browsing the letter i

A club to which new or stupid pupils were told it was desirable to belong to. Membership was obtained by standing on one of the wooden benches which marked the boundary between boys and girls recreation areas and shouting 'I am a cunt!'
Your status within the club was determined by the number of shouts achieved. For instance a 25-cunter obviously outranked a 12-cunter. The shouts had to be audible to a panel of judges who stood at a safe distance.
Iain Grant's claim to be a hundred-cunter was dismissed as it was achieved outside school hours. If a teacher was on playground duty each shout counted as a shout and a half for scoring purposes.
The highest verified status was Mark Jeffries' 43-cunter and the lowest was for a shout of 'I am' followed by a punch in the stomach.
Rival clubs, such as 'I am a Bastard' and the boundary-stretching 'I am a fucking cunt' never really caught on.

A song to the tune of Matt Bianco's cover of "Yeah Yeah".
I am a mongol, and i run around town,
and people hit me on my water filled crown,
it took me two months just to do up my tie,
I had an option to do it or die,
I say uuuurr uuuurrr.
John Connors was asked to sing it in assembly as the english teacher thought it was called "I am a Moron". Connors was put in detention and had to write a letter of apology to Mrs Ware who had a down syndrome child and had run out of assembly crying. This all seemed rather unfair.

It was a commonly held belief in my school that all robots moved their arms like Hazel O'Connor in 'Breaking Glass' and went around saying 'I am a robot' in Dalek voices and did nothing else. This bore no relation to the two (non-fictional) robots anyone had seen: 'Bigtrak' a kind of tank thing that fetched apples for your dad and shot the dog, and Hero 1, essentially a robot arm on top of a radio controlled car. Unless you count Twiki of course, he was real.

During a Humanities lesson, our teacher was astonished (and completely terrified) by the sight of Dennis bursting into the room with a hammer from woodwork and wearing a crudely fashioned paper beard. He announced: "I am Sutcliffe!", did a twisty dance, and ran from the room. Where Dennis had come up with this piece of theatre is anybody's guess but he had many a detention to mull over his behaviour. But, try as they might, they couldn't break the would-be serial killer, and he signed my shirt "the youkshire ripper fan-club" on the last day of school. I hope he doesn't drive a lorry now!

Kid A: What's the ninth letter of the alphabet?
Kid B (pause while fingers are counted on): I
Kid A: What colour is the sky?
Kid B: Blue
Kid A: What's the opposite of on?
Kid B: Off
Kid A: Euuuurrrrr! You blew off!
You blew off! Hey everyone, [Kid A] just said "I blew off"! This works best if you run around doing it to as many people as you can, because it's only a matter of time before everyone has heard it. And if that doesn't happen, there's only a brief period in your life when you will be childish enough for it to be funny.

My primary school's old assistant head told us at assembly once:
"If someone makes fun of you for not having the latest fashionable gear or a brand new bike or something, just tell them you can't afford it - that'll shut them up."
Even aged about 7, we knew that was a really fucking bad idea.

Classic reply to the belligerent "what are you staring at?"
Also consider, "dunno, the label's dropped off", "dunno, but it's staring back", and "a cunt".

The mantra of one, evidently peace-loving gentleman at my school.
The only confusion arose from his body language - the fact his olive branch was offered to an unaggressive child, whom he was punching again and again in the face, made it all seem just a touch more psychotic than everyday violence.

The brilliantly misguided defense used by a contemptible shit in my year by the name of Ben Wilbur, when encircled by a group of 12-year olds, doubtless virgins themselves, mocking him for not ever getting his oats.
He was roundly hated before he revealed he'd spaffed in his sister, but after that bullying efforts were trebled on the irritating twat (he used to get in your face and make a noise like Snarf out of the Thundercars, the cunt), culminating in the most astonishing display of mass youthful brutality I've ever seen, nay, been party to. To win some friends, he climbed onto the school roof one lunchtime to retrieve a football. Seeing him up there, prancing round like a cock, made some sort of collective tolerance get breached, and suddenly the hapless wank was bombarded with rocks – even the fucking prefects were joining in, loner girls who'd never been heard to speak were fucking pelting the git and baying for blood. Mad, sad, and a little frightening. The whole school got bollocked immediately after lunch in the only emergency assembly we'd ever had, with Ben getting carted off in an ambulace.

