browsing the letter b

Credit must be given to Dov Skipper for his valiant efforts to avoid the dreaded BCG jab.
As we all remember, there was an initial jab which would inflame should the antibodies in question already be in place. For a fortunate few, this meant no actual BCG.
Dov came up with the idea of artificially inflaming his test jab. So he spent a week attacking the test spot on his wrist with an arsenal of pencils, drawing pins, fingernail etc. The result was not so much an inflamation as a gaping Richey Manic style lesion.
The nurse wasn't convinced that he was already super-immune, and that his massive trauma was the product of really fucking kick-ass antibodies.

The victim (let's call him Ian, for argument's sake, it was always an Ian) would be asked "Do you have a BHI?"

A positive reply would be met with the ear-splitting declaration "Ian has a baldy half-incher!"

Negative replies would be met with the slightly less offensive "What, so you don't have a big hairy invader?" On the whole, we preferred the positive response.

Mr. Badman, our games teacher, not only had a glass eye, but was devoted to the talent of Billy Joel. One afternoon's games session was called off due to a mix of rain and apathy on our parts, and we were forced to pack into the Biology Lab and watch Billy Joel's greatest hits on video for over an hour. Despite offerering to run laps in the rain in our pants, we were forced to sit and watch this sickening filth until our brains poured out our noses.

I went to school at what was the sad, tattered, skull-fucked remains of a Christian Brothers school, and Brother Kelly was the head. The only one of that paedophile clique still around... He used to walk around whistling, a huge fat fucker of a man, he was. When I was 12, our teacher wasn't teaching us enough, so we got BK every Tuesday instead. He'd drag you out to the front of the class for Maths all morning. If you got a question wrong, you got punched. If you were in his way as he went to punch a student, you got punched. If you got a few questions wrong, you'd have your head smashed into a wall. He also had a strap. And a banana.

Being fortunate enough not to land in dear Brother Kelly's form class, I heard only rumours of what went on. But one thing we all saw was a plastic banana. Like a dog's toy. Lying on his desk. He used to staple it. Full of staples it was. I don't know why. I don't want to.

If you did something wrong that didn't merit an extra five pages of the dreaded Two Grade, you got the strap. Simple. Six times across each hand with something that no-one ever did describe. My friend had it done to him because he kicked a girl in the shins after she'd stolen our entire collection of helicopter leaves. There was supposed to be a gang you could join at the main school which consisted entirely of people who'd been strapped. Like a bondage Mile-High club. It didn't exist. Lying fuckers.

A smelly person. You don't have to be huge and black, but it helps.

Someone who has been circumcised. Effective, because people generally wonder what the hell the person's getting at. The punchline, "I've been cut off", generally pleases.

Someone who is too poor to have a phone and so has to use pay phones. Feel free to add that the phonebox is actually their home.

Babb listened to Radio 4 and collected stamps. Despite this, his fate was only sealed the day he missed the bus on the sixth form university open-day trip.
Instead of running, or walking off swearing, Babb, chose to skip contentedly behind the bus. He only fucking skipped. For long enough for everyone to see.
Subsequently, when you had a conversation with him, there were people queuing up to do a Babb behind his back. From that day, Babb was cursed to never have another conversation with anyone who wasn't laughing at something that wasn't quite him.

Baby Babylon was the name Andrew Karkutt gave to an appealing BusyBody character. BusyBodies were like chunkier, friendlier Lego people, with infinitely more convincing hats. Baby Babylon became the mascot for a range of cleaning products, which involved shouting "there's shit in my trousers" then whispering "Baby Babylon"

He was later joined by The Poo With The Flaxen Hair, who had this theme tune;

The Poo with the Flaxen Hair,
The Poo with the Flaxen Hair,
They seek him here, they seek him there,
The Poo with the Flaxen Hair.

Then there was Megaslap, just about the only thing I could draw. Here they are, the pricks.
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Abusive chant directed at me by class bullies for daring to wear an iron on "Fighting Fantasy" transfer on my jumper. The chanting started in a normal voice, but was gradually replaced by a mock-spastic voice and finally stopped altogether when one of my tormentors decided it would in fact be a better idea to spit on me.

A name for us, the cool kids, whose coolright it was to occupy the back seats of any bus. This right was defended with violence and intimidation, when necessary.
It is only with hindsight that I realise that it sounds more than a little gay.

To allow the liquid from a can or bottle to re-enter the vessel, complete with some of your own saliva. The soft drink equivalent of bumkissing a spliff. Backwashing led to the often repeated statistic that the last 10% of any can of coke is 50% saliva. Plainly bollocks, as not everyone is a scabby backwashing bronno.

Mrs Pocklington's breath was so bad that no one dared ask her for help. If you were foolish enough to ask for help, she would come over to you and breathe her foetid stench breath of rotted shit and dead animals over you until you died. Or spewed. Or spewed then died.
We all failed History that year.

If a bully from the year above is amusing himself during a quiet lunch break by repeatedly banging you head on the ground, it is a Bad Idea to press your head against the ground to stop him lifting it up again.
He will stamp on it instead.

I don't know why we hated David Baddiel so much, but it was enough for us to invent this marvellous game. Basically, you run as fast as you can towards your victim, shout BADDIEL, loudly and then push them over.

During a biology lesson, Derek Parker claimed there was a badger sett in the woods close to his home, so the teacher organised a field trip to study it.
Early on a Saturday morning several young boys duly arrived at the woods near Parker's house with a camera to take photographs of the badgers.
Naturally, the sett couldn't be found, and it was suspected that, much like Parker's uncle who built a talking robot, the whole thing had been a figment of the boy's imagination.
Getting everyone up early on a Saturday to participate in a fictious extra-curricular activity should have been sufficient grounds for a beating, but when the film in the camera was developed, it transpired that Parker had sneaked off with it and used it to take photographs of his cock.

If your English teacher is named Mrs Bagnall, and she is a right cow, then you can use this "sneeze" to excellent effect.

In 1973, Gary Glitter's "I'm the leader of the gang, I am" was number 1 in the charts. To commemorate this event, Peter Bagnall's mom bought him a black bomber jacket and embroidered the words 'I'm the leader of the gang' on the back in big red joined up letters. The irony was that Bagnall was the snot kid of class 3B and was leader of no gang at all.

Many games include balls. Football, squareball, softball, tennisball. Here are some of the others. Murderball / Deathball : A pleasing mix of football, it, and violence. A football was kicked, and if it hit you without you controlling it and returning the ball, then you were chased and pulped.

After a procession of supply teachers, each failing in some vital way to hold onto the job, we were given Mr Conteh. Going for the intimidation tactic, Mr Conteg was a huge African man, with a very strong accent.
Did you notice his name was Mr Conteh? Well, that alone had us in hysterics, but eventually he found the class so lacking in concentration he started a disciplinary talk. This included the repetition of the phrase 'the ball is in your court'.
Unfortunately in his thick accent, this sound like Mr Cunty telling us that the ball was in our cunt. I mean, he could talk, being called Mr Cunty. And so, after an hour of uncontrolled laughing, another supply teacher tied up his belongings in a spotted hanky, and walked off into the sunset. (Actually, to my sister's school, where the same thing happened again)

French writer of the early 19th century, famed for his Comédie Humaine.
This was written, of course, so that in later years aspiring young wags could enjoy variations on the following classic wordplay:
Q. Did you get your head around the Balzac?
A. I'd always considered the Balzac a little hairy but once I got a taste of it I couldn't get enough!
La hilarité est ensuivant - Human Comedy indeed.

A short-lived fashion of shoes in the late '70s. They were very flat, very wide, but most importantly, had very stiff wooden soles that stuck out at least 1/2 an inch, which were ideal for kicking shins in. I've just done a google search but found no references. I will personally blow anyone who can produce a picture of them. If you can find a pair in size 11, the sky's the limit.

Cutting sarcastic putdown used by a maths teacher, when a pupil answers a question without stating the units.
TEACHER: "what's the volume of a cube with sides of 2cm each?"
PUPIL: "eight"
TEACHER: "eight what? bananas?"
Pupils would often fall out of their chairs and asphyxiate with laughter.

A threat. The number would rise to increase the severity of the threat. Claims of a million, or even infinity bullets, were not rare.

Educational attack. Ask a boy the capital of Thailand, and before really giving him a genuine chance to answer, shout “BANG COCK!” and punch him in the twin-brains.

Using a combination of stealth and wit place as much school property (rulers/pens/paint/glue) into Barber's bag. Then at the end of the day as he leaves the room perform a citizen's arrest and reveal his crimes to the 'teacher'.

A craze that developed in the last year of secondary school, and one practiced only by a fully qualified minority of lovable thugs.

Barebacking involved grabbing someone, lifting the back of their top up, and then furiously slapping the victim's back. It was just something that occasionally happened to you - it was never a tool for singling out the weak, and it was never personal.

Unless you were Abdullah. He would get chased, entirely topless, across the playground, before getting body-slammed into a wall and punched in the spine for fifteen minutes.

[log]What other terms for specific kinds of fucking have been stolen by schoolchildren to mean acts of sexless brutality? Did your school use "double fisting" to mean two punches? Maybe you thought "rainbow kisses" were something to do with sherbet and ponies, or something. Let us know![/log]

Based on the Pepsi Challenge.
Participants are offered one cup of squash diluted with tap water, and one cup of squash diluted with river water that has just trickled through the corpse of a sheep.
They are then offered the chance to say which is the real "Barker '95". Their answer is entirely irrelevant.

The aristocracy doesn't come out well in the playground. Duke means shit. Viscount is a brand of cheap minty biscuit. And Baron was written on the tag that stuck out of my cheap, fashionless shoes.

