browsing the letter h

#1 in the lies of Troy Hawkins series.
Troy's hacking powers were legendary. He hacked into the UN mainframe computer, and sent 800 tanks to Egypt. However, his actions were traced, and he was fined fifty million pounds, which would have financially crippled most schoolchildren. Troy, however, was lucky in that respect, as his father invented Windows with Bill Gates. Bill Gates was more than happy to pay the bill, what with his good friend having invented Windows with him, and that.

A brief round-up of the hair options available to the child who considers themself special...
Toners
Suitable for Duran/Japan fans, these came in sachets, the contents of which you 'washed in'. They lasted for between zero and one washes and came in the following tones: 'Mahogony', 'Copper', 'Fox' and 'Creosote'.
Sun-In
Suitable for Wham fans, sprayed onto towel dry hair, it gave you that 'just been to Club Tropicana' look. At Club Tropicana not only are drinks free, but people have hair like hay, coloured in with yellow felt-tip pens.
Henna
Suitable for Goths with crusty leanings. Users normally stank of patchouli.
Spray-In Colour
Strictly for the mummy's boys who weren't allowed to do anything even semi-permanent to their hair, these came in ridiculous fluorescent colours and earned the user no respect whatsoever. Nobody likes a tourist, especially "wacky" fuckers who rinsed their hair in the sink at the end of the day, so they don't get told off at home.
Proper Permanent Hair Dye
Two colours - Black. Or Blue/black. Can you hear me calling, Mari-aaa-eee-aaa-eee-anne?

The result of lighting a Zippo near the back of the head of a girl in the full grip of eighties-style hairspray overdose mania. The resultant blaze usually horrifies the hair-arsonist to the point where he instinctively tries to beat it out with his hands, thus ensuring that the unfortunate girl gets concussed as well as burned.

The number rises if the haircut is particularly severe, or ridiculous. The most I have heard is Haircut 1000, which is somewhat reserved considering that children say 'gazillions' and 'babwillions' to mean anything more than 50.

The city in which puddingbowl lane is the high street. Based on the mid-80s advert on Anglia TV for Carpet City. A squeaky voiced squirrel-man-creature would ask "Mexico City? London City? New York City?" and the booming-voiced continuity dude would assert "No! It's Carpet City!"
Hang on a minute, wasn't this the other way around. Wasn't the continuity bloke lost, and the squirrel-man calmed him with the reassuring notion that he was, in fact, in Carpet City? The continuity man then went on to discuss the prices of carpets, which is odd to say that three seconds ago he didn't even know where he was. I don't think he was ever lost at all.

Michael's mum cut his hair into a long page-boy style some time in the late 70's. We would take turns sneaking up behind him with scissors and cut a big chunk out of the perfect hair to the rally of hair cut! His mum would then cut it again to even it up. Within a matter of weeks he was a skinhead. Bullying with scissors was great if he started to lose it you could wave them in his face and he would quickly back down. This was a valuable introduction to weaponry. NEVER run with them though.

Said instead of 'Hello' as you approach someone who has had a particularly noticeable haircut. Only really funny when a whole group of people hear and understand, and the unwitting recipient just dumbly replies 'Alright, mate'.

A bonus branch of mathematics not generally taught in most A Level courses. To be taught this topic, simply write "HAIRY BALLS THEOREM" on the blackboard before the teacher enters, and as they wearily start to rub it out, insist firmly that Hairy Balls Theorem is all you wish to learn.

A large brown birthmark on Simon Pickard's wrist that grew frighteningly luxurious thick black hair.
To send him into a screaming eppy, you simply asked Simon the time. Then, when he looked at his black plastic Casio, you would tell him you meant the time on his 'hairy' watch.
I'm sure he hoped the game would die out in secondary school as we all matured, but instead, having started French lessons, the wording simply changed to 'No, what's the time au naturelle?'

If anyone is queer and gay enough to ask you what time it was (the stinking pooves), the proper response was to look at your bare wrist and inform the aforementioned cock-fairy that it was,
Half past the monkey's ass, and a Quarter to his balls.
Honestly, where do these gaymosexuals get off?

