Just one cornetto,
give it to me.
You musta be joking,
It cost feeeefty peeeee.
There was another verse, however. Can anyone help?

Susan says...-Um, yeah. It went: "Theee choc and nut
it may beee niiiice
but maybe not
that bladdy high prii-ice!"
Hope that helps

One September the pupils of St Mary's RC School in Poole returned from the summer break amid some excitement and trepidation at the new markings on the playground. Among the typical hopscotch grids was what appeared to be an oversized compass, with Magnetic North clearly marked on it.
We were left wondering what the fuck we were supposed to do with it. A few half hearted attempts to base games around it were made (Did you play Let's Stare North!, and West-Walking Hullaballoo? They were my favourites - Log), before we decided to ignore it, as it was most likely for Muslims to point at Mecca.
Jonathan fell from the climbing rope in Primary School PE, and landed directly astride the balance beam. This had exploded one of his balls like a water balloon.
Attempts by him to disprove the rumour by stretching his scrotum for all to see, showing a clear 2-ball outline, led to accusations that he was pressing out one of the bumps with his finger.
But, eventually, we had to accept that he did have a second ball. A plastic second ball.
Whatever, it didn't affect his virility as he managed to get Angela Smithers up the duff before his fifteenth birthday.
A block of wood with a face carved in it that for some reason my class worshipped for a year and a half. We were eventually saved from cultism when the groundsman burnt him for fuel.
Often devastating put-down not very cunningly disguised as a gesture of pity.
"What are you getting your mum for Mother's Day?
Oh sorry, I forgot. She's dead isn't she?"

Mansh says...A handy P.S. to any partonising put-down is the word "Bless" accompanied by a smile and a cocking of the head

A setup for a mischievous physics teacher's prank.

[Teacher contrives for the class to revise electrical circuit symbols]
Teach [draws a circle with a 'V' inside]: "What does this represent?"
Pupil A: "A voltmeter, sir."
Teach [draws a circle with an 'A' inside]: "That's right. Now what's this?"
Pupil B: "An ammeter."
Teach [draws a circle with an 'O' inside]: "Well done. How about this?"
Rather too keen pupil C [adopting the air of having cracked the tricky follow-on question]: "Is it an ohmmeter, sir?"
Teach: "No. It's a Mexican riding a bicycle."

A year later, Pupil C, while remaining frustratingly un-Mexican, was knocked off his bicycle by a passing car.
Nickname of Steve Sampson, a christian tee-totaller who would only drink orange juice.
I was the only one with all my stationery, so I was often subject to lending things to people. I'm only human, so the resentment at being considered the class resource for pencils and protractors slowly built up.

One day in maths, my friend leaned over and asked me for a pencil. I replied "Okay, but I sucked on it." This seemed fair - by all means use my equipment, but they shall be marked by spittle.

To make myself heard over the drone of the class, I stated this loudly and firmly; certainly, my voice was loud and firm enough to silence the rest of the class, who immediately set about imagining the scenarios that might culminate in such an outburst.