No child wants to be a Baron. And those that do would be ill-advised to start that long journey by adopting a pair of cheap, aspirational labelled shoes. They do not command respect.

The stitching on my Barons formed a ridged lip around the top of the shoe. This rim would prevent water from draining effectively to the floor. This was noticed, and within seconds, I became Baron Fishponds. Baron Fishponds - the new-money peer who wasn't invited to top-tier social functions, because of his shit shoes.

A mentalist. Barrow Gurney was the name of the Psychiatric Hospital near Bristol, and became a generic term of abuse. The name was perfect - the natural face of the spastic being a happy gurn, and their primary mode of transport being the wheelbarrow. The second word should be drawn out: Barrow Guuuuuurney!

The sound that things of massive size make as they swing through the air. This could be used in narrative (... and she had massive collosal knockers going BARRRRRRN!), or as a sound effect in a commentary as the girl who is sick of you talking about her premature tits turns around to thump you. This can be more effective if you sing songs from War of the Worlds to the girl first.

A full eight hours of torture awaited poor Barry Hendy every day he arrived at school. Methods of torture included the simple swapping of his initials around to give a funnier name, claiming that after dark he was no longer Harry Bendy but CHEESE BOY (with no explanation offered), to the tireless Pushing Barry's Things on the Floor game.

When the PE teacher asked him if he was called Barry, he replied "Yes". She said "Yes what?" in that imperious manner of PE teachers, fully expecting him to answer "Yes Miss".

However, our Bazza replied, having had manners beaten into him by his parents, "Yes please". But he drew out the word "please" in a slightly puzzled tone of voice, which obviously meant he was unsure that this was the correct answer.

This was confirmed to him by the entire class, including the teacher, pissing themselves laughing, and Barry just pissing himself.

Barry Walker's finest hour was the hour when he finally learnt to tell a joke. The joke going round was "Knock Knock! Who's there? Spitonmish! Spitonmish who?" at which the teller hocked a greeny on to the victims Clarks commandos.

Barry's rendition of the joke was less interactive. He'd just say "Knock Knock, who's there, spitonmishoe," and never quite figured out why this brilliant joke ended up with him getting his shoes gobbed on.

My friend Andy Harrop went a whole year telling his Geography supply teacher that his name was Basil Clithopps, and would have gotten away with it too if it wasn't for the tiny matter of the end-of-year reports. We had told her that Harrop was in hospital "in a coma", information she didn't bother to check until July when the shit hit the fan and Andy was suspended.

John W. achieved school-wide fame in the sixth form when he was spotted through a badly-curtained bathroom window having an energetic wank. Of course, indiscreet masturbation is hardly that unusual at boarding school, but two factors elevated John's performance to the status of School Legend:

1. In an impressive display of coordination and efficiency, he was brushing his teeth with his other hand.

2. He frequently paused in his manipulations to slap his cock energetically against the basin.

John was dubbed Basin Basher for the remainder of his school career, and "Arm & Hammer" toothpaste suddenly became hilarious. The event was immortalised in the following song (to the tune, vaguely, of Do your balls hang low?):

Is your name John or Jason,
Do you bash it on a basin,
Do you cover it in Colgate for better lubrication?
Does it give you satisfaction,
Does it get a big reaction,
Do you use Double Action for better foreskin traction?

The beauty of the final line is that John was a quiet, earnest student: the image of him diligently evaluating toothpastes until he found the one with optimum sensual enhancement was entirely plausible.

A file with a surface texture between coarse and second-cut. Invented with the sole purpose of allowing twelve year old boys to swear in metalworking class.

An impromptu celebration, where colleagues took part in such activities as 'knee kicking', 'gobbing in hoods', and 'throwing people down the stairs'. I stabbed my mate Andy with a compass in maths.
He got sent out the class for screaming in agony, but still asked me to be his best man in later life. Although he was soon divorced, mind.

French word for imbetween, amusingly also West Indian for homosexual. Brightened up my French lessons anyway.

Racist song, presumably sung by Africans to Indians. Shame on your batty, 'Cos your batty smells of curry. Let me smell (sniff sniff) Bloody hell!

A weeble-shaped physics teacher with a voice as camp as John Inman. His trials included, but were not limited to;

• Simulation of gas leaks by blowing through a bic biro, leading to regular evacuations of the class.
• When told to stand outside, it was essential that you actually went and stood outside the school and wave at him through the window.
• Whistling in class until he ordered the whistling boy to get out. Then, every boy would stand up and stand outside the school and wave through the window.

Baz Bucklow has since died of a heart attack.

Ultra lame girl group formed to counter "The Freds" (where everyone in the group was called Fred) and the less-cool "Hermans" (same deal). No girls were in either club, so they decided to counter with "The Be-Yourselves," which was laughably pathetic, really. One guy hawked up a bunch of snot onto a piece of paper, wrote "The Be-Yourselves" with an arrow pointing to it, then showed it to the head girl of the group. She cried.

What fun it must have been to write your name in shit on the toilet wall of infant school! And yet how sad that you spelled it "bean" instead of "dean".

A simple game. Push all the desks together in the middle of the room, close all the blinds and doors, and jam chairs in all the gaps at the sides of the desks and stuff.
Nominate the beast and give him a heavy ruler. The beast begins captured under the desks. Everyone else (the beastkeepers) would try to stop him escaping by holding the desks down, all the chairs in the way, and so forth.
When the beast finally did escape, he'd run around hitting everyone until we got bored.

It may not sound like a good idea, but when I did it, nothing happened. Probably because, living in Bromley, there were no gangsters.

Game played with two teams of four or five. One team would pick a password or phrase, and then peg it off. The other team would hunt down the opposing individuals, catch them, and beat the password and shit out of them. Two matching passwords from two (usually badly hurt) individuals, and the game was won.
Often phrases like "fuck your mum" were chosen by the running team - knowing that the weakest and saddest members of the team would get caught first. The only way they would therefore be able to stop the beating is by shouting “fuck your mum” at the attackers, which obviously sounded more like a spirited defiance, and left you five times likelier to get your nose broken.

As God is all-powerful, the reason for anything bad ever happening to anyone has to be because God wants them to suffer - this is plain logic. All got a bit out of hand when a lad called Tim Tranter died of a heart attack and someone shouted that it was because "God Hated him." Come to think of it, that was last week. How distressing.

The justification for being He-Man when an impromptu Masters of the Universe game broke out. The key would be made of lego, which would mean anyone could have the key given 30 seconds.

A game / pastime for seven year olds based loosely on the Ghostbusters phenomenon. Find a girl and drag her the field to show her a bumble bee on the grass. She would become scared. Sensing her fear, we would shout “Beebusters!” and jump with both feet onto the bee.
Having been saved, the girl was then allowed to go back to doing handstands against a wall.

A: Would you rather eat beef stew or poo?
B: Beef Stew
A: What if the beef stew was made with poo, would you rather eat the beef stew or just the poo?
B: Beef Stew
A: You want to eat beef stew made with poo!!!

"CAN YOU BEES?" screamed Henry as he sat on fellow special needster Alan, "CAN YOU BEES?"

Punchy tune composed apropos of nothing, by Jason La Torre. The lyrics ran thus: The beetroot song, da da la da da da, The beetroot song, da da la da da da The beetroot song, da da la da da da, The beetroot song, da da la da da da, Eat the beetroot! Eat the beetroot! Eat the beetroot! It makes you turn...PINK! The song ended abruptly, and in curious triumph.

The highlight of a 1984 edition of the Acland Burghley secondary school's 'Weekly Bulletin' was the 2nd year football team being congratulated by the headmaster after a particular good cup run. The picture revealed an assortment of 13 year olds wearing Pringle diamond-cut pullovers, Lyle & Scott roll necks, and Farah's slacks looking for all the world like Brucie, Tarby, and friends at the Bob Hope memorial Pro-Celebrity Golf Tournament.

Take a Philips school atlas and find where you live on it. Show your friends what you’re about to do. Bring your thumb down on your home town, and you should hear all your mates screaming with terror as a 50 mile wide thumb descends upon them and crushes them like red mites. Try gobbing on the map and hear them choke and drown. Best of all, turn round and fart all over the East Midlands.

Using the laser printing technologies available in some schools, it is relatively easy to print out fifteen life-sized copies of your French teacher's grinning face, and for the whole class to be wearing them when he enters the room.
If he says "that's a waste of resources", simply reply "what's a waste of resources, sir?"

Many years before children became properly aware of childhood illness issues we were sat down by our teacher and told we 'have to be nice to Craig as he has something wrong with him'. This, naturally, led to much speculation as to what it actually was, until the conclusion was reached that he had been born without a cock. This established, following craig into the toilets to see what he pissed with became something of a group activity. In retrospect possibly the only thing wrong with Craig was the fact that he didn't lash out at the oggling cock-staring pervos in his class. We never did find out as he didn't come back to school after the summer holidays. Maybe he just filled up with piss and burst.

Our PE teacher often made everyone who was shit at football (me included) compete against the actual football team. It's never been clear to this day, what he was actually trying to achieve by this.
I remember one day, I made a woefully feeble yet heroic attempt at a goal, which was easily deflected by our opponents. Taking his job seriously, our captain explained to me about the taking part being rather more important than the winning.
My response to this was to run around the pitch, attacking members of the non-shit team with my bare fists, tears in my eyes and roaring at the top of my voice. It still hurts now. Hurts bad... So bad...