"Put some jam on your trainers and invite your trousers down for tea" Insult for someone whose trousers are too short.

What followed was the most wonderfully-timed fart by, otherwise spoddy, Ross Laidler in assembly. Had me in tears, and also proved to be one of the most pungent in school history causing a first year girl to be sick into her hands.

An arbitrary standard of quality devised by Phil to assess peoples technology projects. As in if it doesn't withstand being battered with a huge mallet then it was obviously a piece of crap anyway. In retrospect this may be a slightly unfair test of ply-wood and dowling strength. Note that passing the test did not exempt you from further retestings.

A person sitting in a chair is thrown into the air. Now, this is pretty dangerous, so everyone observing this should help out by shouting "Doooom!" This game will be stopped with an assembly when Phil Taylor goes through the ceiling.

Hold out your palm and tell someone that you have a three inch man standing there. Ask them to tap the man on the head. Then ask them to shake his little hand. Then ask them to close their eyes and poke the man up his little arse. At this point you quickly place your pursed lips where the man's arse would be, so your friend sticks his finger in your puckered, wet arsemouth.
At this point, your friend will probably open their eyes, as they weren't expecting the little invisible man to have a tangibly wet anus. You will be looking up to see their reaction, pretty much like a dog. It's difficult to know who's in the most undignified position, really.

The practise of gobbing, flobbing, or grollying, on to the inside of the roof of the bikesheds, to see who could get the longest "hanger". The length of time it remained suspended meant extra kudos. A kid called Terry Nugent was the undisputed champion, because his invariably contained blood. Which is probably why you don't see Player's No. 10 much anymore...

A penis, A penis, The greatest thing which I posess, I thank The Lord that I am blessed, With more than my share of a pe-e-nis.

An immaculately organised competition in which all fourth year boys (and one terrifying girl) were compelled to enter on pain of being called gay. The contest had a proper draw, seedings and a complex system of sidebets and alleged match fixing. The early rounds went off relatively quickly, with the wimps tending to run away and hide when it was anounced they would be fighting the likes of second-seeded "Bozzer". Like me, for example. However, Gaz Davis refused to accept the meek surrender of little Steve Brown, and the school was treated to a Keystone Cops style chase of competitors and "judges" round the playground as Gaz repeatedly kicked the retreating Brown up the arse until he reached the safety of the cloakrooms. Many of the fights were held with the minimum of fuss, often round the side of the science block where it was virtually guaranteed that there would be no adult intervention and there wouldn't be a huge crowd. In fact, there would be just the competitors, their "seconds" and a couple of "official observers" to ensure foul play. It was just like a duel, only with Doc Martens. However, as we reached the last four, bravado got the better of the competitors and the American Paul vs "Jailbird" Tommy rumble went off right in the middle of the playground in front of an audience of hundreds. This was our undoing. The Head broke it up, but not before Paul took a right kicking in the head from Tommy which left him with a broken nose and two swollen eyes - there was blood everywhere, the police were called, and the entire school was kept indoors for a week. There was no winner after the police got involved in the wake of that particularly vicious semi-final. However, no-one was going to argue that Jailbird Tommy was the default winner. Sean Allsop, who ran the book on the affair, called all bets off and kept the money, sharing half with Tommy to ensure his survival. The event's passing was marked by our head's famous morning assembly address "If this is the law of the jungle, then I'm King Kong", which the fat sod never lived down.

It was a sad time when TV personality Russel Harty died from a heart attack. However, as our friend suffered from a heart condition, we cultivated a game we called 'Harty', which largely involved sneaking up on our weak-hearted friend and trying to shock him into having a heart attack. He generally survived.

A flippant remark, used to embellish the humour of someone falling or tripping over. Except by Martin Bradshaw, who used it as a war cry as he bayoneted Gareth Gurd's left roller-skate with a javelin pole.

