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.

I LOVE YOU, Raymond. You are my friend.

Something I screamed during class I'd do to baines if he nudged me one more time. unfortunately the headteacher was showing visitors around...


Head: So I think youll agree that this is the perfect environment for your son mrs richmond
Head: Friendly supportive staff and pupils...

(Cue the visitor looking through a window as baines takes his 'medicine'I was marched to the heads office. theres nothing scarier then staring at him in the eyes for 5 full minutes before he asked me to explain indetail what a 'Bitchslap' was and why it was called that. I lied, naturally. Truth never got you anywhere but your pre-prepared grave. 'What they do to disobidient female dogs' yeah right

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).

Our school's variant on “Blind Man's Bluff” in which the blind man, rather than attempting to simply touch/tag the other children, would wildly swing his fists around, resulting in many injuries – mainly for those not playing the game, and looking the other way. Of course we would never warn the unsuspecting punchees, preferring to grin with anticipation as we watched the blind clobbering unfold.

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]

Swearing, it must be acknowledged, is a fine art learned predominantly in the playground.

And there is no greater mistake a novice vulgarian can make then combining the two most hermetically perfect pejoratives in immeadiate succession within a sentence. Viz;

"You're a bloody fucking idiot, you are, Batesy!"

Interestingly, whilst both combinations of these words are unweildy and thus anathema, "Fucking bloody" used in a sentence can at least convey a degree of savage bemusement, whereas deploying "Bloody Fucking" reduces the user to the appearance of a complete bedwetter about to cry and do the famous mid afternoon angry bunk from school before being brought back by a cross looking mum to be sequestered in the year heads office for a torturous afternoon of fish tanking (q.v.)