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).

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]

In year four we heard that someone in year five at another school gave blowjobs to boys if they went to her house. The only snag was you weren't allowed to be seen walking down her street at all. Ever. You had to duck past all the ornamental redbrick walls at the bottom of the garden as scream 'blowjob' at her house and she would come out and give you a blowjob. The flaws in this were never spotted.

Step 1: Take a biro, and remove the innards, leaving the plastic casing alone. Step 2: Nick an exercise book or two from the poorly-guarder stock cupboard. Step 3: Tear off small pieces, and soak in (your) mouth to form a ball. Step 4: Jam into the casing, and blow out of the narrow end at pretty high velocity. Step 5: Fire at will.

If curiosity beat your common sense, and you showed an interest in finding out where the blue goldfish was, your head would be flushed in the toilet. However, at least you now know where the blue goldfish is, and you can teach other people.

In what, with hindsight, can now be seen as a cry for help from a very lonely boy, Pavandeep started pinching people's phones and 'bluetoothing' the pictures and videos of them going out and having fun to his own phone, so he could show his parents and pretend that he was there.

There was a time when exclusion didn't involve technology. I remember it well - Conor

"Have you ever touched a BMW?" If you answer no, then it means you are too poor to have touched a BMW. If you answer yes, then it shall be revealed that BMW stands for Black Man's Willy. Hilarity, as ever, would ensue.

BMX boys have a lot of fun,
sticking their handlbars up their bum.
This is true.

A bizarre quasi-religious cult movement founded by several people in my year following the discovery of a mocked-up pub sign beneath the stage in the Hall. It was presumably a piece of scenery from a pantomime. The Boar's Head was protected jealously, and its status as a sign from God was akin to that of the Ark of the Covenant. I think it was believed that any army which carried the Boar's Head before it was invincible, so numbers of the converted swelled. A rival faction claiming to be the 'anti-Boar's head' made an appearance at one point, but it was not popular.

I last saw the Boar's Head in an industrial dustbin when they shut the school down. I would have rescued it for posterity, had it not been covered in garbage and rotting food.

In Year 8 we spent a few months playing the dangerous but irresistable game of Bob Baiting. Unpopular ginger-haired lonely psycho bully Bob Sheldon used to eat his lunch solo in the classroom every day. We would enter the room in a big group with a raincoat and a school tie, sneak up behind Bob, throw the raincoat over his head and quickly tie it tight around his neck with the tie (this in itself was a dangerous activity but David Harvey was nimble and stupid enough to give it a go most lunchtimes).

Bob would rise from his desk, scattering books and sandwiches, and start lumbering blindly around the room in search of his antagonists. We would all run around the room, taunting Bob, hitting and slapping Bob, dodging Bob, yelling out "Wobert got no fwiends", until someone's nerve broke and we would all make for the exit door. At this point, the trick was to SHUT THE LAST GUY IN.

The climax of the game came as we would hold the door shut from outside the room, listening while the victim trapped inside would vainly rattle the handle until Bob located and beat the living shit out of him. I never suffered this fate myself, but I was there the day that Alan Israel got locked in, and Bob broke his nose by smashing his face against the wall. This resulted in a high-level headmaster's inquiry and the eventual demise of Bob Baiting as a regular sport.

Another Bob detail: Bob had an unpleasant spitty laugh, a sort of "spllpllscchchchschschhh" that would spray his unfortunate interlocutors with saliva and bits of chewed sandwich.

I used to imitate this laugh when Bob wasn't around, so well that I'd get requests, and a new Bob-baiting game took off: run up to Bob, go "spllpllschschschschch" in his face, then sprint off.

Bob cornered me one afternoon and informed me that the development of this new sport was my responsibility, and he darkly warned me that for every kid who ran up to him and did the spitty laugh, Bob would give me a "dead leg". And so for the entire rest of that fucking year and well on into the next, I lived in constant fear of Bob stampeding out of nowhere and kneeing me in the thigh.

Bob is now a barrister.

I spent most of my time as a four-year-old trying to prise the rocket out of the backpack of the Boba Fett Star Wars action figure. I was sure that, once the rocket was detached, Boba Fett's backpack would open up new worlds of entertainment.

Boba Fett's rocket was not detachable. There was no entertainment to be had in his backpack. I'm sure there's a valuable life lesson to be learned in this somewhere, but I can't detach the damned rocket to find out what it is.

Shouting "Bobby Lookup" was guaranteed to cause Bobby to look up and then, incensed, run around vainly trying to identify the perpetrator. As Bobby was thick as pig shit, there was a lot of looking up and fruitless running around.

Growing up in New York State , U. S. A. , a version of " spaz/retarded/fag " , etc. , was " Bocie "...I'm sure that it came from BOCES , the acronym for N. Y. State's " special " education department ( Um...Something Something Something Educational Services . ) . My version of it is , of course , phoenetic , and , may well be subject to variations !!!!!!!!! I do not know if NYS's equivalent department goes by that name now , this is some decades agone ... While I guess that this site is more British-oriented , the whole English-speaking world is your oyster , correct ??????? And , I'll assume that you're familiar with the American " spaz/retard " , etc. , referred to above...

You know what, I think the thing that upsets me most about this is all the gaps between everything. How can you make USA take up nine characters? Jesus WEPT

Printers of school books. Possibly also a medical complaint, where your head turns into a body. Aged 11, I wrote my first swear word duet, and this is it.
Log : Fuck a shit head.
Paul : Who?
Log : Bodley Head!

A lighthearted game involving one football, one toilet, and as many boys as can be squeezed into the toilet. The ball's owner places the ball into the urinal and proceeds to piss all over it.

Once the pissing operation is complete, he kicks the ball as hard as possible at someone's chest. At this point, utter mayhem breaks out. This continues for the entire break time, or until a teacher comes in to see what all the fuss is about.

Participants in the game can be later distinguised by the collection of little yellow 'medals' proudly displayed on their previously clean white shirts. A true badge of honour.

Like butterflys only made of bogies. These symmetrical creatures are found in freshly used tissues and hankies and in colours ranging from yellow to green and the rare red variety. Also in an all-too-common transparent variation.