Cross Country

Reading time: 1 min

My Dad (who gets his second mention of the day) is a P.E. teacher. He wasn’t sadistic at home, in fact he was a pretty darn good Dad to have if you ask me, and as he’s my Dad it’s only my opinion that counts (ohhh and my sister’s).

I didn’t go to the school my Dad teaches at, instead I got one of his friends as my P.E. teacher. As such I guess I was singled out for a little bit of teasing in P.E. class. Such as when practising the shotput, failing miserably (I wasn’t very athletic as a child), and being told that “My granny could piss further than that McLean.. “.

Anyway, I digress. As with most kids we too ‘enjoyed’ the rigours of the cross-country run in January, in hail, snow, or whatever Arctic conditions there were that day (and remember that this is Scotland, a damn sight closer to the icebergs than England). We enjoyed the camaraderie that it built – “pick him up, pick him up, if McIntyre see’s us he’ll make us do an extra lap again!”, and the joy that is communal, exhaustion-related vomiting. Those were the days.

Unfortunately we only got to run around the football pitches, unlike Scaryduck, who recounts another hilarious tale from his childhood. (Let your lunch go down before you go read it though).