Can YOU script a scene which makes dramatic sense, and culminates in the phrase "OK, but I sucked on it"? Send them in!
One fat kid's persecution was average to low, until one day a weak-minded teacher tried to make us feel sympathy. In a catastrophically stupid attempt to get us to like the big lizard, we were told that the fat kid could not wear boy's trousers, but had to have old man's trousers cut off just below the knee. The result was, spectacularly enough, a barrage of abuse that resulted in a watershed moment of growing up, the first time I heard a contemporary say "cunt", as in "Ha ha, you wear old man's trousers you fat stinking cunt." Marvellous.
Although there wasn't a teacher in the cupboard, we would convince the child that there was before locking him in there.
That was the cue for the other pupil who was in the cupboard to start hurling ink and paper at him, and shout teacherly things like "You, BOY!" at him.
Surprising fun for those outside the cupboard, who got to hear the shouting and watch a cupboard rattle around for a bit.
An ollie, as everyone who's ever played Tony Hawks will know, is like when you jump, but with a skateboard on.
Aged thirteen, we would practice our ollies for hours on end. When any of us got so much as an inch off the ground, we could all get seriously amazed.
During one afternoon of such cripple-hopping, we heard the roll and clatter of a familiar crap half-ollie, followed by a loud and insincere exclamation of "whoops!".
Apparently, while we were looking the other way, Alan had accidentally ollied over his dad's car.
Now, the thing that made this especially amazing, was Alan's ongoing persistence that the trick was not in his mind. This went on for months, despite constant jeering and a failure to repeat the trick because when people were looking, it "put him off".
These lies climaxed with an audacious lie-reversal, where he shouted at everyone that he'd never said that he had accidentally ollied over his father's car, and that he hadn't maintained the opposite for the last four months at all.
Ask him today, and he still denies he ever said it, which totally proves my point.
First, write "OM" in chalk on the victims seat. If he hits down, he will have the word "MO" across his buttocks for the rest of the day.
Having the shortest word for gay written across your arse, the very place that gays have the sex, is begging for physically violent comment.
This one game resulted in some of the most fantastic and death defying crashes known to man, and also some glorious bicycle carnage. Instead of running round tagging someone with your hand, you now had to twat cycle mounted opponents with your bike. Some of the techniques involved will highlight the whole stupidity of the game.
The Graze : Used when your opponent was slightly slower than you. YouŽd have to get your front tyre to connect with their back, and hope the resulting wheel friction would veer your opponent into a hedge, and not yourself.
The Evil Kenevil (close range wild card) : Peddle as fast as possible, then dismount by slipping off your seat backwards. Suprisingly easy on a bmx, suicidal on a racer. Then, hope that your bike would continue in a straight line and smash into your opponent. (If your bike swerved off course after dismounting you would look like a twat, and your bike would end up in someone's garden - use with care.
The Wheelie = used liberally if you were able to perform it (forget it, racer boys). Like being attacked by a horse.
Making tyre-on-skin contact with the spinning front wheel of "The Wheelie" is known as a "Chainsaw".
Round up of the bikes:
  • BMX Falcon Pro : all round winner, speed and handling.
  • Grifter : bulldog of the game, slow but like a Jag through a shop window - the blaggers choice)
  • The Racer : top for speed, but turning circle of a Viking longship.
  • The Chopper : laid back angle would never get you to top speed and left you exposed, but who needs fast when you look that good?
  • The Granny Basher : your mums bike, good speed if you could reach the pedals, though be wary of recriminations next morning when your mum finds out her shopping basket is fucked.
  • The Cissy : your sisters bike, if your dad was still trying to unbuckle your wheel from the last time you played.
  • The Granny Lowrider : weird-looking compact bikes, that really old people rode. This singles you out as an idiot child, and you will be constantly attacked.
    If using the Granny Basher or the Cissy, resist the urge to take off the shopping basket, as it adds valuable 'tagging' inches.
    No girls allowed to play - this is BOY stuff.
A crayon in the communal Primary Three colouring box which we unanimously held to be such an enchanting, perfect, GREEN shade of green that we would fight tooth and nail for it every single morning.
Competition was fierce, and once in your possession, you would be subject to aggressive attention and intense paranoia - if you let your guard down for a moment, it would be stolen away.
If you went to the toilet, you took it with you, and did so visibly - otherwise your desk would have 29 children crawling over it when you got back.
The One Crayon was finally destroyed by Donna McGhee, who inexplicably vomited all over it.
A section in Razzle where the male readers sent in naked pictures of themselves, presumably so that they could show the wife, to try and get her in the mood.
They paid Ł10 for every 'one for the ladies' entry, leading Alun to come up with possibly the worst money making scheme of our young lives: he decided to submit a photo of himself in the buff. Worried that he might be recognised, he decided that he'd wear an SAS style balaclava to protect his identity. Thankfully, the plan never reached fruition, as I'm sure that child protection officers would have been very interested in tracing the origin of photos of a naked 13 year old boy wearing a balaclava.
Ooh... ahh,
I lost my bra,
I left my knickers in my boyfriend's car.
This weighty verse differs from the infantile whimsy of ta-ra-ra-bum-di-ay, in that it contains a powerful moral element.
In ta-ra-ra-bum-di-ay, the loss of the knickers was spontaneous, and not the result of moral turpitude. As a result, the knickers were returned by the gracious Fates.
Here, however, the knickers are lost as the direct result of pre-marital sex. Notice that the loss of a bra - a powerful symbol of female sexuality - compounds the devastation. Neither garment is (at least, explicitly) returned, leaving us to assume that they were either found by a slack-jawed vicar, who - mistaking their function - used them as hanging baskets in his garden.
Also note that only the woman is punished. That is because women are temptresses, and all sex and betrayal in the world is a result of their vile chicanery and desire for ever-more children, as documented in Ace of Bass's hit single "All That She Wants Is Another Baby".
Prefix to an insult. Should be said in the voice of Henry's Cat. Replaces unmanageable sentences with an effective build-up, and reduces the chances of an interruption or retort. Long form : Well at least I don't live in a skip. Abbreviates to : Ooww, Trevor...
First, put your hands together. Then whisper "open daddy's pants" to the person sitting next to you.