This refers to the practice of playing at being a rock band in a rainy lunch hour in the art room. Using window poles as mike stands, scrubbing brushes as drumsticks, and so forth, we took the whole 'tennis racket/bedroom mirror' phenomenon to its logical conclusion when we actually invited some boys to watch our show. Drunk on celebrity, giddy with hormones, during the last song we decided to smash our 'gear' up a la The Who, causing untold damage to said window pole, some jamjars full of poster paint and Jason Miller's head. It was at this moment that the trendy art teacher showed up and - to our mind - reverted to facist type by sending us to the deputy head. Our potential punishment was as nothing to our sheer bloody embarassment when asked what we were doing. One of our band - I'd like to think it was me - muttered meekly 'we were just being The Who, sir'. The utter surrealism and fuckwittedness of this was such that the deputy head crumpled inwardly at the strain of not bursting out laughing and sent us away with some vague demands about clearing up the mess.

In my infant school, the standard punishment for being naughty was spending playtime facing the wall under a large and incredibly heavy Victorian brass bell. The inevitability of the bell falling down and striking Andrew Lynn's head was rendered less slapstick by the severe hospitalization that ensued. By the age of 13, Andrew was reading at a rudimentary level.

An alternative to "durr". Said in classic spacka pose with tongue pushed out against bottom lip. "Belm". Similar to "Jimmy Hill" (rubbing chin) and "Chinny Rack-On", in that they denotes the feeling that someone is talking shit.

An imaginary card that you never knew you had until you are informed that you have dropped it. An instinctive glance at the ground is then instant proof that you are a member of this exclusive club.

I always thought this was a strictly our-school-only term for a botty bandit until I googled it today and found someone selling t-shirts with it on. I suppose it could have been specially commissioned by David Burns of my class, who has written in his Friends Reunited entry, "Yes, you were right. I really was a bendy Herman and I still am". I like to imagine him wearing his special shirt on gay pride marches in case he runs (or possibly sashays) into any old school friends.

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Benson was the butler in Soap. He was so loved in America for being a servile black man surrounded by his white betters, that he got his own series. So, if you asked anyone for a favour, they would comply grudgingly, and say "just call me Benson".

John: Steven, could you pass me that book?
Steven: Tch, for God's sake. Just call me Benson, why don't you?

At some stage, this developed into a full rendition of the theme tune to Soap, whenever anyone was asked to do anything.

Ben Watt quickly learned to write his name with the smallest possible space between the words, to prevent a couple of 'T's being squeezed in there.

Childish insult that, in adulthood becomes one of the most cutting things imaginable. Try it. Call someone a berk today!

Many thanks to all the Cockneys who completely missed the fucking point and wrote in to tell us that berk is actually rhyming slang for cunt and very rude indeed, actually. 'Cuntybollocks' is rude. And so is 'why don't you just bloody piss on your nan's bum, you cuntybollocks'. 'Berk', 'nitwit' and 'der-brain' are not. Jesus. - Ponky

Abusing an unfortunate child's unique habit of biting his clenched fist in moments of anger. Taunting will occur on an hourly basis to see who could be the first to break the skin by proxy. His father was dead, so shouting, "Where's your Dad, Steve?" usually worked a treat. When his Mum died, he actually came in the next day. Out of respect, he wasn't insulted for at least a week - but there was obviously new ammunition once it recommenced.

Frazer was married to Betty. Desite his vehement denials of the obvious fact, I put the matter beyond doubt by writing "Betty" on several amall pieces of paper, folding each twice, sneaking up behind Frazer and sprinkling them over his head whilst shreiking "Betty Confetti!" inches from his ear.
Sadly, his eardrums were not perforated. However, he did complain of a ringing in his ears. The ringing of bells. At his wedding. To Betty.

Inevitably there came a time when a teacher would ask the pupils to make a list of their names- with luck it was a supply teacher who didn't know who you all were and would then read the names out. In these cases, it always paid to have some handy rude spoonerism names to pad out the list. E.g.
Betty Swollocks
Paul Smeenis
Mary Hinge
Kelly Smunt
Joe Blobb
Tex Soy
Trevor Nyanalsecks etc.
Not to be confused with more direct humour of names like Mike Hunt, Hugh Jarse etc.

Bag Full Of School Dinner.
Almost every lunchtime during the third, fourth and fifth form we made a BFOSD by pretending to eat our school dinners, but in fact each sneaking spoonfuls into a plastic bag. These creatures were then named and taken out to the playing field, where they developed a personality of their own as they were thrown around until they burst - usually on Wayne.
The best BFOSDs tended to be composed of a base of mashed potato, custard and segments of orange, along with other associated foodstuffs. The acidity of the orange was generally believed to curdle the milk in the custard, turning the BFOSD into a stinking near-lethal chemical weapon.
Early BFOSDs tended not to last more than fifteen minutes or so, and required rebagging at frequent intervals if their lifespan was to be increased. Then some genius suggested putting the BFOSD into a sock taken from the PE Block lost property basket, and a whole new era was born.
Putting a BFOSD into a sock meant that, when the plastic bag burst, the mashed-up food that was its very essence did not escape onto the ground. Instead it oozed into the material of the sock, making it very, very unpleasant indeed, but also maintaining the BFOSD's integrity. This meant that, rather than lasting for an hour or so, BFOSDs could last for days or even weeks before the foul stench of rot caused us to discard it.
With the lifespan of the BFOSD extended almost indefinitely, all sorts of shenanigans ensued. The contents of the BFOSD leaked from their M&S terry toweling home at a reasonably restrained pace; school blazers were frequently dotted with stains, but nothing approaching the full-on 1963 Dallas head-shot stains that bursting plastic bags left.
And so the BFOSD managed to live past the lunch hour until after school when they made their way into Walsall town centre - where hilarity inevitably resulted: thrown onto crowded buses, pushed through open office windows, deposited on the shelves of the local Sainsbury's. We behaved in a manner that brought shame to both our school and our families. But we didn't care - we were young rebels blazing through puberty, and we did it with stinking socks in hand.

The well known practice of looking up rude words in the School Library's Big Dic-tionary also works in the Bible. A quick summary of my findings...

• Song of Songs 5:2-4 contains passages about honey soaked, er, passages.
• Philippians 3:8 has Saint Paul using a bad word. Um.
• 1 Samuel 25:22 has King David using the phrase "he that pisseth against a wall".
• Isaiah 66:11 has a little breast play.
• Proverbs 5:19 has some sound marital advice - plus nudity, rape, besitality and bum sex galore!
  A rich playground for the horny teen looking to spazz out during a dull RE lesson.

Alien who started his one man invasion of Earth in a small primary school in the north east of England. He started his bid for world domination by frightening an eight year old girl in the toilets by saying "Biddy-Biddy, Hello!" After two months of children combing the school field and "butterfly garden" in search of this beast, and several telephone calls by worried parents to the headmaster because their children couldn't sleep at night, it was finally stopped by a school assembly where the existence of aliens was strenuously denied and the by now heavily armed (with sticks) anti-alien sweeps were ordered to stop.

Another hilarious disability insult - this time for the lucky sufferers of spina bifida. Also biffa.

Biff shoes are any utterly unfashionable shoe, preferably large and cumbersome with deep tread soles. So called because of their resemblace to a medical shoe and braces, at the time thought to be worn by people who suffered from spina-bifida.

Standard male reply to the age-old question "How's it hanging?".
A suitable girls' reply was never established. "Fine, thanks" seemed to suffice.

According to the margin notes in my 3rd year English book, big brown brothels only cost 27p.

Inventive rewording of the popular assembly song 'Big Rock Candy Mountain'. Much mirth was caused by the fact that the first verse contained the words 'a burly bum went hiking'. This song was exclusively requested by Ali Mehmet who had manky jumpers and the ability to blow bubbles of snot mixture from his nostrils.

Perfect for situations where your friends were bragging about their new Birthday / Christmas presents. "Oooo," you'd reply. "Big Thrills for Noddy and Big Ears". Noddy and Big Ears being notoriously easy to thrill. This didn't even rhyme.

A fat child. He doesn't have to be Native American, in fact it's probably racist if he is.

Our maths teacher at A-level was a William Phillip Gill. The lack of forethought on the part of his parents was only rivalled by his own. If he'd been a primary school teacher, there'd have been a fair chance that nobody would have twigged that his name was, in fact, Bill Phil Gill.
He had his own theme tune. It rhymed 'Gill' with 'cunt', as I recall.
(I knew someone called Wilfred Wilberforce Willwong at University. Triple Will. He came to England from Trinidad without a faith, studied every religion, and chose Catholicism. Curazy dheys. -Log)

The swinging flap of chunkmeat that hangs from old women's and dinner ladies' upper arms.

The not-so-superhero identity of class chief mischief maker Sc*tt L*i*ch. Binky made his first and only appearance one morning when Mr Harris sent Scott to fetch something from the supplies store room. A few minutes later, Scott reappeared with a sack pulled up to his waist and two pencils with table tennis balls jabbed on the ends secured on his head with a large elastic band. He burst into the classroom with a cry of 'Behold! I am Binky The Wonder Slug!' and then hopped off down the hall. He didn't return until after the Head caught him bouncing around in the school garden.

Nobody knows what became of Scott after we left school. Rumour has it that he fights crime in his spare time. Which I suspect he has a lot of.

Placing the smallest bloke in the class in a bin arse-first, so far that it comes up to his knees and armpits, and his hands flap uselessly outside. Then lift the bin, place it on the teacher's desk, and await his arrival. Often, the child would panic, and fall off the desk, leaving him semi-conscious in a pile of rubbish on the floor as the teacher entered the room. This is more incriminating, as it simply looks like the kid went mental in the bin, and lost consciousness through rubbish-related hyperventilation.

Whilst idly browsing through a biology textbook one day myself and a friend came across a picture of a woman in labour.It was quite graphic, the kids head was poking out and you could see everything. All well and good, but when the picture was turned upside down it looked like a little mewling baby with big chunky arms. So funny we had to show the rest of the class and our teacher. Teacher wasn’t chuffed though. She was still pissed of with us for laughing at the siamese twins.

