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 Scott Leitch. 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"

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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.