At the age of eight, we managed to convince pikey Sophie James that having an orgasm was a terrible thing, by admonishing "Don't have an orgasm, Sophie" every time she showed the slightest hint of excitement. After about the millionth time, the phrase would set her off into a monumental tantrum: she'd screech, stamp her feet, bellow "I HAVEN'T HAD AN ORGASM!", and run off to cry in the toilets.
Fifteen years later, I can't help wondering if she still does this when her boyfriend asks her "Did you come, dear?"

Disproportionate retort to a perfectly reasonable statement. For example:

"Hey Andrea, have you got a red pen I can borrow?"
"No, sorry."
"Well then, I hope your firstborn is a cripple."

If anyone from Killy High has since given birth to a crippled child, I accept no responsibility for it.

See What You Say Is What You Are.

During primary school Christmas dinner in the mid-to-late 80's, it was customary to announce "I now have the honour of eating a potato" in a Margaret Thatcher voice before stuffing an entire hot roast potato into our mouths. We would maintan an expression of pained satisfaction as steam shot out from our ears.

If you are of the lower castes, and a higher ranking child says this to you with his hand outstretched and welcoming, run. Run away.
The best you can expect is a crushing handshake.
But it's rarely a lone wolf attack - to risk approaching someone as unpopular as you, there's usually going to be a bigger payoff. Chances are you'll be held in place while others come to laugh at the fact you dared to want or expect friendship. Often, there is violence.
Finally, the crowd will be overjoyed if the injustice causes you to howl "you liiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeed" before losing conscousness. They know they lied. That was the whole point. No wonder you get picked on.

If there's one thing school children should be congratulated for, it's coming up with blue lyrics for the songs in the hit parade, often mere seconds after the release of the tune.

Back in the heady days of 1993 Ace of Base released "The Sign" which was transmogrified into "Your Mom"; the words to which are:
I saw Your Mom,
She opened up her legs and said 'come on'.
Life is demanding,
When you're doing it on the landing.

Brilliant, I'm sure you'd agree. Obviously you couldn't let someone sing this to you unpunished which led to someone coming up with the blocker song, "Your Dad", which replaced the fist two lines with:
I saw Your Dad,
He opened up his legs and said 'not bad'.

This, in turn, was blocked by the fact being pointed out that having your opponent's dad opening his legs on the landing and appraising you for sexy purposes was pretty fucking gay anyway.

Alternate lyrics of Kylie's debut single, which summarised the plotlines in Neighbours of the time, and added a rubber ducky.
I should be so lucky with my rubber ducky
Strangle Mrs Mangle today
Daphnes had a baby
Called it little Jamie
Bouncers gone a bouncing away.
Then the second verse, which lost its way somewhat...
Daphnes nearly Dying
Gails just arriving
Des doesn't know what to do
Mike's at college showing off his knowledge
Picking up a date or two

As a follow-up to a witty one liner, I intended this to mean "what I just said was excellent, I'll accept your money via credit card". My classmates, however, interpreted it as an admission that I liked to stick dildos up my bum.

A line from Nora in the A-Level English Literature study-favourite 'A Doll's House' by Frederik Ibsen.
"If only I dared go out. If only no one would come. If only I could be sure nothing would happen here in the meantime. Stuff and nonsense! No one will come. Only I mustn't think about it. I will brush my muff. What lovely, lovely gloves!"
At this point, discipline faded fast.
(Also consider "Ride you tonight, my lord?" from Macbeth)

Desk-writing poetry.

I woz ere
Ere I woz
Woz i ere?
Yes I woz

Affirming. My best friend Emily McQuade once filled in the space underneath with:

You are sad
Sad you are
Are you sad?
Yes you are

We liked to imagine the first-year who wrote the original poem seeing that, and crying.

The infamous statement made by the hottest girl in our entire school in front of all of my friends. Within five seconds my trousers were on the ground. Luckily she followed through, otherwise my all time greatest achievement could easily have been the most embarrasing moment of my life.

Based on the pubescent pop group 3T. Michael Jackson's nephews no less. Tito's sons? Probably.
Their one hit was "I'll Give You Love". Whenever the group performed this on stage, one of them would wear a large rucksack over one shoulder. Then, when he got to the emotional pinnacle of the song - the high bit - he would throw it down on stage in an aroused huff. Every time.

