Back in my sink school days, we unathletic types skirted our rugby teacher’s Trenbolone-induced psychopathy by skiving Physical Education.
Rather than submit to Mr. Id’s rib-snapping assaults, the delinquent classes instead smoked low-grade hash through an improvised Coke can. Sometimes, we’d smash a window, or in the biting winter, light on fire the teetering totems of discarded Latin textbooks littering the ruins of the old grammar school banked below our school grounds.
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