ever could do.

And then I lean over to the sink to carefully rinse out the tube I had been showing them. I had neglected to wear my lab coat for this bit of the lesson, as it’s bulky and smells of cats’ piss, for reasons that I’ve never been able to identify.

The corner of my suit jacket catches in a tub of 50 test tubes which I had, against my prudent advice, left on the edge of the bench. 50 test tubes shatter on the floor. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much broken glass. The floor of the lab ceases to be pristinely swept and now more closely resembles the shoot-out scene from The Matrix.

Every pupil in the room instantly flattens themselves against the back wall, terrified in their new knowledge that they might “inhale some and rupture their pulmonary blood vessels” (why did I tell them that? Why?!). The inevitable cynical kid, that even the nicest class always contains, is pissing himself laughing. The words “Oh Cock” have unavoidably escaped my lips and the Teaching Assistant, who is a firm Catholic, is standing there mortified and already composing a letter of complaint to the Head.

As I tell the youngsters not to worry (so much), I shift slightly towards my trusty dustpan-and-brush and realise that a large shard of hitherto test tube has somehow entered the top of my shoe and is burrowing along my instep, apprarently intent on severing any tendons it may encounter. The blood is already oozing out of my tasteful grey sock. Several pupils are then further alarmed by my bellowing like a werewolf with his goolies trapped in a vice.

I bend down to remove the offending glass, headbutt the bench on the way down, and collapse in a heap on the floor. Only the certain knowledge that there will be chaos if I pass out stops me going for a little sleep right there and then.

Trying to regain what’s left of my composure, I lever myself up on the side of the desk, and address the class: “OK. Now you need to open the textbook to page 152 and copy the diagram”.

Length? A full page of your exercise book, and don’t forget to label with a pencil and a ruler.

The full post, along with comments is here.

B3ta QOTW entry…and THIS has to win it:

Beating on the Booming Drum of Self Congratulation
It was a warm, liquid afternoon in summer, showing Bournemouth off at its best. Happy people wandered the beach-front shops, bikini-pretty and giggly – and that was just the guys. I, however, lurched along the pavement like a zombie with one of those nasty little rattling Boots carrier bags: bed-hair, bleary, snotty and a doubtless smelly young man. And in front of me was one of Those Blokes.

You know, one of Those Blokes. Stocky, short type with gorilla-hairy arms. Always over-tanned. Dark hair combed back so hard its got furrows and you can see the scalp, which always glints hair-gel green. And, of course, a thick gold chain around the neck. Yeah, thats right, one of Those Blokes.

I don’t think I’m that judgemental as a person, but if you are one of Those Blokes the 1st thing I think on seeing is โ€˜You knob. Bet you teach PEโ€™ and I havenโ€™t been proven wrong yet.

Our particular bloke was leant proprietorially against the boot of a grey Ferrari, chatting up two bikini-clad damsels who were at least a decade too young for him. I had to lurch past, so I couldn’t help but over-hear him holding court on the merits of this particular make of Ferrari. Normally I’d have said nothing, but as he expounded fulsome details of all that 0-60 crap, I couldn’t help but mutter sourly:

‘Yeah, but the seats are too low and clutch is an utter bitch.’

Bloke shot me a look of smug contempt, gave the Ferrari’s boot a little fatherly pat and said:

‘Well I think I know more about this kind of car than you do ‘mate’.’

The inverted commas clanged with sarcasm. Right up to the point when I haughtily unlocked the car, threw in the Boots bag and pulled away.

Even better, he kind of froze up in cringe, so he stayed leant on the boot until it turned into empty air. One of Those Blokes, arse first to the tarmac. Lovely.

B3ta newsletter…

Always a good read (check it out here), but here’s some highlights from this weeks issue (issue 464 so, being a geeky thing, it mentions the Amstrad CPC464 a lot:

If Lord Sugar’s mum had named him Barry Alan Sugar and not Alan Michael then his company would have been the quite wonderful BASTRAD PLC

Heh…funny ๐Ÿ™‚

The CPC disk operating system was called Amsdos – a variation on the name of the more popular MSDOS. Should the 464 had lasted a few more years then maybe it could have run Amsdows.