Try to say "open daddy's pants" in a way that implies something good will happen if they do.

When they reach tentatively towards your hands, sproing your middle finger out and make a hissing sound. It's daddy's cock! And it's doing a piss!
At primary school we had a dinner lady called Mrs Delaney who would routinely refuse to allow us inside to use the toilet at lunchtime. Thus Operation Fucking Cow Delaney, codenamed Operation FCD, was born.

There were five conspirators. At lunchtimes we would run down to the wooded area at the bottom of the field and dig frantically at the ground with sticks. Our plan was to tunnel our way into the school, hence bypassing Mrs Delaney and enabling us to do proper indoor poos and wees.

However, loose talk costs lives. A teacher overheard us mentioning Operation FCD, and we were hauled in for questioning. Lee, the little cunt, spilled all the beans, including what FCD stood for, and we got a week's detention and had to explain and apologise for Operation FCD to Mrs Delaney herself. God knows what she made of it, but I still see Mrs Delaney now - she works in my local off licence. For some reason she remembers me fondly.
Last day of school. Gang of about twenty of us up all night beforehand moving all of the bins and benches from school onto the field and using them to spell out the word 'POTTY' in enormous letters. It stood out even better when it was outlined with shaving foam.
A strange but comical craze that caught on for two people and two people alone at my junior school. They decided it was acceptable to run around the playground at break time while singing "Operation Sex" to the theme of "Catch The Pigeon." At regular intervals, they would jump and thrust into mid air at some bemused and scared girls. Although high profile beatings were administered weekly to the odd pair, Operation Sex continued for three years. Then, as suddenly as it started, Operation Sex ended. Was it was deemed a success on debriefing? I wonder.
Sometimes, you see a bit of youthful good-natured vandalism, and you think Jesus, you outstanding retards, you've just missed the opportunity of your lives..
A randomly detemined day in which everything you say means the opposite. For example, if you denied that you were madly in love with Alex, who smelt of poo, your friend could then laugh and say "Haha, it's actually opposite day, so you just said you love Alex!" and then run off to tell the whole playground.
The problem with this was that by saying "It's opposite day" on opposite day, you were actually saying that it WASN'T opposite day. This, however, was entirely beyond our 9-year-old minds, who really just wanted an excuse to tell the entire school that you loved Alex.
To demonstrate how hard you are, claim that you can grip the hardest on a thorny stalk. Then look as indignantly agonised as you can, whilst maintaining the loosest possible grip on the thorns. Other 'hard nut' tests involved trying to karate chop stupidly thick branches, and Stealing Mrs. Rich's Hairspray.
I was caught writing on a desk. I was trying to write "SEX ORGY", but sensing trouble I scratched out "SEX" and left "ORG" unfinished. At the end of the class the teacher approached my desk and read "ORG" and then asked if I was trying to write "ORC", assuming I was a Dungeons and Dragons type. Loathe to get caught out for writing a dirty word, I confessed to be being a D&D fan. I then had to sandpaper all the desks in the class. One of the lowest moments in my life.