This original move led to an entire month at our school where every lesson we would all, in unison, start the lesson by screaming "I'll give you love" in high whiny voices then slamming our bags down on our desks.
It was in this way that I broke my cartridge pen. We were not a very cool school.

The cry uttered by me during a complex game of cops and robbers, where the criminal element was far more varied. "I'm a murderer!" "I'm a drug dealer!" etc.
For about a week after the incident, I couldn't sit near a girl without her crying out "Jon, stop trying to rape me!" and occasionally hitting me.
I'm not a rapist. Honest.
The Editors of Playground Law wish to let it be known that they do not endorse jo* j*m*s' claim not to be a rapist. If you have been raped by jo* j*m*s, please go to the police. Alternately, tell your story here, and we'll do our best to get him sent down for good.

Two kids had been caught fighting. Our headmaster made a big dramatic cautionary speech about it the next day, during which he got rather worked up, causing him to offer the following as his peroration: "So anyone who wants to fight in the future, fight me! I know the alley! I've fought in the alleys! I'm an alley cat!" These ludicrous threats was heard out in stunned silence, only to be much analysed and mused in the following days and months.

Meet Mr Graham Barnes, a physics teacher with an unnaturally high voice. We used to sit at the back of the class shouting 'Graham is gay', prompting him to one day reply with 'I'm not gay'. Naturally enough. From then on, any accusation of someone being gay was met with a barrage of high-pitched voices stating 'I'm not gay'. He once broke down in tears after we told him we had phoned Childline and said he touched us.

After a half-hour barrage of gay insults by the majority of our form, imagine our surprise when tiny Nick Jordan snapped and bellowed the above.
A brief silence followed out of respect and gratitude, before the barrage was resumed. And this time, we had truth on our side.

Which, when written on a piece of paper and read out by someone else, sounds quite funny. Technique tried and tested on The Day Today.

Presumably, you're smelling because you've shat yourself at the prospect of me telling. It rhymed.

I'm telling
you're smelling
you went to batman's wedding
you kissed him
you hugged him
and now you really love him
It's shit, but it's got batman in, so it's great.

What you say before you are old enough to know that it's your spasmojesticles (qv) that hurt when you get hit in them. Although being kicked in the willy might make your pipe hot for a bit.

The slightly confused announcement made in Year 8 by my friend Jon after he briefly pretended to shag a chain-link fence.

Another it-selecting rhyme:
'Ib dib dog shit,
Fucking bastard,
Dirty git
... (continue swearing) ...
You are not IT!'
After the third line, the lyrics were variable, and usually consisted of the picker reciting as many other swear words as they could think of until they ran out. The rhyme improved with the age of the rhymer, until eventually the selection process aspect of the rhyme was lost into a purposeless stream of filth.

Readers! What follows is strangely eerie and alarming, but it's impossible to put your finger on why. Judge for yourself.

If you put your bicycle upside down and turned the pedals, it was an ice cream making machine.
You could produce any flavour. Vanilla was popular, as was chocolate.
I still pretend to make ice cream this way as a 41 year old man, with my £1500 racing bike. My wife kindly agrees to collude with this conceit, pretending to consume and enjoy my wares. Even when, after she's finished her cornet, I pretend that it was made with poo (chocolate), wee (vanilla) or period (raspberry). I have even sold her a Neapolitan.

"If you put water in the freezer you get iced water. What do you get if you put ink in the freezer?" "Iced ink" "Yes, you do stink! Ha ha ha!"

A German song, featured in the Deutsch Heute book. Translated literally...

I am hungry, hungry, hungry,
I am hungry, hungry, hungry,
I am hungry, hungry, hungry,
I am thirsty.

Where is the food, food, food
Where is the food, food, food
Where is the food, food, food
Where is the sausage?

Hard to believe any race stereotyping themselves so effectively.

"What do you think this is lad? Some kind of... Idiot Park?"
A rubbish insult, but a wonderful image - Alton Towers for half wits. People queueing the wrong way. People buying do-nuts and hugging them, and suffocating in the plastic ponchos you buy for the water rides.
It still makes me smile 10 years on.

As good a name as any for someone who tries to light a cigarette between his knees.