That’s quite scary…

INTERESTING! PORNY BIRO ART – no idea who makes these but if any women end up dead with a blue biro shoved up their vagina then Dexter would finger this guy.
http://www.leenks.com/gallery1406.htm

That’s just awesome…

TOP TIP:
Insulate your house. Inject a mixture of whipped egg white and sugar into the wall cavities and the loft. Turn the heating up to high. Hey presto: meringue insulation.

And here is the fabled CPC464 (I’ve still got one at home!)

Right, I’m off to Sweden – ciao ๐Ÿ™‚

A really quick (10 minutes ’til I go home) lazy Friday post…

Courtesy of the annals of B3ta:

There’s a girl you like. Big time. You adore her. She’s perfect. And she’s single. You flirt a little, but it goes nowhere. She’s wary of being hurt or messed around.

My friend Tom was that guy. And after nearly a year of groundwork and being turned down times beyond number, the girl, the perfect girl, finally agrees to go out on a date.

Tom is beside himself. ‘I’ll take her to the finest restaurant in town. The new Thai one – it’ll be perfect. For weeks, he rants and raves, gushes and giggles. Tom is on cloud nine.

We’re all rooting for Tom. As D-Day approaches, we slap him on the back, ease his nerves and wish him well.

On the night itself, most of us have forgotten, or merely pushed it to the back of our minds.

Not Alan. Oh, no. Alan’s car turns up outside everyone’s house at 8PM, beeping like a maniac. What’s going on?

Ten minutes later the answer is clear – we’re parked opposite the new Thai place. And look, just inside is Tom, the perfect gentleman, the happiest man in the world.

Al begs silence. Al’s phone appears. A number is dialed. Not a whisper is heard.

“Hello, Thai Kingom?”

“Good evening, this is doctor Wilkinson of Grantham Hospital – could you please pass on a message to a gentleman I believe is dining with you tonight? A Mr Thomas Lastname? Yes, please, could you tell him that his wife has just gone into labour? Thank you. Good evening.”

The helpful manager strolls over to the table. We lip read. Word for word, the message is relayed. The girl stands up. Slaps him. Leaves. He runs after her. A few steps outside he pauses, then stops.

He sees our car. He sees his friends in stitches. He clicks. He screams. He runs towards the car, profanities flying. Five people are laughing so hard that they are in danger of having a cardiac arrest. The car lurches away.

We avoid Tom for three weeks….

Quiet day in the office…

Boss is at the Berlin air show, Corina’s off to the hospital, so I’m all alone in the office.

So, I caught up on some work – got ahead in some other stuff…then got a bit bored. Now this generally means hitting B3ta.com, and I came across this little gem:

The greatest plane journey in the world….
Maybe that should be most embarrassing. Pull up a chair, it’s a long one I’m afraid.

The initial torment was making the mistake of being a fifteen year old boy. It plays havoc on the hormones and all manner of strange things can happen. As a random example, say, the vibration of a plane giving you the most persistent erection known to man. Now this is of course hideable unless three key things come into conjunction.
1. You’re flight is nine hours long, your mother told you to wear something comfortable and you chose very thin track suit bottoms.
2. You checked in very early and are sitting right at the front of the plane. That means in front of about 200 other passengers.
3. Your cousin insists, what with you being tall, that you put her bag in the overhead compartment RIGHT NOW.
The result of this is me, not only standing but actually stretching, accentuating even further the blantant erection tenting out the front of my track suit bottoms to an alarming proportion in front of 200 total strangers.

Get in!

Can this flight get worse? Of course it can, I haven’t got to the misunderstanding yet.

So a couple of hours later and my ears are popping like a bugger causing me no end of pain and annoyance. It’s at this time a stewardess approaches me and, thrusting a food tray in my direction, says, what I’m pretty sure, is “Muhmeemuumoo?” At this point I’m starving so nod enthusiastically giving no thought to the fact that no one around me is being served.

I look down at the tray to see a mound of salad which leaves me slightly disappointed. No where near as disappointed, however, as the realisation that the same stewardess is now talking to an angry man sitting just across the aisle from me who is loudly remonstrating with her. Apparently he’s a vegetarian and the stewardess is very sorry but they appear to be one vegetarian meal short on this flight. A rather large penny drops in my head.

