A huge and ferocious spider kept in a jar by David Margetts and Robert Clarke during a nature project at primary school.

Other boys caught their own spiders who were brought in to challenge Mr Jolly's arachnid supremacy. Mr Jolly tore the legs off and subsequently ate any spider foolish enough to enter his battle-jar. He was HARD!

The girls' spider was called Fred and they wouldn't let him fight Mr Jolly. My God, girls are shit.
A bullying opportunity which crossed cultural and social barriers.
It was originally based around the rumour that Mr Randall used to be a member of the SAS and that he kept his black embassy storming suit in a small shed behind the art block.
Victims from lower years would be invited to see it, but their excitement upon entering would soon turn to panic as the shed door was closed behind them and wedged shut.
With a variation of the bait used, anyone, no matter how weedy, could terrorize an even weedier pupil from a lower year.
Thus the geek kids in my year were once seen enticing a bespectacled "quiet child" from the first year into the shed. Probably with the promise that the shed contained a very rare D&D figure, an exciting range of chemistry apparatus or a girl with meccano tits.
Music teacher. Quotes included;
  • "Tell me, exactly what is funk?" - after Jack said that his composition was based on funk.
  • "Tell me, exactly what is soul?" - after Jack said that funk derives from soul.
  • On Elvis Costello - "I thought Jailhouse Rock was excellent"
  • "Of course, you can only get electric bass guitars"
And, outside of music:
  • "You know, when we went over to sort out Afghanistan, I think we all expected to see them all living in tents and mud huts and things, but it was clear they'd derived some of the building ideas from the west"
  • After laughing raucously for about two minutes - "What am I laughing about?"


He also reckoned that I listened to "outrageous music" after performing a Beatles song and a Red Hot Chili Peppers song for performance. Outrageous indeed...
Mr Winklemann, our German teacher, loves ducks.
Sensing mickey-taking, he once put a student into detention when he went up to him and told him (in German, mind) that he too 'liked ducks'.
He has a pet duck, and once said that the TV show, Inspector Rex, would be better, and worth watching, if his duck was in it.
Mr. Marsden's classroom was right next to one of the boy's toilets. One day we caught Marsden's son Owen in the cubicle with his ear pressed against the wall, listening to his Dad teach whilst having a big fat wank.
If you are a teacher named Mr. O'Brian, it's not a good idea to introduce yourself to a class by telling them that the name 'Mr. No Brain' is not funny as you write 'Mr. No Brain' on the blackboard.
A non-racist version of Hello Pakistani featuring the inexpensive adventures of Mrs Smith's hole. And a jam roll.

Hello Mrs Smith
Can I have a penny whiff
of your hole
(sniff sniff)
Jam roll
(sniff sniff)
Does it smell
(sniff sniff)
Faaaaaaakinell