A Midlands thing I think. Stands for "If Destroyed Still True". When you carve "Dan is gay" into his desk and follow it with this acronym, even if Dan spends 10 minutes scratching it out it is STILL TRUE.
You can also inscribe INDST so even if it is NOT destroyed it is STILL TRUE.
A second IDST can also protect the first IDST, in case someone destroys the IDST first, rendering the actual message destroyable. But that could result in an endless chain of IDSTs, which would be lunacy.

Possibly the funniest joke of all time. BEWARE - if you read this you may die laughing. You approach the unsuspecting victim with the usual 'Knock, Knock', 'Who's there?' 'Idunnop'. Try to keep a straight face as he unwittingly replies 'I done a poo'. Hilarity obviously ensues.

Conclusive proof that our french teacher was a homo: his name - Pete Binns - was an anagram of 'bent penis'.

Outrageous assertion by Andrew Bradley, in response to our constant barrage of crap questions. Suddenly, we began to wonder if he was as clever as he said he was.

See! You can't deny it, CAN you?

There was an emotional conditioning song at school: "If you're happy and you know it clap your hands." If you weren't happy (or were happy, but didn't know it), then technically you shouldn't clap, but if you didn't clap you got told off, so you learned to smile and join in and keep the dark thoughts for the bedroom. Anyway, me and Kevin Smith managed to sing "if you're happy and you know it crap your pants" many times, unnoticed, until it caught on and became the accepted chorus. Then, stiff disciplinary measures were taken.

One of the possible results of pushing a small and hitherto powerless child too far. The results can be positive, or catastrophic; the best case scenario is that the bully will step back, filled with a newfound respect. He will then proceed to befriend or ignore the victim. The worst case scenario is that the bully will simply beat the child up. The shock of the runt sticking up for himself will subside quickly when he is rolling around on the floor, clutching his sorry little bollocks.

Another way of choosing who's 'It'. As well as the more mundane 'Eenie Meenie Minie Mo', there was the one about Inky Pinky Lane, and the my personal favourite, illy dilly dog's willy.
Illy Dilly Dog's Willy
Inside Out
Press A Little Button
And the shit flies... OUT!

The theory that it's possible to avoid being bollocked for misbehaviour if it's so blatant that the teacher will be unable to believe it actually happened, or incapable of responding in a dignified and appropriate manner. For instance, a twenty minute tirade about "stringy chicken dicks" and "this woman, right, gets shagged by a horse" in response to reading Animal Farm (qv) will generally result in a feeble "that's enough now, Paul" Immunity in excess does not extend to those laughing, however, who will be punished with misdirected severity.

"In the jungle, with George and Bungle, and Zippy on the drums, Geoffrey swimmin', with naked wimmen, and showing off his bum..." It's a lovely scene, and an Edinburgh classic.

This was also sung as: In the jungle with Jeffery and Bungle, Zippy bit my foot (ow!) In the jungle with Jeffery and Bungle, Zippy bit my foot (ow!) I limp away, I limp away, I limp away... etc

In Kidderminster, nationally accepted standards for playground terms were circulated, mis-heard, and got wrong. Perhaps we'd heard the right version from some dusty-jacketed, worldly wise band of travelling schoolboys, and not understood their Queen's English.
Take jaffas, the well-known and logical word for boys who shoot blanks. We called them "jaspers". But we also called wasps Jaspers. It was a confusing time for impotent boys and wasps alike.
Similarly, skill - to us - was and American Bum Disease, even though an American Bum is a tramp, and African Bums are just funnier.
The Kidder version of the Rainbow "Lion Sleeps Tonight" song was;
In the Jungle with George and Bungle, Zippy on the drums.
Jeffrey farted, an earthquake started, and down the rocks they fell.
This is self-evidently a bit crap.
Most inaccurate versions of playground games can be traced to a national game of Chinese Whispers - when they passed through Kidderminster, and we got it really wrong.