I of course just turn bright red and shit myself at the thought of two public humiliations in one day when I point out my mistake to the stewardess. My loving brother has twigged as to what’s going on and is trying not to laugh out loud in the seat beside me. The bloke across from me is now very angry indeed. Suddenly I am blessed by the ghost of cool (a very rare occurance in my life).

I calmly tapped the stewardess on the shoulder and told her I’d overheard their arguement and said I was only a vegetarian for health reasons, not any kind of beliefs, so I’d be happy to give up my meal for this man and eat the regular stuff. She looked at me with a faceful of such thankfulness I thought my guilt would make me die.

She gave the man my meal and I relaxed in the glow of kudos. Shortly she returned and gave me not only my normal food but a little model of a plane by way of a thank you. My guilt hit fever pitch and then was quickly followed by an altogether more terrifying thought. Surely there would be a list of passengers on the plane who had ordered a vegetarian meal and surely I wouldn’t be one of them.

I spent the next five hours sweating with the guilt and worry of being found out. When we landed I barged people out of the way to get off the plane first and away from the thankful smile of the stewardess. As a touch of karma, being that I was off the plane about five minutes before my brother he said I missed them talking about me. To this day I’ve never been sure but he must have made this bit up, he just must have done.

As he walked out of the door he swears one of the other stewards asked the captain for the little model plane for a friend, the captain explained they’d already given it away to “that veggie kid with the hard on who gave up his meal”.
(Gleeballs has spent at least 15 of his 29 years cringing

Heh…

Lazy post – it's a cut 'n' paste from B3ta:

Of Messerschmitds and cats arses
To relay this story requires the admission of ultimate geekness.

Despite the fact I am on the wrong side of 40 and am meant to be all growed up, I have for a few years now rediscovered my childhood hobby of Airfix kits. Its a nice bit of stress relief and an escape from the never ending demands of work and fatherhood, essentially, having a creative outlet keeps me sane!.

So, in the early days of rediscovering this simple childhood pastime, before I took over a whole room in the house, I would build my little plastic aeroplanes on a tray on my lap in the livingroom.

One day, the wifes boss and his wife popped over for a quick social, and to set the scene of domestic bliss, I am sat in my easychair with a part built messerschmidt on my lap while everyone else is sat on the sofa drinking tea and boring the pants off me. The cat is happily draped over the back of the sofa purring sweet nothings into the ear of the boss’s wife and the dog is in deep slumber in his basket on the floor at the other end of the sofa.

For those of you who have built a plastic kit, you may be familiar with the word “Sproing” for this is the sound occasionially made by a small plastic part launching itself into orbit when you cut it from the sprue.

It was time for the little plastic German pilot to be transplanted from the sprue into his cockpit, and true to form, as the stanley knife cut down to release him from the sprue there is a familiar “SPROINGGG” as the erstwhile 1/72 replica pilot took flight at close to supersonc speed sans aircraft!

DINK! he rebounded off the wall

SPROINK he ricocheed off the TV

And with a final POINK off the door he terminated his flight at some speed with a glancing blow to the cats rusty starfish which the cat had, up until now, been enjoying displaying to all and sundry, legs akimbo on top of the sofa!

This is where it all went a bit wrong

The cat lept vertically off the top off the sofa and with a crack hit the bottom of a shelf above the sofa, let out an anquished MROooowwwwlll and landed in a 4 paw full claw vice grip squarely on top of the head of the wife of the boss

The Wife of the boss let out a shriek as she was being efficiently scalped by the cat, now in the full throwes of the fight or flight decision and hurled her cup of tea into my wifes lap.

Meanwhile, the effect of the cat hitting the bottom of the shelf was enough to displace a vase of dried flowers at the far end of the shelf and with a Roing roing roing it slowly span on its base before falling off the end of the shelf.

The dog, woken by the noise, looked up, to get the vase of flowers square between the eyes! He then proceeded to go into a frenzy which first consisted of biting the ankle of the wifes boss as he was valiantly pawing at my wifes scalded mimsy to try to give relief and was thus a threat to canine kind, to then moving onto the beanbag which was duely ripped open with gay abandon showering the room in a festive haze of polystyrene balls.