Child A: Have you ever been caught... secretly sniffing your mother's underpants?
Child B: Yes. (rarely said)
or
Child B: No.
Child A: You must be good at it then.
Replace sniffing your mother's underpants with sticking a dildo up your arse or sucking a dog's cock to taste.

Oh, yes, thank you. Ge*rdi* Bo* submitted this one, and it made me remember that I was actually bullied, before I had a "spurt" which sent me to 6 foot at 13. I really thought I'd been popular all my life, and irresistably loveable, when in fact, for a substantial part of my life, I was just an obnoxious jumped-up shit. James Pates was my bully's name! He punched me in the face, and I was too stupid or stubborn to realise I was walking around with blood pouring out of my nose! The year after, I kneed him in the bollocks and then spent the next month convinced I was going to go to prison!

At assembly, we used to sing the song 'He's got the whole world in his hands'. This would infuriate the piano player, who would slam the piano lid shut and scream "it's HAND, damn it, he's got the whole world in his HAND". Which obviously invited the question "well what's he doing with the other one, miss?".
I think she just hated plurals, because she went even more mental when she did the same thing to Would you cross over the other side, if someone called for aid.

Exceptionally large holdalls manufactured by Head were briefly fashionable in the late 1980s and early 1990s. From their "classic" look - a base blue colour with red lettering - the bags became so popular that they started making pink ones for girls and fluorescent ones for wankers.

The inside of a Head bag was so vast that nobody could hope to fill it with legitimate school supplies, but was the perfect size for us to incarcerate any first year pupil who happened to own one of the bags. A twist of a paperclip would lock the zip, and a good kicking would be applied for luck. After lunch it was common to see at least one squirming mound of lurid PVC in the middle of the playground.

The headmaster of my school, for reasons known only to himself, agreed to appear on a local radio phone-in one Sunday evening. Word had got around, so much so that almost the entire program was taken up of items like this:

Host: Our next caller is a Mr. Madeupname, of Kenilworth. Mr Madeupname do you have a question for Mr. Strover?
Caller: Fu... *cut off*
Host: Oh, that's just silly. Our next caller is a Mr. Obvious Pseudonym from Warwick. Mr Pseudonym?
Caller: Bas.. *cut off*

And repeat.

The only pupil who managed to get through was some utter keeno who had a real, and indescribably dull, question to do with school funding.

At the tender age of 11 several guys in my year decided that I was shagging the headmistress and so taunted me accordingly. I tried pointing out that if it were true then I had developed much more rapidly than them and subsequently should be looked up to. I got punched.

When a stray rugby ball is kicked towards an unwitting victim, it is considered good manners to shout "Heads!" to warn them. The natural response, rather than covering the head, is to look up towards the oncoming missile, resulting in a comical face/ball interaction and many tears.

Matt, who kicked for the first 15, had honed his skills to the point where he could place a ball into a crowd with unerring accuracy. He also perfected the timing of the cry of "Heads!" so that people would look up at the exact moment of impact.

The practice of putting one's bag on the floor in the chemistry or biology labs, generally anywhere where there is potential danger. Someone would then be required to do a comedy trip over said bag whilst screaming "health hazard" in an attempt to get the bag removed. Practice was stopped when one comedy faller knocked loads of test tubes over and fell on them, cutting his hands to ribbons.

Another way of capitalising on the embarrassment of your victim. Whenever they lose an argument, get angry, or are otherwise shamed, simply hold your hands to their sizzling face and sing Glenn Frey's The Heat Is On. The repetetive lyrics were perfect for this kind of bullying;
Oh-wo-ho, oh-wo-ho
(Tell me can you feel it)
(Tell me can you feel it)
(Tell me can you feel it)
The heat is on, the heat is on,
the heat is on, the heat is on.
Oh it's on the street, the heat is - on.
If the victim gets even more upset, reassure him by singing that "ridicule is nothing to be scared of".

Coined by the headteacher, who found it incredibly difficult to actually engage the pupils in conversation. When walking into a room and being confronted by pupils behaving suspiciously, he uttered 'It smells hot in here' and exited the room. Was adopted by the pupils to determine temperature in the absence of, or in spite of the presence of, a thermometer.