After coming out as gay to some people, they will sometimes feel the urge, as part of a bonding process and demonstration of acceptance, to confide something back in you. This often consists of "I've thought about it myself", or "I've got a gay mate / brother / hat". One of my flatmates, however, came back with the revelation that he'd slept with his brother, which initially didn't bother me, until he elaborated that they'd done it recently, that his brother was around eight years older than him, that he'd enjoyed it, and that there nothing stopping him from doing it again. I still didn't really mind, as my laissez-faire morality saw that they weren't going to breed monsters, so they're not harming anyone. So, I kept quiet until my flatmate insisted that we should meet each other. Why that would have been appropriate, I cannot guess. Perhaps his brother had been complaining about how he never gets to shag anyone except the family, and fancied a change.
Well, fuck me if he didn't look like Bob Carolgees. My tolerance collapsed - it was all too much for me. Even my slack, slack morality couldn't tolerate shagging Bob Carolgees. I told everyone I knew, and felt immediately better for it. A secret shared is a secret halved - by the time I'd finished, the individual portions of secret were microscopic.
But no less sweet. It's not every day you get to betray a confidence so humiliating.

Using one of those black indelible markers we would get some kid (it worked better on blonde ones) and give him a 'Spanish' or 'Mexican' moustache, glasses, sideburns and, sometimes for good measure, we'd write 'fuck' on one cheek and 'cunt' on the other. If you went over it a couple of times it was almost impossible to erase for days. If the kid already wore glasses a variation was to colour in the lens.

As a six year old, I was blown away by the amazing film Indiana Jones: Raiders Of The Lost Ark.
At that age, I was oblivious to the stigma attached to Nazism, but was somehow subconciously affected by the film's sensitive portrayal of the Nazi war effort and the beautiful colours of their regalia.
The next week in class, we were asked to design a hot air balloon. My balloon was perfunctory, adorned with the usual childhood scribble. The picture was completed with a toothsome couple in leather jackets and milkbottle glasses, saluting to the people below.
Oh yes, and there was sign with a giant swastika on it, jutting out of the side of the basket.
I was really pleased with my effort. The teacher, however, was disgusted. And at the end of the year, when all our work was traditionally returned to us to take home to our proud parents, my nazi balloon masterpiece had mysteriously gone missing. My guess is it's either in my permanent record (providing a silent warning to employers that they have a potential Nazi sympathizer on their hands), or my teacher has it framed on her wall at home. In her secret Third Reich bondage dungeon. The filthy bitch.

My vote for the best Joey in the school was Paul Smith. Unlike his namesake in the fashion word, our Paul would wear a smeggy parker every day, even during summer and would walk around saying "indicator mash potato" whilst moving his arms in the same way as car windscreen wipers. No one ever knew why, or the correlation between why he was saying indicator when in fact his arms suggested windscreen wipers. Perhaps just that it rhymed with mash potato. He also used to hang around with bus drivers. This made him happy.

Ineffectual racism is crap, because it leaves you looking both morally repugnant AND bloody stupid.
Bullied to the point of "the rage" (q.v.) by a sikh boy, I decided in my desperation to retaliate by being racist, as I'd been told that this was "the very worst kind of all abuse".
Alas, my chick-pea eating, Greenham-common-supporting upbringing got in the way, and all I managed was a rather oblique comment about "things having a rather dark complexion."
He just looked a bit perplexed. However, he must have brooded about it nightly for a long time, because after not seeing him at all for four years, he suddenly approached me and threw me down a stairwell.

The inventors of Infra-Red Remote Control watches allowed the disruption of many an Apaches video.
Adjust the volume.
Hopefully, the television will be before on-screen displays of the volume, so it would just seem like a mechanical glitch. The teacher will be concerned, but not enough to stop the video.
Pause. Resume.
Timing is everything. First, quickly stop-start the video to let everyone know something is amiss. The second time, not too long after the first, and only resume when the teacher gets out of her chair, leaving her hovering in mid-air, unsure which way to go. Then leave it for a minute or two, until everyone thinks it's working again, then pause and leave it until she actually gets to the video before you hit play. Then hit pause the second she sits down. When she gets back to the video, move to the next stage.
Fast Forward / Rewind
Convince the teacher that something is seriously wrong by pressing something on your watch immediately after she presses something on the video. She presses play? Hit rewind. Continue until she is hopelessly flustered, and fetches another, more male, teacher.
Resume Normal Service
When the other teacher is in, you obviously let the video run normally. You should also complain that this video on the Bayeux Tapestry is really interesting, and it's frustrating that you can't seem to watch it in the manner the programme makers intended. The other teacher will leave, perhaps rolling his eyes at the flapping woman in his wake.
Tear Her Soul Apart
No mercy. The second he has left the door, bombard the video with everything you've got. The look of pained helplessness and growing panic on her face will inspire sympathy in only the gayest of children.