If you left your seat in Miss Windsor's biology class for GCSEs at Wimbledon College, you'd return to find a laboratory implement placed on your stool and a crowd of people screaming that you'd been sitting on that for the lesson, thus getting bum pleasure.

The progression was as follows:
1. Pencils
2. A test tube
3. A test tube rack
4. A bunsen burner (yellow flame)
5. A bunsen burner (blue flame)
6. Retort stand
7. Upturned stool, signifying '4 pronged pleasure'.

We thought this was the pinnacle of implied but unsubstantiated cornhole abuse, until Gettings returned to his chair to discover that he had in fact been sitting on Adrian all lesson, and Adrian was crying.

Small Breasts "Chinese, Japanese, what are these? Bumble Bees!" Large Breasts "Chinese, Japanese, what are these? Christmas Trees!" Breasts, Penis, Arse "Milk, milk, lemonade, round the corner, chocolate's made" Arse, Breasts "Bum titty titty bum bum titty titty bum bum" Suspicions that this latter formed the basis of Freud's Anal/Oral dichotomy were supported by the fact that our local MP at the time was Sigmund's lugubrious grandson, Clement.

In the lazy crazy seventies, everyone wanted to mimic the onscreen adventures of Steve "Six Million Dollar Man" Austin.
Boys would jump off walls, making a scraping sound because it was in slow motion, and run around at ostensibly super-bionic speeds.
Dave Walker took this one step further - by inserting wires down his sleeves and socks, he would take trusted people to one side, show them his ultra-bionic wiring, and tell them that he was no ordinary eight year old boy.
Now over 16, and keen to impress girls, Dave doesn't like me bringing up his bionic past. Which is lucky, as it'd be no fun otherwise.

As written on my second-year desk at secondary school. To this day, the couplet strikes me with its sheer vitality and stark beauty.

'Isn't it your birthday today Nobby?' I enquired of my classmate during an unusually quiet registration. 'No' he replied. So naturally, we all sang happy birthday to him regardless and wished him many happy returns. This continued in every class until lunchtime. We would tell each teacher about the birthday and they were all more than happy to let us sing our congratulations.
On coming back to school after lunch, it turned out an older kid had heard Nobby's happy news and poured a can of coke over his head.

Our Biology teacher, when confronted by yet another gem of witticism from me and my friends, responded with the words 'what's wrong with you Olifant, did you have too many comedy biscuits this morning?'
This phrase has become legendary.

A fart. As in "ahhh... Bisto"

[img]The Bisto Kids, lifting the lid on a pot of farts they did earlier

A faintly fruity french teacher should constantly be likened to a bitch on heat. The image of your teacher dragging her arse around on the floor, pulling herself along by the front paws should reduce class sympathy and break the spell of her fruitiness. This will make disobedience and cruelty easier. In the same way that Nazis introduced seperate text books for the biology of jews; it's a tried and tested technique.

The practice of going through a child's packed lunch, removing their sandwiches wrapped in cling film, and bite through the sandwich without breaking the clingfilm. This left the sandwich in manageable, bite-sized pieces. You had to be careful as not to leave a full set of teeth marks, however, as we had seen a show on telly where they caught this murderer by his bite marks he left on his victims body. So we had to be careful just in case the teachers called the police.

During Year 7, each form group was forced to go to a grim place in Wales where it is permanently cold called Llandrinio. The whole three days was taken up by crap exercises, but on the second day, Mr Tindle informed us that we would be going orienteering, and thus dropped the whole group off in the minibus into a field in the middle of nowhere with a compass and map. We assumed that he would be supervising us, but he told us he'd see us in around two hours and drove off. We worked out that the cunt had taken ten minutes to drive us there and that the map he'd given us was a detour back to the hostel. We decided that following the road back would get us back there in around half an hour and that Tindle would be tres pleased with our skills.
However, we arrived back at the hostel to find Tindle with his head between Mrs Marchants legs in the communal area and she had no pants on.
We were 13 and didn't know that oral sex existed, and Nigel Shuttleworth informed his mum that he had seen Mr Tindle 'biting the rude parts' of Mrs Marchant.
By a narrow vote, we decided to believe this story. If it does turn out to be a plot from Terry and June, please inform us. Like you always fucking do.

We always used to sing Bod instead of God in every hymn. The deputy head stopped a hymn halfway through at one point and lectured us about it. He was called Mr Gatwick. I made a 'Mr Gatwick Head' in my pottery art class and we ran a "who can smash Mr Gatwick's head in?" event at the school fete that was a bit like a coconut shy. Mark Beaumont won. I hated Mark Beaumont. He died a couple of years ago of lung cancer. Ha.

For a short period in Year 6, a few boys discovered and promoted the practice of making a pile of sherbert in one hand, blowing it in someone's face and saying "black magic, man!" in a Jamacian accent.

If they'd just used a bit more French language and Catholic
imagery, it'd basically have been voodoo.

A place you attend if you grass up a friend. Derived from the true poem; "I'm telling, you're smelling, You went to a black man's wedding." Studied carefully, this makes little sense, but that's OK, isn't it?

In an attempt to assimilate our one black pupil into the local population, we were all invited to his birthday party. Just before this event, our headmaster held a special assembly to explain why some people were black and some were white.
Everybody was born originally black, but because this was a dirty colour, God made a big lake and everybody had to have a wash in it. So, everybody came and bathed and washed off their blackness and became white.
But, the lake was drying up and so there was only enough water for some to wash their hands and feet.
A great story, for many reasons - its mindbending racism, for one. Also the implication that God just didn't bother refilling the lake, and thought "fuck it, let 'em stay black".

After teaching the class that black surfaces absorb light, this concept caused my science teacher to leave the room for a good ten minutes.
I like to imagine that she ran around every other classroom in the building, saying "how can black things be shiny?"

Obviously, if a teacher leaves a blackboard unattended with chalk nearby, they must want you to use them. Writing "Gary is Gay" was par for the course, but the truly creative would look out for unattended boards with teachers' content on, and make subtle alterations. This had the bonus of not always requiring chalk, as a well-executed rubbing out of a letter or part of a letter could be just as effective, eg removing the 'o' from 'count', or, even better, removing the 'c' and rubbing out the rightmost quarter of the 'o'. Statistical charts are ideal for adding mountaineers or tightrope walkers. Our pinnacle was infiltrating our form room and spending lunch drawing a huge chalk Jesus, copied from John Bolton's 'Prester John' artwork in Warrior. It was the best drwaing ever drawn in that school, and the teacher let it stay up for a week (there were two boards), although he never mentioned it once.

Aged 7 or 8, myself and Wayne Twigg found ourselves under a bench in his dad's greenhouse with his dad's rude magazine. Never having seen a nude lady before, we were both rather taken aback by our first sight of an adult lady's spreadeagled flaps. "It looks like a horrible-looking blancmange" cried Wayne, visibly shocked.
Much as I've tried, I've never been able to get this connection out of my head.

Jon Fennell got sent out of history - can't remember why. What I DO remember is that moments later, the classroom door crashed open and Jon burst in 'riding' an industrial floor waxer, 'revving' the handlebars and shouting 'VHRUMMM! VHRUMMM!'.

I don't think I've ever felt more love for another man than at that moment.

A code-word signifying that it is time for the boys in the back row to take off their blazers, drape them across their laps and masturbate.
There appeared to be no aspect of competition, and I'm not sure whether they realised that they weren't fooling anyone.

Insult derived from the use of bleach on underwear to remove skid marks. "You've been bleaching again, you dirty bleacher!"

In fairness, I'd rather be accused of bleaching the skids out of my kex than leaving them there to form gold watches. Better still, I suppose, would be to go through school entirely skid free. I can dream, can't I?

A pair of breasts so outstanding that you feel compelled to say "blimey".

Readers! Can you spot anything slightly wrong with this story? Try!
At my school, which was a school for the blind, we played football inside a fenced off area. Occassionaly the ball would go over the fence and as we were all blind we couldn't see where it had landed. To get round that problem, one of us would stay inside the fenced area and the other nine would go to the opposite side as directed by the bloke inside the fence. We would all then lie in a line and roll around on the floor until one of us found the ball. (Or some dog poo).

The reliance by some teachers on the Monty Python Déja Vu sketch theory that repetition of something that isn't funny (especially nicknames for students) follows a sort of sine wave of funniness. The 3rd, 7th, and 11th time you say something will be funny, albeit in an exasperating kind of way, no matter what. This does NOT work. However, the repetition of something that irritates a teacher will get steadily funnier with each repetition. This isn't fair, but really, teachers shouldn't even try.

A game of genuine bravery. Wait until the teacher's back is turned, then stand up, with your eyes closed, sticking two fingers up. The longer you dared do it, the cooler you were. If they teacher discovered you, then you could almost plead ignorance - you had your eyes closed, so you didn't know your fingers were up. Sort of thing.

An exercise designed so that pupils could understand the pain and suffering that blind people go through every day.

What it actually did was give people a perfect excuse to stumble around aimlessly and break things ("but I'm blind, miss") and savagely wield the provided white sticks in the playground, leading to an awesome clacking sound that could be heard several miles away.

The finest moment came when one pupil was led around the school blindfolded by his or her 'carer'. I certainly understood the pain and suffering felt by blind people, especially after I got pushed down a small flight of stairs and hit my head on the radiator.

I feel I now have a better understand of the blinds. Thanks, school.

1) shit in sink
2) fill sink with bottles of Quink
3) send unimportant child to inform caretaker that someone's filled the sink with ink
4) assume casual-looking stance by urinals along with mates
5) attempt not to giggle
6) caretaker arrives, and attempts to unplug sink WITHOUT GLOVES
7) bingo - blue poo!
8) oh yeah, run.