A variation on beats. A comb, usually plastic, would be heated with a lighter and then combed through the victims hair, who would have a burnt scalp and crappy lumps of melted plastic stuck in his hair.

Me and Jamie Hepworth would put our forheads together and stare untill the other persons eyeballs started to bleed together, so it looks like one eye. At this magical moment we would shout the word "Hebrew" at the tops of our voices.

Garden hopping to some. Had a Grand National which lasted over a mile and took retribution on posh kids in big detatched houses. Climbing each fence and hedge was exhausting especially with grown men occassionally in pursuit. Always liked the water hazzards as difficult to see them on other side of fence. Mate broke his leg when he fell into one and, unlike war films, we did leave him, it was better that way. There was also a flat course called the Derby over rows of terraced housing back yards that a competing school used but clearly missed the point of both amusement and class action.

An early example of viral marketing. The people behind Hedgehog crisps, it was rumoured, used real hedgehogs to flavour their snacks. The age-old "well they do taste like chicken when cooked" excuse can be used when sampling a bag of the roast chicken crisps, though this will not get you very far when attempting to explain the distinct lack of hedgehog flavour in the salt and vinegar variety.

Our headmaster, Mr. King, was a keen naturalist, and used to give assemblies using his little Sylvanian Families hedgehogs. He had the whole family. He made them speak. He did all the voices. I think he was mad. Or a paedophile. Or both.

Possibly the first game I ever played. It is named after the noise made when an unsuspecting child puts cellophane packing up their nose, but hasn't learnt to breathe through their mouth yet. In fact, that's exactly what it is. Can be used as punishment for having new shoes.

The telling of a short story in which the final words will have an amusing double meaning. Original example: A man saw a boy sitting on a wall licking his maths kit. He asked his mum what he was doing and she said "Oh, that's just my son - Helix Protractors!". Most convoluted example involved a boy named Spag, who wouldn't play a game correctly. His friend petitioned him to "be a sport, Spag." At this point the storyteller will point to someone's sports bag, which has the words "SPORTS BAG" on it.

Harmless long-term infuriating fun. A greeting towards anyone with a colour-based surname, but more specifically, to Keith Brown. The full format is "Hello Brown, you're looking very (pick colour of the day, ie Maroon) today." After around a year, the colours will become more elaborate (coffee infused taupe), if you wish to avoid repeating yourself. Not being really insulting, this usually elicits a wise and world-weary sigh, which was insufferable enough to make you want to do it again the next day.

Hello Jack! How's your back?
Havent seen you for ears and ears!
But I still nose ya!
Are you still collecting stamps?
I'm still collecting balls!
Whilst reciting these words, deal a very hard slap on the back, twist both ear, pull his nose, stamp on his feet, and finally kick him in the balls.
Your victim will stand still during this entire charade, waiting patiently to tell you his name isn't Jack, and that you're severely assaulting the wrong person.

Mr. Tucker was an excellent teacher, he did kung-fu moves around the science lab and waved his hands through flame-on bunsen burners. Which is why I can't figure out why he made the whole science class say as one, in dodgy accents, "Hello, my name is Lucky and I'm from Africa". Poor Lucky never made any friends.

A song from the playgrounds of Barnsley.

Hello Pakistani,
Does your mother have a fanny?,
Does it smell,
Fucking hell!

Barnsley, incidentally, is stinking full of smelly, shitty white kids who look black, but that's just muck.

Inform a pal they have something on the back of their shoe. when they twist round and kick their leg upwards behind them to see, give 'em a "ooh, hello sailor!"

I still do this.

What not to say when making a prank phone call to a teacher, and your name is Paul Allen.

The end of a black man's cock.