Where lots of arguments end up.
- You guffed!
- Yeah well you guffed twice.
- Yeah well you guffed times a hundred!
- Yeah well you guffed infinity times!
- Yeah well you guffed infinity times plus one!
- You can't have infinity plus one!
- Yes you can!
- Alright, you guffed infinity times two times!
- Plus one.
- Infinty squared!
- Plus one.

The well-established method by which you evaded catching cooties. A simple stabbing mime, and you're footloose and cootie free for up to an hour.
This also works when playing it. You can not become it by injecting yourself, thus becoming immune to being caught. This is roughly equivalent to simply "not playing".

Similar to Andy Graham Disease. So-called game whereby nasty little middle class fuckers would stab each other with their forefinger "giving" each other 'Ka*ie B*rg*s* Fever'. The 'injection for life' bit, of course, meant that you couldn't give it back. Oh, how I laugh now when I go back home and see all my old school chums (who I'm led to believe make up the majority of this country's single mother/unemployed paedophile demographic) with their shitneck existences, and tell them all about my own, pretty damn near fucking perfect life. See? You do get over it, you really, really do.

On top of a French teacher who told us that "he was going home to beat his wife" at the end of every lesson, our English teacher was asked his opinion of gay men during the discussion of a Shakespeare play. His response of "men, women, tried 'em both, much the same" was so witheringly put that we could only stare helplessly at him.

Along the lines of "rubber balls and liquor", this gag relied on someone being excited enough by mystery to agree to saying 'Inspector Fanny' after everything you say. After securing this agreement, you say;

Who put you in jail?
Who let you out of jail?

And inevitably:
What did you do when a girl came around the street corner?

My love of this gag led to me writing "You will Inspector Fanny" on a bit of scrap paper and giving it to another kid I'd been playing the joke on, just to relive the finest moment of the joke. He passed it to the teacher, who proceeded to ask me if I knew what a fanny was.

Witty response to come back with when labelled a 'bitch' at school:
'A bitch is a dog, a dog barks, bark is part of a tree, a tree is part of nature, nature is beautiful, so thanks for the compliment.'
Can be altered slightly for other insults too; 'a twat is a fanny, sweet fanny adams, adam and eve were in Genesis, so was Phil Collins, so actually you're calling me Phil Collins, so thanks for the compliment.'
And if it's any consolation, a fucking cunt must be an attractive cunt, otherwise it wouldn't be fucking.

"Your mum crocodile lady, your dad crocodile" - cuss produced by Nozrul, a Bengali kid when half-heartedly bullied. Also: "Your name Mr Snake" and "You Bloody".

The name of our 6 a-side football team. Cheered on by cries of 'Come on Yermam!'. We were copied by the rip-off team 'Inter Bed', who were, of course, shit.
And one of them had a mullet.

A sport common to most schools in the world is the violent rivalry between nearby schools. However, our version had a twist, because the nearest school to us catered for those with special needs.
At least once a week we would be visited by about thirty misguided children in varying states of spackerdom, angling for a punch up during dinner.
This was even more entertaining because, frankly, they could barely manage being outside unsupervised, let alone display dazzling unarmed combat skills. So they pretty much got hammered very time. They never learned. Which is probably why they were in a special school in the first place.

In one Year 6 computer lesson, we were told to search for various things on Ask Jeeves. At the time I believed that if you input a question - any question - it would come up with a straightforward answer. I inserted "Why is Tom Scott so fat?"
My computer froze. I bashed away at buttons. It didn't work. Rather than simply turn off my computer, I ran around the room persuading classmates to insert the same question into the search engine. Nobody's computer froze except mine. I then tried to persuade the teacher that it must be some massive international problem and it was just a coincidence that the one person out of the 6 billion on Earth whose name was stuck in the search engine was in her class. She said she believed me.

The idea of inverted nipples is commonplace, although I'm not sure if anyone has ever seen any. Surely it would involve little holes. And they would have to suck in milk. And this never, never happens.

We've all heard reports of the games exam invigilators play. Paper chicken, for example, where they anticipate which child will want paper next, and try to give it to them just before they put their hands up. If you see an invigilator standing behind the ugliest, most furiously-writingest child, this is what he is doing.
My father taught at the same school I attended, and a few months ago he told me that he had stood next to the most unpleasant kid in the year, and silently waved an eggy banner. I had never before felt so much love for my father as right then.

