Josh Widdicombe

Oh, no.

Except...

Mr. Mallard had other ideas.

Oh, Mr. Mallard.

Fucking duck-faced prick.

He basically told her, yeah, this isn't going to work, and broke things off.

To be fair, he was in his 20s, she was in her early 30s, married, and things had clearly escalated way beyond a casual fling.

After blowing up her entire life for this bloke, she understandably, but also wildly, snapped and went full gladiator with a plastic cricket bat in the middle of school.

Oh, God.

We never saw Miss Smith again.

Oh, no.

Mr Mallard carried on teaching PE like nothing had happened.

The cheek of Mr Mallard.

The cheek of it.

He couldn't do cricket.

He'd go, look, I'm going to have to tap out of cricket just from PTSD.

Can't hold that blue bat.

Pretty much every lad in our PE class used to give him banter about Miss Smith every lesson, and all he'd do was smirk and laugh, not say a word.

Everyone I ever told this story to that wasn't there doesn't believe me, but the school we went to had so many stories like this, it actually...

Got knocked down 12 months later.