Me and Tony Jenkins were sliding down the old grassy slope known as "Ballas Hill". It was called that because it was made up of the ballast from the ships which had visited Llanelli to take on coal from the local collieries.

[log]That's very interesting but you've called your story Bloodshot Buttocks, and when you've got a title that magnificent it behooves you to get on with it. I'm a busy man and I demand my bloodshot buttocks.[/log]
We were using bits of corrugated iron we had found as sleds, and we were going higher and higher up the hill to gain more speed each time.

On what would turn out to be the last run of the day, I was in the lead - but I fell off my sheet after hitting a bump. Tony came down after me, slid over my sheet, and screamed.

Skimming over my sheet had had an effect on his buttocks not unlike taking a large ham slicer to them. He lost two large round chunks of buttock muscle, and his bum ended up looking like two bloodshot eyes staring out of his shorts.

[log]Is Tony Jenkins reading this? Can we have a look at your buttocks please? We tried looking you up on Facebook but we just got some sex pest from Kentucky[/log]

In year four we heard that someone in year five at another school gave blowjobs to boys if they went to her house. The only snag was you weren't allowed to be seen walking down her street at all. Ever. You had to duck past all the ornamental redbrick walls at the bottom of the garden as scream 'blowjob' at her house and she would come out and give you a blowjob. The flaws in this were never spotted.

Step 1: Take a biro, and remove the innards, leaving the plastic casing alone. Step 2: Nick an exercise book or two from the poorly-guarder stock cupboard. Step 3: Tear off small pieces, and soak in (your) mouth to form a ball. Step 4: Jam into the casing, and blow out of the narrow end at pretty high velocity. Step 5: Fire at will.

If curiosity beat your common sense, and you showed an interest in finding out where the blue goldfish was, your head would be flushed in the toilet. However, at least you now know where the blue goldfish is, and you can teach other people.

In what, with hindsight, can now be seen as a cry for help from a very lonely boy, Pavandeep started pinching people's phones and 'bluetoothing' the pictures and videos of them going out and having fun to his own phone, so he could show his parents and pretend that he was there.

There was a time when exclusion didn't involve technology. I remember it well - Conor

"Have you ever touched a BMW?" If you answer no, then it means you are too poor to have touched a BMW. If you answer yes, then it shall be revealed that BMW stands for Black Man's Willy. Hilarity, as ever, would ensue.

BMX boys have a lot of fun,
sticking their handlbars up their bum.
This is true.

A bizarre quasi-religious cult movement founded by several people in my year following the discovery of a mocked-up pub sign beneath the stage in the Hall. It was presumably a piece of scenery from a pantomime. The Boar's Head was protected jealously, and its status as a sign from God was akin to that of the Ark of the Covenant. I think it was believed that any army which carried the Boar's Head before it was invincible, so numbers of the converted swelled. A rival faction claiming to be the 'anti-Boar's head' made an appearance at one point, but it was not popular.

I last saw the Boar's Head in an industrial dustbin when they shut the school down. I would have rescued it for posterity, had it not been covered in garbage and rotting food.

In Year 8 we spent a few months playing the dangerous but irresistable game of Bob Baiting. Unpopular ginger-haired lonely psycho bully Bob Sheldon used to eat his lunch solo in the classroom every day. We would enter the room in a big group with a raincoat and a school tie, sneak up behind Bob, throw the raincoat over his head and quickly tie it tight around his neck with the tie (this in itself was a dangerous activity but David Harvey was nimble and stupid enough to give it a go most lunchtimes).

Bob would rise from his desk, scattering books and sandwiches, and start lumbering blindly around the room in search of his antagonists. We would all run around the room, taunting Bob, hitting and slapping Bob, dodging Bob, yelling out "Wobert got no fwiends", until someone's nerve broke and we would all make for the exit door. At this point, the trick was to SHUT THE LAST GUY IN.

The climax of the game came as we would hold the door shut from outside the room, listening while the victim trapped inside would vainly rattle the handle until Bob located and beat the living shit out of him. I never suffered this fate myself, but I was there the day that Alan Israel got locked in, and Bob broke his nose by smashing his face against the wall. This resulted in a high-level headmaster's inquiry and the eventual demise of Bob Baiting as a regular sport.

Another Bob detail: Bob had an unpleasant spitty laugh, a sort of "spllpllscchchchschschhh" that would spray his unfortunate interlocutors with saliva and bits of chewed sandwich.

I used to imitate this laugh when Bob wasn't around, so well that I'd get requests, and a new Bob-baiting game took off: run up to Bob, go "spllpllschschschschch" in his face, then sprint off.

Bob cornered me one afternoon and informed me that the development of this new sport was my responsibility, and he darkly warned me that for every kid who ran up to him and did the spitty laugh, Bob would give me a "dead leg". And so for the entire rest of that fucking year and well on into the next, I lived in constant fear of Bob stampeding out of nowhere and kneeing me in the thigh.

Bob is now a barrister.

I spent most of my time as a four-year-old trying to prise the rocket out of the backpack of the Boba Fett Star Wars action figure. I was sure that, once the rocket was detached, Boba Fett's backpack would open up new worlds of entertainment.

Boba Fett's rocket was not detachable. There was no entertainment to be had in his backpack. I'm sure there's a valuable life lesson to be learned in this somewhere, but I can't detach the damned rocket to find out what it is.

Shouting "Bobby Lookup" was guaranteed to cause Bobby to look up and then, incensed, run around vainly trying to identify the perpetrator. As Bobby was thick as pig shit, there was a lot of looking up and fruitless running around.

Growing up in New York State , U. S. A. , a version of " spaz/retarded/fag " , etc. , was " Bocie "...I'm sure that it came from BOCES , the acronym for N. Y. State's " special " education department ( Um...Something Something Something Educational Services . ) . My version of it is , of course , phoenetic , and , may well be subject to variations !!!!!!!!! I do not know if NYS's equivalent department goes by that name now , this is some decades agone ... While I guess that this site is more British-oriented , the whole English-speaking world is your oyster , correct ??????? And , I'll assume that you're familiar with the American " spaz/retard " , etc. , referred to above...

Printers of school books. Possibly also a medical complaint, where your head turns into a body. Aged 11, I wrote my first swear word duet, and this is it.
Log : Fuck a shit head.
Paul : Who?
Log : Bodley Head!

A lighthearted game involving one football, one toilet, and as many boys as can be squeezed into the toilet. The ball's owner places the ball into the urinal and proceeds to piss all over it.

Once the pissing operation is complete, he kicks the ball as hard as possible at someone's chest. At this point, utter mayhem breaks out. This continues for the entire break time, or until a teacher comes in to see what all the fuss is about.

Participants in the game can be later distinguised by the collection of little yellow 'medals' proudly displayed on their previously clean white shirts. A true badge of honour.

Like butterflys only made of bogies. These symmetrical creatures are found in freshly used tissues and hankies and in colours ranging from yellow to green and the rare red variety. Also in an all-too-common transparent variation.

Ask this question; "Do you look at the bog roll after you've had a dump?" Yes, the quizzee is a "scummy dinnerstabber" or a "dirty gaylord" or even worse, a "knobjocky", who enjoyed nothing more than looking at shit. No, then how the hell do they know their arse is clean, the filthy fucker? Escape through excess "yes, and I lick it off for supper" (not to be tried if you aren't all that popular), or by lying "no, we're so rich that we get butlers to come and look at our toilet roll for us". Or, by simply avoiding the question altogether, and running away.

The mythical practice of sticking a victim's head down a toliet and flushing. Essentially a story of what happens in big school passed down by older siblings. As with all urban myths, it always happened to a friend of a friend. Or Americans. It happens all the time in America.

Rats used in biology dissection lessons came (dead) from a scientific supplies store in sealed plastic bags, hence the name "boil in the bag rats".
Rat's penises are remarkably similar to a grain of white rice. As this lesson was just before lunch it seemed the natural thing to do was to remove the organ and flick it into the rice salad in the canteen.

What sort of teacher would advertise an art competition with posters that could so easily be "improved"? (It was Mr Taylor.)

Take care never to mention that the word bollocks "trips lightly off the tongue." It is unlikely you will be able to swear this way again for the rest of your school career, perhaps your whole life.

A popular chant in the UK during the Falklands Conflict, the last war which everyone seemed to think was OK, because the only casualty was Simon Weston’s face. The chant is accompanied by stamping of feet and banging on the walls, a sign of clear impatience that the Argentinians weren’t being bombed enough.

Humorous alteration of sole Japanese schoolkid Eitaro Komakini's surname, to reflect events in Hiroshima in 1945.
Undeniably racist but justified given his tendency to refer to himself as 'Rad Komaz'and the fact that he thought Five Star were 'really wicked'.

A quaint game played in the primary 5 swimming pool changing rooms.
Greg would put both legs through his swimming goggles and then pull them up to his waist, where they nestled just above his winky. This would miraculously make the face of a wizened old man (wearing goggles, of course) who had a long nose (about the length of a 9 year old's winky) and a wrinkly chin. Greg would then dance around the changing room as the rest of the class would sing a rousing chorus of
Boh-oh-ong-go JIM!
And his peppery penGUIN!".
I have to confess to being at a loss as where a peppery penguin came into the equation.

Rumors that Greg made one of the girls kiss bongo jim on the nose are unconfirmed. Ooh la la!

Legend has it that a pupil at our school long before I was there had once left a nice steaming 'chocolate log' on the bonnet of a teacher's car after receiving a detention. During my stint there were many overheard threats of 'giving that bastard a bonnet log' after a bollocking. To my knowledge though no threat was ever upheld. Pity.