Feel good college kids are always at intersections collecting money for cancer research. They have signs that say: "Help kids with cancer".
Feign disgust at the ambiguity, and say "What? You want to help kids using cancer? What the hell kind of sick fucks are you? Just going around, giving kids cancer? Jesus Fuck, man, you're as bad as the "AIDS Cures Fags" bastards! You want to go to the funeral of some kid who died from leukaemia with a banner reading "LIAM TAYLOR - FIVE DAYS IN HELL, ETERNITY TO GO"? You FUCKS!"

It was considered 'gay' to touch the arse of a girl (or boy) when I was a youngster, because gayness meant a fondness of bumholes to us ten year olds. It was much later that we learned that heterosexual anal sex was most certainly not gay. If it was, then my wife's newfound love of the exhaust pipe would make me more of a homo than a sickening composite of Quentin Crisp's lips with Graham Norton's hair.
Alternatively, you hetero back-sporkers are just closet homos, and simply aren't MAN enough to admit that they are sur l'autre autobus. Always stick with your first answer, faggot. - Mansh

The phrase yelled excitedly by our classmate Ivan as he strolled, er... proudly... through the changing room after PE, his full erection sticking up and outwards inside his underpants but mercifully not popping out over the top.
We were about 15 at the time, so presumably it wasn't his first ever stiffy. It was a testament to his immense popularity in our year that getting a stonk-on in a changing room full of half-naked lads, announcing the fact, and then showing it to all and sundry, didn't get him tormented, physically or verbally, to death in the remaining 3 years of high school.

Kid #1: "Say 'hi' to your knee."
Kid #2: "Hi, knee."
Kid #1: "You just said "Heiney!"
This is funny because heiney is a totally inoffensive word for ass. As innocuous as tricking someone into saying "table salt".

This was emblazoned across every single one of a batch of new rulers that arrived one day, confirming what we already knew - that our school purchased all of its equipment from a distant third world country. For 5p.

Before it was demolished and a brand new music centre was built, the music lessons at Marling School were held in a shit building, called Grafton House.
One room in Grafton House that contained only a comfortable chair. A spectacular design feature of this room was that the door could only be opened from the outside.
So, rumours flew around that this room was where the music teacher kept his stash of mind-blowing pornography. If you thought you had seen sex, then this pornography would put you right, by blowing your mind.
The imaginations of normal children in this situation stretches to a writhing black shape, with a compelling question mark on top. So once a child had become so curious as to go inside, he would be locked inside, forever*, with only a comfortable chair to sit on, and his imagination to wank with.
*Not forever.

The emotional highs of thinking you are winning a highly competitive game of hide & seek can be shattered into terrible lows when you realise that nobody had any intention of ever looking for you, and you have just spent an hour in dusty cupboard whilst they are all outside playing touch football.
Bless.

A friend (who should usually be in a completely different lesson, so that there is no-one missing from the class) would hide in a cupboard until the lesson was 5 minutes in, then start making loud cow mooing noises. When the teacher eventually found where he was, he should just get up and run out. Bizarre, really. This was the same person who at 15 hacked into the school computer network, and put a very basic, (4 picture), movie of someone performing oral sex on there, so that it would appear as soon as someone logged on to the PC. And he could fart at will. Genius.

This unesteemed sixth form college was attended by myself, and the mass murdering Doctor Harold Shipman (and a few others whose names I forget). He was sensationally responsible for the deaths of hundreds of women patients over a period of many years - I am not.

We had a lad called Dave Hill at school. We'd often try and 'recreate' the disaster by getting him worked up about it then squashing him against the wall. All in the best of taste of course...

Every town has one: the long haired biker type with the Leyland van who was 'going out with' the stunning blonde in your third year class.
Can be goaded into action by applying mud to his windows or by shoving fireworks through his letterbox.

For our GCSE History, all classes only ever studied three time periods: the Russian Revolution, the rise of the Nazis, and strangely enough, the Conserative Government of Lord Balfour, 1901 - 1903. Anyways, the textbook used for the rise of the Nazis was passed from year to year, and on the very first page was a picture of Adolf Hitler as a baby. And of course, there was not a single copy of the book that didn't have a little Hitler moustache drawn on the baby. Even the girls felt compelled to do it. I think showing that picture to the voting German public in the 30s could have prevented the rise of Fascism.

