Robert Watson's eloquent yet practical description of hateful Maths teacher Mr. Pickrell's balding head:

"I give up, it's like talking to a wall."

"Yeah, and this is like talking to a fucking egg."

The sneering bastard was so taken aback he couldn't think of anything to do but turn around and carry on with the lesson, whereupon we resumed the quiet, character-building ritual of taking turns spitting into his briefcase.

An achingly clever responce to anyone saying fucking hell is to reply;
"Why fuck in hell, when there're beds in heaven?"
You may also stab someone with a fork and shout "fork you!". Either way, you deserve a klcking.

As an ardent Derby supporter, James once professed his admiration for their star striker with the phrase "I love fucking Wanchope." His broad midlands dialect led to the bastardisation of the Spanish 'Wan-Chop-Ay' into the simple 'Onechop'.

After weeks of being reminded of this, James threatened to "fucking kill" us with his "fucking gun". Presumably the same gun he used to fuck Onechop.

It was meant to say Buckingham road, but we had tippex. Still makes me laugh when i go past it.
(Been to Manchester? In the hilarious fashion of Terry Pratchett's discworld pub, the Broken Drum / Mended Drum, the sign Canal Street is on a constant cycle of being changed to anal treet and then being fixed by the council, who roll their eyes at the gays, who've "done it again". By the way, I hate Terry Pratchett, don't get me fucking started on Terry Pratchett. - Log)

We loved the film Aliens. In fact we loved it so much we constantly tried to emulate the scene where Bishop the android did that trick with the knife, rapidly sticking it between his fingers.nnUnfortunately, our school workshops didn't have a wide variety of knives, but displaying schoolboy ingenuity we improvised with chisels. Of course we only used very narrow chisels.nnPaul Hopkins, on the other hand (a very large, hairy boy who wasn't allowed to drink orange juice) decided to attempt this death defying feet with a 1 inch chisel instead. With a booming cry of "I can do that!", he promptly slammed the pointy end of the chisel through most of his finger and into the table top, creating a spray of thick blood that reached all the way to the gang of girls at the next table. The wierd thing was, they made more noise than Paul did.nnThis is the same large hairy boy who decided to slap me on the back so hard that I nearly embedded my head in a table. Fortunately, the table was saved by the pencil that I was using (rubber end down) to correct a minor mistake, while the pointy end made contact with the back of my sinuses. Apparently, half an inch more and I would have been in mortal peril. Of course, we all had a good laugh about it the next week when I returned - and Paul affectionately dubbed me "Pencil Face" as a constant reminder of his valiant effort to kill me dead with my own writing implement.nnYou'd think this would be enough, but no... you see, Paul had a new level of dimwittedness hardwired into his brain - some kind of reverse step of evolution, perhaps. Which is why he also managed to hand in his GCSE Design and Technology project in a large plastic folder which he also used to conceal his pornographic magazine collection. Without removing three copies of Razzle, a Fiesta Shaven Havens special, and a rather bizarre magazine called Animal 7 that he claimed he found in a hedge.

The tax levied by my enormous friend Glenn of one fudge bar every day. This tax was only incurred by people who had threatened/bullied me in the past, and thus the taste of Cadbury's fudge remains today the sweet, sweet taste of victory and revenge over Dale Wright.

Reworking of the classic Fudge advert jingle.
A finger of Fudge is just enough
Until it's time to eat
A finger of Fudge is just enough
To give your kids false teeth
It's full of Cadbury's concrete
And very hard to eat...
Wholly innacurate, as a finger of Fudge left in a bag all morning often acquired the soft texture of a freshly laid dog's plop.

Please learn from the mistake I made when I decided to deride a team-mate who had fumbled a very easy pass with Sgt. Hartman's most evocative quote:
"I bet you're the kind of guy that would fuck a person in the ass and not even have the Goddamned common courtesy to give him a reach around."
Whilst I basked in the waves of appreciation from my team-mates, the referee (who also happened to be our head of year and best friend of my uncle), heard every word and looked thoroughly shocked. He metered out the most hideous, thoroughy despicable punishment known to man.
He told my mum. Word for word.

(A decent post elevated by a fantastic physics pun. Marvellous.)

Sharpen a graphite pencil at both ends, then clip the power supply connectors to the exposed lead. The graphite core becomes searingly hot - and stays so for ages. Then leave out for the bullying tart who belittled your knowledge of physics as being "swotty" and watch the blisters form on her chubby little fingers when she (as usual) helps herself to your writing tools. Resistors aren't futile!

Fung Chow was a peace-loving Vietnamese village, made out of paper by Nick Ruck. The attention to detail was magnificent - there were little bits of ripped-up paper to represent huts and villagers and everything.
Then the welding-torch helicopters came. Manned by Nick Ruck, who shouted an off-key Ride of the Valkyries, the helicopters left no surviving paper villagers, or huts. Nick Ruck stopped shouting Wagner to scream in a slightly foreign accent.
Mr Ashworth - our metalwork teacher - looked visibly shaken when he arrived at the scene, and may well be the last case of post-traumatic stress disorder caused by the Vietnam war.

The alarmingly camp or disturbingly sinister naming of furniture. Camp names, such as Philamena the Filing Cabinet, or Ollie the overhead projector, will lead to sneering disdain. Sinister names, like Fru-Fru the Board Rubber, will generally lead to glances being exchanged and confused shrugs.

A furtive fondle. A form of intimacy popular amongst turtles.

A well-known game where people say fuzzy duck in a circle, until someone says does he?, after which people must say "ducky fuzz". The idea being that you get free swears, most often does he fuck, or fuck he does.
At a certain age, alcohol is added to this game to make it seem less, well, rubbish.

Sorry, it makes it more rubbish. By the time you can get hold of booze, you should be able to say 'fuck' whenever you like. and the illicit thrill goes out the game, so it is just some men saying 'fuck' to each other. Like this website really.