To get Jim suspended from school, squirt water from a teat pipette into your eye, then scream, throw the teat pipette to the floor, and tell the teacher that Jim squirted you in the eye with iodine.
If this works, consider telling your parents that your maths teacher slid his index finger into your arse.

Method of choosing the 'it' for games such as 'British Bulldog' and '49 save all'. Someone (usually a bossy girl) would start pointing at people on each syllable of 'ip dip dog shit, you are not it'. The chosen one, relieved, would leave the circle. With only eight syllables, it shouldn't have been too hard to fix, but to my knowledge no-one was that clever at that age.

In Biology A level we were learning about mitosis - cell division - which has 5 stages called interphase, prophase, metaphase, anaphase and telophase. There was a rather unfavoured girl in the class called Michelle who was not exactly attractive, nor did she have a high level of personal cleanliness. I devised a mnemonic to remember the phases of mitosis. It have never forgotten it. I Porked Michelles Anal Tract. Nice.

Well that's rubbish because it misses out cytokinesis at the end. The one I used was "Is Paul Molyneaux a Twat? Certainly!" Paul thought that one up himself, so it wasn't really cruel.

A "making disability fun" story.

Phil Wardle had something wrong with his spine. The problem was such that eventually he had to wear a kind of plastic corset. This encased his upper body- front and back - from his waist to just below the arms. Obviously it was worn under his shirt so it couldn’t be seen. When he first had it fitted, he would go and wind people up by calling them a twat or applying a sharp and exceedingly painful dig in the ribs with his fingers. The reaction of most people to this kind of provocation was to issue a punch in the stomach. Unfortunately for them, this was exactly the response Phil was hoping for because it resulted in a scene like that out of Superman 2 when that bloke in the diner punches Clark Kent in the stomach and nearly shatters his hand.

Me and a group of friends asked a dinner lady what was it like to have sex - we were ten.
She responded by saying, "well, you know when you pull your foreskin back in the bath whilst washing? It's like that over and over."
From the blank look she received from all of us, it became apparent none of us knew how to wash our dicks properly, let alone have sex.

Offered as an answer to the question "If you got mugged on Orpington high street, what should you shout to get help?"

Something I; (a) should not have asked Justin after his mum had died of cancer; and (b) should not have repeated to my mum when I enquired why Justin had run away crying? I was only about 5 or 6 so give me a break.

Stock phrase used by a teacher to calm down a hysterical class while simultaneously consoling the unfortunate child who has just peed her pants at the age of twelve.

Poor James was a bit 'special' and it wasn't unusual for him to shit himself at any given opportunity. One day, I found myself in the unfortunate position of having to sit next to him on the bus on the way home.
That day, James smelled righteous, so I asked him, burrying my face in my shirt, "James. Why did you shit in your pants?"
He looked at me straight in the eye and declared, in a "well actually, as a matter of fact" kind of way, "It will be HARD soon."

Classic thicko story. Child bunks off school, answers the phone at his house, and when asked "Is that you, Ian?", the hypothetical Ian replies "No, it's my uncle".

Alan was a large child, and as with all large children, they get accused of eating many things. So when Alan would ask you if he could borrow a pencil, you would naturally reply "it's not lunchtime, Alan". This was just subtle enough so that Alan never realised.
Alan: Has anyone got a spare textbook?
The Class: It's not lunchtime, Alan.

A reassuring lie for ugly people. It doesn't work quite as well for fat people, however, and can trigger a guessing game as to what it is exactly that's inside the massive bastards.

run conchita : like 'it', but you punch the person in the kidneys and shout "run, conchita!" pineapple salesman : the person who was 'it' was the pineapple salesman, and had to be chased and severely beaten. the bill, the bill, get the bastards : split into two teams, each with a walkie talkie. The team who gets the pineapple salesman lets the other team listen to the beating on their walkie-talkie.

What's got two thumbs, puts itching powder down someone's back in the tuck shop queue, then agrees to sell his surplus itching powder to the victim so he'd be better prepared, in case of future itching powder attacks?

This guy. (I'm gesturing with my two thumbs at myself)