(I wish Log had had this in his backlog rather than me. Now I have a mental picture of him in a nice easter hat with chicks all over it and daisies woven in his beard. Thanks. Susan.)

An invisible dog who lives in a long school corridor. Being prone to getting stepped on, Bonzo requires thirty to forty keepers, who will defend the wretched hound by kicking everyone who walks through the corridor with a cry of "mind the dog!"

Imaginary kidnappers who kidnap children in order to show them their boobs. The Boob Lady game was a popular one. We played it a lot.

At the start of physics, we "advised" the class spazmo Matt to spend the lesson in the cupboard, in case the "boogieman" came after him. Half way into the lesson he improvised, and burst out punching the air shouting "Come on Boogieman, I'll take you on". He got put in detention.

Perhaps the closest schools have ever got to convincing children that anything school-related is cool. After a number of predictive mistakes, the word "book" has temporarily replaced "cool". Anything met with appreciation - for a short time, I suspect - is now completely "book".
The temptation to include a Metro-style feature of "predictive text ambiguities I have noticed" is so strong, that it can only be a terrible idea. So I won't. Log "I damaged your ex"

A measurement of radioactivity emanating from a child's massive forehead. Named after a child with a big bottom lip, whose forehead was so massive that it would emit literally shitloads of boolams, requiring us to take the precautionary measure of slapping him across the face with a ruler.

Wholly innocent fun. No one gets hurt. One friend lies on his back, legs hunched up. Another friend sits on his feet, one buttock per foot. Friend catapults sitting friend to the best of his ability, saying "boost". Flying friend replies "morale!" upon landing. This isn't funny at all, is it? But it makes me smile so, Mr Sir!

What to say when someone is wearing a hooded item of clothing and the hood is rapidly and forcefully pulled down over their head, the victims sworn duty after that was to find himself a victim of his own, thus it was spread, quite like AIDS actually....

You're boss! That means I think you're great. So we would snap our fingers to Aztec Camera's Somewhere in my Heart on the radio, and agree that 'that song was boss', too. And Bruce Springsteen - how boss was the Boss?
Let me stop you there. Recent surveys have shown that Bruce Springsteen was, in fact, a Bent Over Sheep Shagger. Moreover, he's the bent-over sheep shagger, having pipped everyone else to the number one spot in a gruelling week-long animal shagathon.
He prefers the bent-over position, because he likes to feel the freshly shorn wool against his tummy, and this also allows another sheep to mount him, as he plays lucky Pierre in a raunchy ovine three-way.
Be careful when accepting this compliment, especially when it's preceded by "a", "the", or "my".

Not sure about the spelling as this phrase has probably never been written down, and I've certainly no idea of the etymology. However, you attain a Boss Fugel when a turd touches the bottom of the bowl while it's still coming out of your bum hole.

German for ambassador. Also the letter "G" is pronounced "gay" in German. Harry Enfield wasn't just pandering to popular Nazi stereotypes. The evidence is everywhere.

When I was seven, an English kid joined my class midway through the school year. His name was Guy. A nice kid who looked like an albino bush baby. I am an American person, and as such I am circumsized, as were the other boys in my class. Why Americans mutilate their cods, I have no idea, but we do.
One day during recess, all the boys in class went for a squirt behind the trees. Guy took his uncircumized weenus out and someone screamed, "He's got a bottle dick!" So we beat him. Sorry, Guy.
Readers: Was there an American boy in your class with a 'mutilated cod'? Did he walk around, thinking that there was absolutely nothing wrong with having a 'circumsized weenus', even though he wasn't Jewish - nor did he have some kind of life-threatening medical condition which made him piss upwards into his kidneys, hence the need for his parents to cut half of his knob off and keep it in a jar for keepsake?
What did you call him? Perhaps it was "Crayola cock" or something. For example.

After a P.E. teacher mispronounced Boucher (Bow-chuh) in a poncesome French Bou-Shay stylee, poor Boucher received constant stick for his vicarious pretention. He even corrected the teacher; that didn't stop up us putting our fingers to our noses and saying "My name's Bou-Shay, I am the Prince of Wales."

The only thing you can convincingly change the letters of Huxley to, should you know a boy called Huxley who compulsively writes his own name on everything. You can then insist on calling him Boxlex for the remainder of his life. Alternatively, steal the pencils, change the names, and then say "these aren't your pencils, they appear to belong to a boy called Boxlex. Since there are no Boxlex's here, I think I shall use them." Then, you can chew them for half an hour and give them back. I didn't actually do this, but I wish I had.

Joey Deacon, the Alpha. John's Not Mad, the Omega.
But there was a third person to whom we turned during the 80's to take the piss out of, through fear and dread. Thanks to Desmond Wilcox's 'The Visit' programme, we were introduced to the third member of this holy trinity in 1980:
David Lopez a.k.a. 'The Boy David'.
It was important that it was pointed out in the title that he WAS a boy; when first discovered by a holidaying plastic surgeon, he had no more than a big hole in his face with two eyes on top. To eat, he sucked lollipops between his tongue and the base of his brain - a process which could be mimicked by slapping food into a friend's face and shouting "NNNNNGGGGGGG... DAVID LOPEZ!!"
Here is a picture of David Lopez today, after more than 100 operations. On the right, note the moderately attractive woman taking the piss.
[picture: boydavid.jpg]

What you did was, you sneaked up behind someone and, with one hand over your mouth, held the other over the person's head and counted silently to yourself. If and when the person noticed, they had to cover their own mouth, whereupon you would shout "[Victim's name] has [whatever number you had managed to count to, or alternatively a completely made up number] boyfriends!"

There was a variation where you held two crooked fingers over your mouth, and your victim had to do the same, and woe betide them if they got it mixed up... Woe betide indeed.

Great trick if your most hated teacher is called Mr Boyle, who is a fat, sweaty, balding german teacher with no sense of humour, like ours was. Set up a kettle in your room (oh, it has to be a boarding school). Upon seeing Mr. Boyle approaching, switch the kettle on, and lean out of the window, yelling 'Boyle, you bastard!' Then duck out of the way before the fat fucker could see you. When Boyle came waddling in, red faced, to investigate, the shouting would continue in such a way that when Boyle entered the room it would appear you were cursing the kettle for its poor performance. Whoever came up with this, I salute you.

Shithole power station in which geography students were invited to attend for a week's school holiday (pikey kids went to the Outdoor Pursuits Centre). The week's activities generally involved walking the streets and questioning frightened old ladies about delta plains and longshore drift, walking along the beach throwing sharp stones at each other, and for those of us who didn't go out on the town at night, developing a scary proficiency for table tennis in the dingy little cellar.

Sleeping was frowned upon, as anyone who so much as closed their eyes for longer than a few seconds had their eyebrows shaved or lots of shaving foam spunked on their forehead. There was always someone who'd drop off first, usually Roger, and he'd usually end up going apeshit mental when we tried to put a banana in his mouth, crazy scamps that we were.

I'm pretty sure every school in South East Anglia had to endure the torture of Bradwell power station at some time in their life, unless you took pissy History and spent all day looking at Mr Newton's gay little drawings on the blackboard.

At Great Portland Street, which was a school for the blind, which is where I went because my eyes are shit, I discovered that you could press down some of the Braille dots on the hymn books.

The name of the school was written on the front cover of the books, and by removing the lower left dot of the P, and the two lower dots on the O of Portland, hundreds of blind children looked aghast as they fingers told them they were attending Great Fartland Street.

Not the rudest thing in the world, but just thought you'd like to know there's a lighter side to perpetual darkness.

To be worthy of "brassneck" was to have been embarassed to an extreme degree, such as thinking that the members of Adam's Ants were "Marco Merrick (one man), Terry Lee, Garry Tibbs and your Julie". Yes.

Opposite of "make friends". A remarkably civil ceremony that all friendly interaction shall cease, performed with a sharp, single, handshake. You may, at any time, "make friends" again, for instance, if you want to borrow a rubber, with this rhyme; "Make friends, make friends, never never break friends. If you do, you'll catch the 'flu, and that will be the end of you." Warning; this is childish.

Whilst waiting for 'bedtime' at our boarding school we would practice our breakdancing skills. Nothing strange there, except that we were dressed in paisley patterned viyella pyjamas, dressing gowns and corduroy slippers and 'performing' on a carpet covered floor. Cool!

When breaking in to your school during the holidays, in order to steal, deface the headmasters office and generally add some excitement to another muggy summers day in a quiet market town - remember to cover your tracks.
Whatever you do, do not bury your swag of multi-coloured marker pens in the school ground under some leaves. Not underground - under a few fucking leaves.
I would also advise that you don't write your name all over the boxes in multi coloured felt-tip, in order to test them out.
When the stash was found, and the police were called, it was lucky they had Sherlock fucking Holmes on their team. It didn't take him long to figure out the culprit, and I was consigned to three days suspension, which let me catch up on some serious Let's Go Maths!.

My primary school had a lesbian for a headteacher, who was seeing the deputy headteacher, also a lesbian. Another teacher, Paul 'Pogo' Patterson was gay, and used to frequent local gay club Ruby's. Whether this club existed or not, I have yet to figure out.

I shit you not.

Brenton Stanton smelled, and he had a head the same shape as a small bucket; but he never cried if he fell over. He had a brother called Royson who also smelled but who grew up to father four children who didn't. Despite his strange name no one picked on him because he had a real leather football and his father looked like Ian Brady.

Surname sounds like a Cockney pronunciation of the worst word. Saying "Brian" before "Cunt" therefore affords you some protection from punishment. Although you should rightfully get punched for talking like a Cockney.