History : the remarkably preserved remains of Tollund Man did not initiate the holocaust.
English Literature : Shylock did not greet his friends with a hearty "Seig Heil".
Maths : x rarely equals Hitler.
Wayne Radford, I salute your efforts to address the impact of Hitler in modern society, but I genuinely feel your grades may have suffered because of it.

Came about as a result of a game our teacher made us play in the classroom during a rainy day. In it one of us would go up to the front of the class and mime an occupation and we would have to guess what that person's job was. One boy, Jonathan Perera, enthusiastically marched up to the front, placed his index finger of his right hand below his nose, his left hand straight up in the air and began to goose-step around the room much to the bemusement of the teacher. A girl near the front put up her hand and suggested, "John Cleese?" Jonathan gleefully responded, "No, Hitler." Our teacher was obviously not impressed and said that she had been hoping that it would be John Cleese as well, and sent Jonathan outside, into the rain. I should have pointed out that neither "John Cleese" nor "Hitler" is an occupation.

As ugly as a hobgoblin? Fat? Love giving head? Then this is the word for you.

A good spit, either noun or verb. Probably onomatopoeic. Hockling was very popular in the autumn term of 1983, resulting in a playground slick with 'hockle', and stern assembly warnings.

Depressive, antisocial, cynical, self-harming and anti-establishment, Holloway hated everything and everyone, almost as much as he hated himself. He was considered extremely cool, and I was sort of in his circle, by virtue of him despising me slightly less than he despised the rest of humanity. His coolness peaked when he didn't make his A Levels because he missed the bus. It began to fizzle out when he failed a suicide attempt, and took a job in the public sector.

Whn Sam Underhill started going out with a girl called Holly, we all wrote "Holly Is A Slag" on every available surface, piece of paper, computer screen, etc. until they broke up. This happened around the time that she received someone's daubed homework through the post that had been rejected by the teacher, with a note attached asking her to re-do it as it was her fault for being such a slag.

Conan-Doyle's unfortunate but amusing way of saying that Sherlock Holmes said something. To be uttered with sudden loudness during a dreary reading in English class.

Anita would wank off boys for fifty pence in a disused bus shelter close to the edge of the school playing fields. She turned no-one away as she was saving for a bike. Martin Ross, clearly destined for a career as an officer and a gentleman, became so excited in the queue that he wanked himself off - yet still insisted on handing over his fifty pence.

When in 1st year in secondary school an (entirely unfounded) rumour spread like wildfire that someone in a different class had been caught wanking with a hoover. The poor bastard had the whole school running up and shouting 'HOOOOOOOVER!' and 'VROOOOOOOOOOOO!' in his face, whilst mimicking the movement of hoover to genitals. This not only forced him to leave the school, but move to an entirely different TOWN. His name? Jeremy Dyson.
Not really.

Christian puppet who toured Westcountry primary school assemblies in a suitcase carried by a variety of human "hosts", most notably a portly woman named Dawn. Every year, Horace would emergy sleepily from the suitcase and crack the same joke about thinking he was at a zoo, on account of all the monkeys present. He and Dawn would then play a version of Biblical hangman, and it was customary for Dawn to pack Horace away, pretending to shut his legs in the suitcase as she did so. It was about this time I stopped attending Sunday School.

Mr Rose had a problem with his erection. More specifically, his problem was that he couldn’t stop having erections in class. When he turned from writing on the blackboard, you were on a fifty-fifty that there'd be a captivating tumescence nudging at the zip of his baggy flares.

Had it been any other year, with any other pop chart, he might have been nicknamed "Purple Strain" or "The Jefferson Penis Experience". But this was 1983, and Haysi Fantayzee dominated the airwaves with "John Wayne Is Big Leggy".

You're stuck with the tools God gives you. Hence, "Horny Rose is Big Loggy".