Despite her heroic name, Mrs Power had a gammy arm and a bonky leg, and fell over on her first day. We used to make her cry.
In the time pre-post-feminism, this was the title of choice for some female teachers who refused to be identified on the basis of their marital status.
Roughly translates as too old to be single, too dowdy to be married. Whispered accusations of lesbianism would follow.
The mistaken belief (aged 7-8) that making babies involved nothing more than urinating into a girls vagina. In our school, vaginas were referred to only as 'muffs', as referring to a muff as a 'vagina' meant you were probably a girl yourself, or gay.
What not to call ones chemistry teacher in class, or any other time for that matter. Unless, by some strange quirk of fate she is your mum, but that would make you her uncle or something.
The similarity between his roar in the opening credits of thundercats and the cry of an enraged window-licker was uncanny. He even looked a bit like a mong with that wild look in his eyes.
My (technically correct, you'll note) answer to the question "Where do hamsters come from?" in a Primary School Geography lesson. Had I not been watching a dog running outside, I'd have known the answer she was looking for was 'The Sahara Desert'. Hilarity, as you can well imagine, ensued.
The not-common-enough practice of going into a graveyard and digging up a freshly decomposing corpse. It is essential that the corpse is in a certain stage of decay, were the organs have liquified and mixed with bodily fluids to form a fleshy soup. This "soup" ferments to produce gases that inflate the stomach of the corpse. Once such a corpse is found the munging can begin. A coin toss determines who does what. The loser of the toss places his mouth over the genitals or anus of the corpse (personal preference), while the winner proceeds to jump on the gas inflated stomach. The pressure should cause a fleshy explosion in the mouth of the loser and any deposits should be consumed (simple etiquette).
(Real, or hardly? You decide, dear reader – Ed (Log))
(Jesus suffering fuck, Log, are "Slave Boy" and I the only people to watch South Park? *cough*ripoff*cough -Susan)
This was a kind of 'Tag' game, played by hurling a tennis ball at someone's head from shockingly short range to make them 'it'.
As throws from behind were perfectly legal, it was quite possible not to realise you were playing until you felt a stunning blow to your occipital.
It was soon decided that tennis balls simply weren't murderous enough, and so they were replaced firstly by cricket balls, which themselves were succeded (on account of not having 'enough corners') by large cubes of solid pine stolen from the woodwork room.
Luckily, the game was outlawed before someone took the decision that lumps of timber simply weren't 'Ninja throwing star-y enough'.
(high pavement, 1990-1992) An unusual figure of fun. The mockery was based around the fact that he was getting driving lessons from his mum's boyfriend, but had to pay for them himself. More than that, when we asked him how many lessons he had taken, the number was nearly 100. To us, this was a clear indication that Murray's mother was using her son as a source of income to keep her in sex and drugs. This fuelled a fantasy world based around their abuse of Murray, in which he was made to stand outside their bedroom door while they had sex, because he was hungry and all the food was in there with them. Occasionally they would slip him out a sandwich, but never enough to stop the hunger. The culmination of this mockery was the "Aspects of Murray" collection, which was cut up bits of paper with doodles which made every facet of his life plainly sad and revolting. He never saw the Aspects of Himself - we made sure of that. We may have been pointlessly malicious, but we didn't want to destroy the poor bastard. Well, not until he searches for his own name on the internet, maybe.
In the days before multimedia, there was BBC schools radio. "Music And Movement" was their public service to avoid P.E. teachers going into meltdown under the strain of ever having to have a single fucking idea, ever. Jonathan Cohen-type piano music and, for P.E., strangely soothingly-voiced routines of the "I'm a tree, I'm a tree, be a tree with me" kidney. The sort of things you could do without needing special P.E. kit, which is why to this day Debussy-type plinky-plonking takes me to the scary visual place of Paula Marshall in her tights the colour of diarrhoea. Manufactured in that colour, I mean. But even so.
The Glockenspiel Beater : This weapon can be thrown with pin point accuracy to contact with a desired part of a victim's anatomy with almost no effort. It is one of the subtler weapons as it can easily be launched by a nonchalant flick of the wrist whilst the assailant casually stares in the other direction. Beater throwing is optimal good fun if the head of the beater can be removed and thrown independently from the stick thus giving a two-fold attack strategy.
The Coconut Shells : These are for your more tactical assailant. They can either be used for the basic 'trap someone's fingers in them as they slap shut at 47 mph' gag. OR, for the slightly more adventurous attacker, put one coconut shell over some unsuspecting victim's ear and hit with a beater (see above) until victim has perforated ear-drum.
The Xylophone Keys : Hard, metal, heavy, sharp. So many possibilities, so little time.
The Snare Drum Brush : Most popular of all. This tightly bound weapon consisting of half horse-hair and half wire is most effective when drawn agonisingly slowly over naked flesh - popular with the 'fat kid' bully network.
We used to have a music teacher called Mr. Hewit who looked like a ginger Art Garfunkle and pointed at the hymn line on the overhead projector with his middle finger. How wude!
During assembly we were ordered to sing hymns, but since everyone hates singing, especially hymns, Mr Duckworth walked up and down the aisle that separated two blocks of chairs to ensure that everyone was singingk, and enjoying themselves.
We were later told by the physics teacher that people only sang when Mr Duckworh passed them, thereby creating a "musical sine wave" as he walked up and down the aisle, growing increasingly angry at the fact no-one was enjoying singing hymns.
A proper response to a stupid comment. Tongue pressed into the bottom lip in front of the teeth and the phrase 'muu, by dabe's .....'. If the need is great, you may finish with 'and I'm a spack', said in the same manner. Darren: What does 'wank' mean? Me: Muu, my names Darren, and I'm a spack. See also ehhrruuuuu, gay.
A game to play when you're bored. It looks like you're really interested in what the teacher has to say. But in reality, you're just waiting for him to say "put your hands up" so that you can all mutter "my arse" afterwards.

With a good enough mental library of double entendres, just about anything the teacher says can be followed with "my arse", with hilarity inevitably ensuing.

Oh, and Mr Jones, once you've realised just how immature your class really is, moaning 'oh come on...' isn't really going to help matters.
My Aunt Nellie had a hole in her belly
And a hole in the biscuit tin
She was sitting on the grass
With her finger up her arse
And her tits going ding-a-ling-a-ling.

If anybody has any theories as to where the biscuit tin fits in to all this, I'd love to know.
Maths teacher Mr Rawlinson used to throw the board duster at us with unerring accuracy if we were misbehaving.

However, for particularly unruly acts, he kept a huge book called "My Catholic Faith" which he dragged out and whacked us on the arse with.
The definitive version of this hardy perennial primary school classic follows:

My friend Billy had a ten-foot willy
And he showed it to the girl next door.
She thought it was a snake
So she hit it with a rake
And now it's only 2 foot 4.


In some areas, the willy was left at a rather more impressive 5'4", which would have been of little consolation to Billy, who would have suffered considerable rake trauma and the loss of his helmet.