Put someone you know's name on the front of this highly amusing song. For this example, I have used the name Richard. It is sung to the tune of Knick-Knack Paddy-Whack. "Richard's gay, Richard's gay, Richard's name is Brian May" Works equally well with Darren Day (my own variant).

Brian became a man of legend while we were on a school trip, and he deciced to moon another group of boys across the hall. He dropped his trousers, bent over and we all saw an inexplicably hairy arse and bulging scrotum.
Far from receiving the hero's cheer that would normally meet such an act of derring-do, we edged away from him, and couldn't meet his eyes for the rest of the day.
Why would it be hairy? Why would that happen? Hair on the arse would just get... covered in shit... why would the body do that?

Pointless re-extension of "brill" to make it just as long as the originally abbreviated word, "brilliant". To say that your new Big Trak is "Brillo Pads" reeks of privilege - you're asking for it, mister.

Ill-advised and all-too-camp exclamation by Mr Brown, obviously not content with having such an ordinary name. It became brilly burgers for at least 5 years.

A game so rampantly ubiquitous and with outcomes so predictably unhilarious that it deserves no further mention on a website tagged with the unofficial catchphrase "hilarity ensued".
For the Bulldog obsessed, we offer this humour-free alternative, which not only demonstrates just how unsuitable the subject is for the Law of the Playground, but also how much better we are at this sort of thing than they are. I mean, honestly.

By far the most amusing use of a punctured football is to form it into a bowl shape, place it on your head and strut round the playground, hilariously pretending to be bald.

A female poor person who lives in a caravan and wears the same clothes every day. Possibly derived from Neighbour's Bronwyn, who was actually very nice looking.

Mr. Wells was the owner of a truly vile pair of shit brown trousers. Unusually good natured mockery included the line "Those brown slacks are the business, sir!". This soon evolved into the chant of "Brown Slacks Binnif, The Binnif That You Asked For!". Sung in a hip hop style and accompanied by vague breakdancing actions.

Can only be done by lads too tough to be worried about retribution. Involved sticking your finger up your arse asking someone naive to "smell my finger" then wiping a brown stosh across their top lip.

The noise the whole class made when our form tutor Mrs Negus entered the classroom. The noise was (of course) the sound of her vibrators, of which rumour had it, she had a drawer full.

One of a near-infinite number of jokes based on the name Bruce Lee. Others include Bruce Tee (What kicks you in the face and holds your golf balls?), Bruce Me (What punches you in the stomach then walks away?), Bruce Pea (What mastered the one-inch-punch and is traditionally served with fish and chips?), and the slightly avant-garde Spruce Tree. See also scooby poo, wee-man and the masters of the pooniverse, and knowing wee, knowing poo.

An unexpected continuance of a bundy, or an uncle vesta, after a couple of moments to let everything cool down. The attack is resumed in an identical style, but instead of crying the name of the actual attack, you cry "brucie bonus", as the victim is very lucky to receive this extra salvo of pain.

Approximate French translation of “BURRRRN!”. Used when someone is insulted en français, as here:

Madame: Deuce, qu’est-ce que Père Noël va te donner pour Noël?
Deuce: Une voiture.
Madame: Ha. Bon chance.
Jacques: BRULÉ!!

Also useful when, during a project on French cooking, Charles actually does burn himself on a bowl of hot shrimp.

An expression of delight or surprise that originated with Andy Bain's impression of a 1970s funky wah-wah guitar, of the sort that would accompany Dirty Harry in a rooftop chase of bad guys.

In an attempt to engineer a bit of Beano-style slapstick, I filled a bucket of water and rested it on top of the Biology classroom doorframe - and sat back to await the arrival of Mr Blissett.
Unfortunately, things quickly went awry on Mr Blissett's arrival, as instead of seeing him drenched, class 3G bore witness to him being knocked out by a full bucket of water falling but not tipping, cracking his forehead open on the floor as he crumpled under the weight. The water handily spilled from the bucket so as to wash up the blood from the spouting wound in his forehead, and I earned a one week suspension.
Fortunately, Blissett was back at work a week later with only his sense of humour badly damaged.

Asian children will be greeted with this phrase, because all their fathers are bus conductors and this is what they say as the bus pulls away. Tomfoolery on the bus will be met with a harsh "bud bud ding ding, get off my bus please". Jim Davidson will confirm these facts.

Where the loneliest and most desperate children gathered, and a beacon to bullies all over the playground. The buddy stop was a 6-foot tall imitation bus stop sign; the idea was that if you had no friends to play with you would stand at the buddy stop. We were encouraged in assemblies to ask the children at the buddy stop to come and join in our games.
This encouragement was roundly ignored. If you played near it, the teachers would come over and point out the lonely children and make you ask them to join in. Hence a large area of permanent emptiness formed around the buddy stop, and after a while, no children, no matter how friendless, would ever go near it.
Seeing the unused buddy stop, the teachers probably congratulated themselves on running a school with no friendless pupils. As usual, they were as wrong as I don't know what.

The arrival in the 80s of the bigassed doll "My Buddy", with a catchy ad jingle ("My Buddy and Meeeeee!"), was surely bad news for any Asian classmates, who, according to TV comedians, said "bud bud" all the time, although, come to think of it, we never heard them say this at all. I wonder...

A childhood game in the vain of so many others but allowing for a malicious streak. The person who was on or it or whatever would have to tag someone else to get them to be on. All he had to do was catch you, so long as you weren't touching home. If you were, you were completely safe. Thing is, only so many people could be on home at once and as soon as a new person arrived at the 'home' (accompanied by a tumultuos cheer of "budge!") the person who had been there the longest would have to leave. Sounds easy! We got seriously into this and ended up with rules such as "no budging someone else until you've counted out loud to ten", "multiple homes where you only got one person per home and so you could choose your victim to budge and make 'homeless'" and "multiple budge where every time you shouted budge after joining the 'home' you could make someone else leave - and in this way, if too over excited, you could actually budge yourself." The game also came accompanied with beatings for people who never left a 'home' if at all possible, beatings for people who were "it" who used to ignore everyone until the person who had made them "it" was "budged" and just general beatings for being a twat. Like the boy who insisted that the steps were home and there was no limit, so we all sat on the steps for the entire break period and watched him run around the playground laughing at himself. Sigh.

Strange trousers worn by the poorer kids at school, which showed a few inches of sock (and if you were lucky, some flesh) between their shoes and the bottom of said trousers. They were flying at half-mast; hence the phrase “Has your budgie died?”

As the true meaning of the word "bugger" bacame known, the phrase "bugger me" (also "fuck me") became somewhat dangerous. The responses vary.
Unsophisticated : Eur, no thanks.
Revolted : Eur, you fucking queer.
Precocious : I'll wait until after PE, when you've loosened up.
Camp Camaraderie : Ooh, ducky pops.

The pleasurable experience of sitting in another man's lap and bouncing up and down a bit, combined with the pleasurable experience of having another man sit one's lap and bouncing up and down a bit.. multiplied by as many people as fit in the room (or, in our case, across the room, down the corridor and, on one particularly memorable occasion, halfway up the stairs to the first floor).
In no way homosexual, homoerotic, or anything other than lots of straight boys having an innocent non-sexual bumming session.

A bad thing to admit to liking, especially if you are a teacher, as in this (true) snippet of an upper sixth lesson. Mr Wymbs: "You should always try everything in life." Pupil: "I think I'll give buggery a miss sir!" Mr Wymbs: "Oh, I don't know.." Cue silence.

An enormous deposit left in the boys loo, no doubt by one of the builders working at the school at the time. Upon discovery every boy in the class would ask to go to the toilet in turn and return with a huge grin on their face. The teacher, on wondering what was so interesting in the boys loos went to investigate and was lumbered with the job of trying to flush the offending item.

TV advert jingle composed in a music lesson by school musical geniuses Tim Marlowe, Alex Tigh and metal type Andy Gibblin. It went as follows. Singer A: Do you like bulbous beans? Singer B: Yes, I like bulbous beans. Singers A+B: So come along and get some bulbous beans! Cue jazz bongo drum solo, which continued until the teacher stopped it. A sublime and oft copied music moment.

The two most laddish lads in our year were Alastair and Mark (whose surnames I can't bring myself to reveal as I'm still a bit scared of them - old lynchings die hard). Both, in keeping with the times, wore those heavy lineny shirts, their ties as small as possible and with as much tucked in between their shirt buttons as possible, one gold earring, school trousers generously cut with many a dart at the waistband, and Kickers. You get the picture. Both were (looking back) suspiciously well-coiffed; Alastair with his blonde, rock-hard flat-top à la Bros, and Mark with the tight spiral perm he sported for much of the fifth form and lower sixth (perhaps, with hindsight, an indicator of things to come). They were inseperable.
To be clear: they weren't from the pikey/charver/radgie school of bullies - no, those were confined to the B stream and mainly restricted their murderous attacks to unfortunates from own kind. Alastair and Mark were the middle class type of bully, whose style of misery-infliction was made infinitely worse by their middling intelligence, which allowed them to systematically destroy the self-esteem of their chosen victims in a way that others deemed hilariously funny, and even their victims came to believe themselves rightful targets of what was usually a heady and unpredictable combination of evil hilarity and utter disdain.
As is not unusual between the ages of 13 and 17, their favourite targets for vilification were anyone deemed to be a 'hom'. For these unfortunates they reserved their worst and most sustained mental bullying campaigns. There are some, guilty of nothing more than being good at art, whose lives were made an utter misery, and who still live in the shadow of being made to feel like so much shit on this gruesome twosome's shoes.

