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?"

Nickname given to heavy drinking and soking English teacher whose cheeks were incredibly purple. He was a sadistic git too and loved to dish out detentions for virtually nothing

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.

An odd position in which to find oneself, and of all the victims of this syndrome, I consider myself the luckiest. While my mother taught at a school the other side of Nottingham, whose pupils I was never likely to meet, my father had taught at my school many years before I was born. In those days of low staff turnover, this meant plenty of gossip, that frankly made me into something of a god as we arrived at secondary school. I was the only pupil no terrified of what 'big school might hold, as I had too much information. Mr. Hepworth's drink problem, the extra-marital affair that had taken place between Mrs. Carlisle and Mr. Hayhurst (at one point in the Humanities Workroom), the fact that both Mr. & Mrs. Moore had been customers of my fathers' cannabis farm at University, all were grist to my mill, while I escaped the shame of having to refer to any teacher as 'mum' or 'dad', or even worse 'Mr/Mrs. Marshall'. I had the best of all possible worlds. Until the bullying started.

:belm:

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.

I love this. I love the eg to show us how it should be used properly.

Genius. Mr Burt, you are a GENIUS.

eg. Rob Bellend

That'll be a NOUN then? Publish it, but change it to "eg. I, Rob Burt, am the biggest fucking BELLEND in the ENTIRE British Cunting Isles.

I hate you Rob Burt

Tig. My most favourite school game. eg. "Let's play Tig".

THIS IS MINE

My most favoured school insult.

eg. You Bellend.

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.

Cunting fucking christ.

Game played by usually 2 people, or more if they choose not to move off the bench

2 people wud both sit on a bench, and try and push the other person off the other side onto the floor just using the strength. If one of the contestants arses lifts off the bench then they lose.

Much more fun wen theres a 3rd or even 4th person/people sitting in the middle where u can both squash the middle people until they either move or cry. Games of upto 10 people werent uncommon...also sumtimes bags of the contestants were launched at said contestants heads to put them off

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.