I cannot comment on the truth of this story, except it came straight from the bullshitting Welsh horse's mouth. And your teachers wouldn't lie to you, would they?
God bless the North Atlantic Alliance. Without our special relationship which our American cousins, there would be no nucular umbrella, no free trade and no incredibly fat people pulling the planet out of orbit. We had loads of American kids in our school, thanks to a two nuclear bomb factories, NATO central command and various other agencies which employed "friends" from across the Atlantic, all in the local fall-out zone.
Amongst these were two Irish-American brothers, Paul and Tom Maloney. For reasons I have never quite fathomed, apart from the fact that either or both of us were utter twats, Tom never liked me and I never liked Tom. This might have been something to do with the fact that he once stamped seven shades of shit out of me on the rugby field, even though we were both playing on the same team - his interpretation of the rules was liberal to say the least. In return, I gave him my top anti-Tom insult "Wanky Yankee" and we ended up slogging it out in the corridor outside the French labs.
Dragged apart, I managed a final blow to the propeller-head's cojones before Tom grassed me up.
"Misssss, that Limey creep called me a 'wanky yankee'." Limey creep? I'll give him Limey creep.
"Did you? Why?"
"Because he is."
Mrs Haig was shocked. She had me down as such a lovely, sensitive child. And this is why we need regime change.
Paul, on the other hand, was much more laid back than his rather tense brother. Chalk and solidified dairy product, the two of them.
Before the end of the school year, their father's tour of duty ended and they were to go back to the States. It was decided to see the brothers off properly. Party, the works.
True to form, our class went completely over the top, a few crisps and sausage rolls turned into the kind of feast that could feed most of the Third World, or just pass as a starter in an American restaurant.
What a bloat out. I never thought I'd see the day when Tom Maloney turned down food, but shortly after his seventh Mr Kipling's applie pie, several witnesses heard him say the immortal words "No more food for me thanks." Women fainted. Grown men threw down gauntlets and challenged other equally stunned grown men to duels. The world stopped.
The bell went. Five tons of food down the gullet, and it was PE next. A recipe for disaster if you don't mind me saying at this point.
Mr Curtis had arranged a leaving ceremony at the end of the lesson, a ceremony carried out in typical games teacher style. Curtis was a sterotypical games teacher. He had been an athlete that almost, but not quite, made it big - he was apparantly the Welsh national weightlifting champion for bullshitting dwarves - and possessed the distinctive sense of humour possessed only by those in this particular profession - evil. He looked and acted like Jeremy Clarkson's sadistic twin brother.
We all sat at the end of the sports hall at the end of the Mahony brothers' last PE lesson.
"As you know," said Curtis, "we are losing our two American friends."
"So, by way of a little entertainment, I have arranged a bit of a treat for them."
The lads beamed.
"All they have to do is sprint the length of the sports hall, put a basketball through the hoop, do five press-ups, five star jumps, drink that glass of cider, and the first boy back wins the rest of the bottle."
"As the day is long, lad. Does a bear shit in the woods?"
Both lads were up to it, despite Tom's already obvious retching from the Great Lunch.
"He's gonna hurl," observed one witness.
"I'd bet my left nad on it. Get your umbrella ready." Wise words indeed, but, alas, no umbrellas were forthcoming for the doomed boys that Friday afternoon.
They sprinted up the hall, playfully shoulder-barging each other in their quest for the free booze. Tom shot the hoop first time, Paul took several attempts.
Tom did the press-ups and started on the star jumps, while his brother lagged behind.
"Stop!" yelled Curtis, waving the half empty bottle at them.
They carried on.
"STOP!" he shouted again, running up the hall towards them, his face a mask of dread.
But they were American, and hence deaf to the cries of the outside world.
To Curtis's horror, they both downed the cider in one, and staggered back.
"Can I have some more?" asked Tom.
"You weren't meant to drink that" said the horrified teacher. He showed them the bottle of 'cider' they weren't meant to drink.
It was neat turps.
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!!!!!!" said Paul.
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!!!!!!" said Tom.
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!!!!!!" they both said, again.
Neat turps. With a naked flame, the whole place could have gone up. With the force of crisps, sausage rolls and Mr Kipling's pies, it would have been like napalm.
Puke. Everywhere. Those sitting at the front got a rather unpleasant shower which resulted in a somewhat sheepish visit to the dry cleaners. Others - those of a more sensitive constitution - got a whiff of the technicolor yawn and followed suit in a domino effect of chundering.
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!!!!!!" said everybody.
Curtis left the next term, but more importantly, in the face of this merciless assault, the NATO alliance survived.