Which makes their current state of complete gayness all the more startling.
There are those who will say, quite rightly, that the signs were always there - the hair, the earrings, the inseperability, the protesting waaaay too much about suspected gayers. But at the time it was completely inconceivable that they might be secret bum-chums. They went out with half the female population of our year. They were always getting sucked off in French or on the back seat of the coach. They were, in short, horrible, chauvenist, unreconstructed 80s spivs.
News of their subsequent volte-face came about via FriendsReunited, and rarely has an entire ex-school community been so awestruck. There was anger, there were tears, there is laughter still.
But one has to wonder: did they really know all along, in which case their treatment of other woofters, real or imagined, is all the more unforgiveable, or did they discover their prediliction for bum-love only in later years? Will schadenfreude intervene and cause them to be vilified as they vilified others? Will they discover an activist streak and become vocal protestors for gay rights? And when exactly did they first exchange sex wee*?
* Got to be the ski trip. It all makes sense now.

In biology, we were given bulls' eyes to dissect. Obviously this was an important lesson for anyone who was looking for a career in bovine opthalmology. For the rest of us, we were happy to discover that the stuff at the back (presumably optic nerves and shit) was very sticky. This meant that by the time the teacher got back from break, there were twenty bulls' eyes stuck to the blackboard glaring down at her.

The 'bully box' was a small, square box mounted on a wall in our school reception. The idea was that you put the name of whoever was bullying you in there, and the teachers can then deal with the problem without you having to go public with your grassing.
There are obvious flaws with this; the anonymity means that there is no proof of any misdemeanour, and the system is clearly open to abuse by reporting innocent people. But by far the biggest flaw is that the box has never ever been opened.
My theory is that it has become a kind of Pandora's Box, and if it is ever opened, all the dead arms in the entire world will be released at once.

In 1991 - We had this kid in Essex who was squinty-eyed. Proper boss-eyed kid, poor fellow. Anyway it became the "in" thing to call him "Cyclops" while putting your hand to your forehead and wiggling the fingers (like a pseudo third-eye) and moaning "cyyyyyclopppps" like a retard. He hung himself. That is dark. Oh yeah. And another kid inhaled a fire extinguisher to look hard and he died too. All in one week. No joke. I’m serious. Also we put three teachers into mental homes by abusing them. This was a Roman Catholic School.

The school bullying policy was quickly defaced to:
BUMMING/RAPIST INCIDENTS:
We do not want bumming of any form at Arnold Hill School.
If you are being bummed, or know about bumming or rapist incidents, then speak to someone in school and/or fill in an incident form.
This would probably be a more efficient policy, but was never enforced; the school was full of bummers, and three out of four in my year went on to become successful rapists.

Label given to any two boys at school who would be called best friends if only they were girls. The suggestion that two boys who were on good terms and spent time together were in fact homosexual was a terrifying prospect at this time of life and prohibited many people from developing any close friendships until the phrase passed into obscurity. In the third year.

During my youth, I had the honour of attending the same primary school as the son of a certain TV chef (first person to name and shame the chef gets £5 - these people must NOT go unpunished - Log). One morning, our headmaster stood up in front of the entire school assembly and told us about what he regarded as extremely crude and immature behaviour. A group of boys had been found lined up behind one of the buildings, facing the wall, with one of the boys sniffing the arse of each boy one by one. This club had been founded by the aforementioned son of the TV chef, and he had proudly named it The Bum Sniffers Club. They had membership badges. Our headmaster decided that it was time to prevent any further homosexual development in the boys by telling the entire school of what he though of that kind of behaviour. One girl laughed so hard she pissed herself.

This is a new game at our school which involves getting as much sweat from your ass and sack as possible and randomly rubbing it in one of your mates faces.

A game with no winners, only losers. - Matt

The orange tubes on bunsen burners. We didn't give it this name. It said, quite clearly, on the side of a box full of them, 'bum tubing'.

In 30 years I've never known anyone other than those who went to St. Michaels Primary School who sang this. Prove me wrong: "Bum Tit Tit! Bum Tit Tit! Turn the hairy handle now" "Bum Tit Tit! Bum Tit Tit! Hear the willy orchestra"

The act of grabbing the victims ankles and dragging them across the school playground while they struggle and scream. If you drag using the trouser legs alone, you can pull the pants down enough to cause bumdrag on actual cheeks, which is like an elevation to godhood.

During very dull english lessons when reading very gritty books or plays simply swap every letter beginning with s for shit, c for cunt, b for bastard etc. etc. Simple, but with some amusing results. For instance, "Journey's End" by R C Sherrif is a dark insight into the life and death of first world war trench warfare. As demonstrated with such lines as "don't shit on that bastard, it is Osbourne's cunt"

Whether someone was a bummer or not could easily be divined from the pitch and timbre of their farts. A tight, peachy squit meant you were fine, whereas a resonant, guttural blotch implied that your sphincter had been loosened from undue bumming.

Bummer Daniels was the name of Keighley's premier homosexual. At least, that's what we were told anyway. Threats like "Watch out - Bummer Daniels' About" and "Your dad is Bummer Daniels" were frequently banded around by bigger boys hell bent on causing terror in the asexual under-9's.

A game invented by Richard King in primary school, exclusively played on the climbing frame.
It was kind of like conventional 'it', but instead of tagging your victim you had to simulate bumming them.
Obviously I never took part, I just watched. Rumours that I played to county standard are unfounded.

1. Quick, efficient way to embarrass. Randomly accuse the victim of 'bumming' an object in the vicinity. For example... "What's the matter Dytchy? you bumming yer bag?", when in fact I was just trying to fasten the zip. I was just trying to fasten the zip!

A variation on standard bumming procedure. The two bummers in this case stand back to back, then both bend forward a little to create the bumming y. This seems to be based on the misconception that you can bum someone's bum, using only your bum. Or that bumming is the application of your bum to anything (including other bums), and not sticking a dick up one. Charming, but naive.

Gayness, like vampirism, is spread through intimate contact. Therefore, if you approached the Bumming Bushes at the far end of the playing field you were, literally, asking for it.
Hidden in those bushes were anything from one to five naked men who would bum any boy who came too near. They would drag him into the bushes and bum him until he liked it and thereafter he, in turn, would bum others and so on...
A brave group of boys once stormed the bushes and found no naked men but they did find a few lolly sticks an empty can and some string. This was all the evidence needed to confirm that some victim had been tied up and bummed with such vigour that a refreshment break had been necessary.
As the legend grew bolder the naked men were given names. There was Ram Bottom - the leader, Captain Kinky, Big Billy Bendy Bollocks and two others who always wore masks but were thought to be Mr Ellis (Geography) and the old man who swept up in the market and who had been caught masturbating in a public convenience.

A game that involved folding your arms in front of you and running at each other. Fun when you are 6; excitingly dangerous when you are 14, as it becomes possible for a flying wedge of boys to launch the fat kid three feet in the air backwards across a corridor crossroads.
This was seen by a teacher, who said 'now that was silly, wasn't it?' to the fat kid as he groaned on the floor, ignoring the obviously guilty group of boys standing not ten feet away with their arms nonchalantly folded.

The favourite half-bullying attack of Arnold Hill Comprehensive, derived from mass killer Ted Bundy. Accompanied by the battle cry of "ooww, Bundy...", the elbow was raised above the head and brought down on the victim, as the assailant launched themselves wholesale into the attack. It didn't hurt all that much, but it was very entertaining to watch, so the victim got no sympathy. A crowd pleaser - encores often requested. It isn't a bundy if the attacker's feet don't leave the ground during the blow. They may cry "bundy" but they are wrong.

A place in Germany where all the unperformed bundies (qv) are kept, waiting patiently to be delivered.

Maths teacher who developed the controversial but effective teaching method of grabbing kids by the throat and pinning them to the wall until they gave her the right answer.
Often resulting in panicked trial and error and a stream of steadily less discernable numbers.

The act of burping in to your cupped hands and releasing the finger seal with a simultaneous blow of the stench in the direction of your mate, or victim. I am the world champion.

A two-player game, each player would face each other about twenty feet apart. The game would start with the first player to swing his imaginary racket. He would then emit a loud burp when the racket made contact with imaginary ball.
The game was won in two ways, either one player would hit an Ace (a burp so loud that it would bring him close to vomiting, much to the applause of the audience) or would run out of burps.

A combination of a squat thrust and a star jump that contains the word burp, which is a funny word because belching is funny.

Around the age of seven, when me and my friends first started getting noticeable (and pleasurable) erections we used to lie on our fronts in the field and see if we could make a hole in the ground with our willies. We never succeeded, although you could cheat with a finger or a stick.

Prone to getting shot with air rifles. Ours was practicing his golf swing on the school field, and ran about 50 yards before falling over in shock. My mate got suspended, and wasn't allowed to shoot anyone else.

A small village in Nottinghamshire, which has the same initials as "Blow Job", and thus allows Nottingham High School for Girls students to tell each other what they got up to with their boyfriends last night without actually having to mention the dirty deed.
As in "I went to Burton Joyce with Nick last night". Can be reversed - Joyce Burton - to describe cunnilingus, for the experimenting lezzers there.

A hobby less exciting and dynamic than train spotting. Peter and Kenneth had notebooks packed with bus registration numbers which they'd show us if we feigned interest for a fraction of a second.
How Kenneth got into bus spotting was actually a charming story. "I remember seeing a book bus outside my window when I was five and it was all painted and I just started liking busses". Aw.

When the double decker hired for a school trip makes a sharp left, all boys on the top deck must hurl themselves violently towards the right hand side of the bus, in order to tip it over. Afterwards everyone must agree that they got the wheels off the road that time.

This was the nickname for one of our french teachers after the character used to advertise BT at the time. The rumour spread like wildfire through the school that Miss Jones had been spotted giving a 6th former a blowjob in a telephone box.