Beat me, will you?

The last time someone tried to beat me in a competition was the almighty three-legged race of St Chatterine's primary school, on sports day in July 1987. You see, sugartits, this particular race had been building up for months - ever since Tommy Shitwit and his gang of thugs from Trebullet came along with their uber PvP football team and raped our boys senseless on the field, we'd been vowing our revenge, and the ultimate time to take it was at the annual cross-school sports championships.

The pupils of Trebullet Church of England school, or "turdston" as we liked to call it, had a reputation for playing dirty. In netball, they'd have an exceptionally short infant running round tying our players shoelaces together. In rounders, they'd fill the ball with guts and laugh as it exploded and rained intestinal juice all over the opposing batter in mid-swing.

This year was going to be different. This year, me and my leg-share partner Jambo "Goofy" McGee had fought a long and arduous battle to make it to the dizzying heights of third in the league. Turdston was first, and Shatflaps School for Boys was second. We weren't worried about Shatflaps at all. The only reason they were second was because of four monetary bribes and some seriously dodgy amateur photography stills of a few of the umpires, shot by none other than the Shatflaps headmaster himself, Mr Billy Jamcock.

Essentially it was Us and Them. St Chatterine's and Turdston in a head-to-head, balls-out, fanny-to-the-wall battle of wits, courage, intestinal fortitude and leg-eye coordination. The day began, as it usually does, with a classroom whipping followed by the ever-so-dreary assembly - usually made even more banal by the precursory bondage, although in this one instance there was an eruption of laughter when Chalky Tootsworth pissed himself again. After converging upon the disused wasteland, or "playing field", we sat down to watch the first 50m running race. Usually in this sort of event it's customary for the fastest pupil to win, but the added factor of broken glass avoidance was key to success, and our very own Spindle Twatsling pipped the opposition to the post. We were ahead in the day's proceedings!

An unfortunate wasp accident saw us level pegging after the netball, and a spinal injury in the chess tournament left us trailing by a point. It was now up to myself and Goofy to regain our honour. Or die trying.

I'd be fucked if I was going to let a bunch of posh cunts beat me in a race, so I started trying to formulate a plan. Formulate, formulate. That's whay my brain sounded like at the time. Then it hit me! Why should I bother trying to think of a plan, when I knew full well the guys of Turdston were going to do the same? All I really had to do was wait 'til their scheme came to fruition, and then I could do everything in my power to squeal on them like the little bitch I am.

It was all so simple. They'd cheat, and I'd cry about it.

"On your marks.... get set...." Mrs Sagmams drawled out in her ear-piercingly nasal voice. "Goooooo!" barked the hideous old fuckbat. And we were off. I waited patiently, watching the Turdston two while also keeping a careful eye on the binded legs of myself and The Goofster, ever anticipating their futile move toward an a would-br honourless victory. But then it happened! Goofy pulled out the spare starter pistol that Sagmams had forgotten to strap to her elephantine thigh, pointed it at the Turds and yelled "GET THE FUCK DOWN!".

The lads tumbled to their inevitible failure, breaking limbs and twisting ligaments, while we ran triumphantly past the finishing line, down the embankment, past the train line and straight to Goofy's grandfather's awaiting volvo. I'm not joking when I tell you I couldn't walk for weeks after that passion filled weekend at his gramps' retreat in the mountains.

Anyway, to cut a bullshit story shortish, we won. The umpire of the match, it turns out, was too busy watching the year 5 girls get changed in our oh-so-modern open-plan changing rooms to see Goofy's gangsta impression, so there were no disqualifications. Just two broken children in an intensive care ward, and two beaming faces (and arses) in that St Chatterin's classroom.

And that, my friends, is how I lost my virginity to Old Man McGee.