Once the mayhem had susided a little, my quip of “bloody luftwaffe eh!” did not help as I had forgotten the Bosses wife was half German!.

Not my best day

Apologies for spelling … pissed ๐Ÿ™‚
(I helped save  b3ta! RadG Drinking Gin and Tonic in the sun, Sun 24 Jan 2010, 16:33

Been such a busy morning…

I was in early, and have only just stopped (no, really). Sitting here with a coffee, I decided to check out some old QOTW answers on B3ta (I WILL get you all over to the ‘dark side’ at some point)…came across this corker:

Pearoast: chav vs window
So we’d just had a nice Sunday lunch at my Mum and Dad’s and my girlfriend and I set off home. With the girlfriend driving we made our way down the street my folks live on. It is about a minutes drive to a T junction at the end.

About half way down some baseball cap wearing little scrote, faux adidas trainings bottoms hanging round his arse, riding a BMX, screamed out of a side road in front of us causing us to have to brake sharply. He then weaved all over the road, occasionally turning to laugh at us.

Now my girlfriend isn’t the most patient of drivers. An otherwise friendly and loving lady turns into a spitting demon of rage if she deems someone is holding her up on the road in any way (especially a chav). Some choice words were being aired and she accelerated up behind him in an attempt to get round.

By this time the T junction was approaching. The girlfriend put her foot down, whipped round the chav and sped towards it. The Chav didn’t like that too much and attempted to pursue, his little chavvy legs pumping for all they were worth.

Now going quite fast the car brakes were applied fairly hard for the junction.

THUMP!

It seemed the Chav had overestimated his braking ability. I turned around in my seat to see him up against the back window, his cheek nicely flattened against the glass, his arms splayed against the back of the car where he had tried to stop himself.

The junction was clear so to the tune of a muffled “aw fuckinell” we gently accelerated away. I watched with a big grin on my face as the glass peeled away from his cheek, leaving him standing there, with his hands in the air and his bike seat firmly wedged up his arse, where it had levered itself when the bike hit the bumper.

I laughed all the way home.
(stubbledchin, Sat 23 Jan 2010, 12:42, Ignore, closed)

Absolute class…I can’t stop giggling ๐Ÿ™‚

Lazy post – 'cos I'm so busy…

It’s Thursday – and that means a new QOTW on B3ta.com ๐Ÿ™‚

This week it’s all about flirting – very funny stuff there…and I’ve picked up some tips ๐Ÿ˜‰ for example:

Don’t try this at home – it’s better in a pub, but still don’t
When I was 18 I frequented Nottingham Rock City. For those of you unfamiliar you’ll quickly find that sex in the toilets is not so much a daring act of rebellion as part of the T&C of entry. Whereas in most of the country, the act of mating involves buying someone a drink followed by “sexay” dancing or, if you’re really unlucky, conversation, at Rock City it’s as simple as locking eyes with someone. If they look back, you’re in. It really is that simple.

With this in mind, and much beer in my belly, a friend of mine bet me a drink that I wouldn’t try what remains the most appalling chat-up line I’ve ever heard, on a real person, in real life and everything. It pains me to admit I did this, even so long ago.

Me: *makes come-hither motion at girl*
Girl: *approaches, foolishly*
Me: I made you come with one finger – imagine what I could do with two!
Girl *slaps, really quite fucking hard*

Amazing how quickly alcohol removes the stench of shame when you’re 18. Amazing how long it clings to you once you sober up

Length? 13 years, and I still feel like a dick
(Darth Foxtrot what, exactly, is the point of Derby?, Thu 18 Feb 2010, 14:23,

The length thing at the end of a post is a sorta tradition…

Another great one:

I went to a speed dating thing last week
I was quite fed up after about half an hour, so my chat up line to one girl consisted of raising my eyebrow suggestively and saying “sex?”.

I did not get laid, but she did find it funny.

Flirting has never been my thing.
(I helped save  b3ta! MatJ would rather be skiing, Thu 18 Feb 2010, 13:40,

And back to work…


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