I dumped my girlfriend, and she kept following my round saying 'but why Chris, why did we break up?'. After about four days of this I turned to her in a crowded corridor and shouted "We didn't 'break up'! I dumped you! And I did it because you got on my TITS! Now how d'ya like THEM apples?" It spread like wildfire. Within two days I even heard a teacher say it. And then, suddenly, it was gone. I don't know why I said it, or where I got it from, but my fifteen minutes of fame were over.

Question asked of me every day of my entire school career by my head of year, Joe Maguire. Later in life, I did a stint as a teacher, and did my PGCE year at my old school, giving me the opportunity to say "Well, I got your job."

In the long lost valley of the arses,
by the sign of the Swinging Tit,
There Hu-Flung-Dung was murdered,
by his brother Hu-Flung-Shit.
This was printed on a bus stop outside our school. My big brother's mate conceived her first child in that bus stop. Awwww!

The traditional "one in every school" practice of getting a Henry Hoover to give you a blow job is always opening yourself up for a good year of ridicule. If your name is Hugo Grubb, however...

Spencer Ashley brings in a fake, homemade bomb before a Spanish lesson consisting of a shitload of blutack, the face of an alarm clock, and some straggly, multi-coloured wires which he places under the desk of our teacher, Graham "Sweetie" Underhill.

We hide under our desks in readiness for Sweetie's arrival. And the depressingly predictable scene unfolds -

Spencer Ashley: There's a bomb under your desk!
Sweetie: Don't be so bloody stupid.

Sweetie kicks shoebox across room.

Not a particularly amusing story at all, unless one considers the vague, one-percent-at-best possibility that Sweetie just might - JUST MIGHT - have been wrong about this definitely not being an explosive device.

The cry of The Bumblers. Basically, The Bumblers spoke in a high, loud voice and said "Hulla Mulla" a lot. Sadly, they weren't characters in a children's story. They - or rather, he - went to my school.

In the science lab, there are plenty of artefacts to put into the fattest boys bag. (This isn't anti-fat, but common sense. People who weigh 29 stone are less likely to notice a few bunsen burners in their bag) If done in the last period, there is every chance he will take them home with him. Hopefully, we will empty his bag in front of his mum. When she sees all the cut up and gutless frogs, she will assume that he stopped at a pond on the way home, and feasted on the wildlife.

A particularly successful way to gently persuade your teacher onto a course of Prozac. It doesn't work if everyone does it; and for best effect it needs to either come from a couple of different directions, or from a different source each time. Advantageous in that there is no outward sign of the hummer, rendering them unpunishable. Needless to say they would cease should the teacher approach, at which point the hum would be taken up by another entrepreneurial soul on the other side of the room, head bent studiously over their long division (or whatever it was... sorry, Mr. McNally, but with that name, and at 5'2" you were asking for it. As was your car, to be fair.)

One of our physics teachers was called Humphrey Payne, and for some reason, his Christian name became a source of enormous amusement for the whole school. In one physics lesson, determined to irritate Humphrey, Sean Reuben put his hand up and said "Can I tell a joke sir?" and then proceeded to tell a joke which began with the feed line: "What do you call a camel with three humps?". Payne, incensed, turned a bright shade of red and ordered Sean to get out of the class. Sean feigned innocence beautifully, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth so Payne chased him madly out of the room. Once Sean was outside, Humphrey slammed the door so hard that the security glass in the door shattered. The rest of the class at this point sat in shocked silence.
We erupted into uncontrollable laughter when Sean popped his round the door a few seconds later and with a look of angelic innocence and supposed helpfulness on his face, pointed out to Humphrey, "Sir, I think the glass in the door just broke."

More specifically, hymn books placed upright on the chair in front, in line with the arse crack, just before the kid sits down at the end of the song in assembly. Many a comically hurt look when they turned round.

While shepherds washed their cocks by night,
While watching BBC
The angel of the Lord came down
And switched to ITV

Like cellar door, jism or flange: one of those words that rolls so sweetly off the tongue that you say it again and again and again, up until the moment when you introduce yourself as "Mr David Hysterectomy" to the drama teacher, and she runs out of the room.
Girls cry at anything!