Ashley had a misjudged belief that he could walk on water. We enjoyed many happy breaktimes watching his christ-like attempts to cross the pond, or "the scourge of all human nature" as he called it. It really makes you wonder, it really does.
Whilst on a school trip to the Lake District, an enterprising fellow, by the name of Speakman, took with him a cheap foil disposable barbacue (the sort you'd purchase at petrol stations), a pack of bacon, sausages, and bread. Speakman reasoned he could cook, and then sell bacon and sausage butties when we stopped for our lunch break, thereby generating a fine profit for himself. After getting the BBQ going, someone (who read the instructions on the discarded wrapper) informed the world in general that it would take an hour or so for the barbaque to reach a stage where food could be prepared on it. The gathered crowd (those with money to buy such things) quickly dispersed, causing much embarassment on Speakman's part and loud admonishment of the label-reader, which led to the disposal of the flaming BBQ, piled with bread, sausage and bacon into the lake we'd stopped by. Presumably he hoped he could dispose of the now unwanted stuff, and that would be an end to the affair. It wasn't, as the foil tray refused to sink, and drifted gracefully across the lake, merrily blazing and belching dark smoke, like a viking funeral for bacon and sausages.
A chap at my school (now training to be a circus ringmaster) went all-out to establish a reputation as the school weirdo. His antics included:

1. Performing impromtu hygiene services where he'd run up behind you, whip out a toothbrush and clean your teeth for as long as it took you to shake him off. All the while, he'd croon "I'm a doctor" in an American accent.

2. Putting his penis (which he'd named "Eugene") in a bap and parading around.

3. Producing a dead crow from his pants in an English lesson.

4. Being employed as a mercenary to kick people up the arse because it was highly likely he'd be in trouble at the end of the day anyway.
Andrew got bored during a physics lesson and decided to pretend to cut my other friend, Mario's ear with a crappy pair of orange scissors.
When Mario failed to respond to the stimulus, probably thinking "yawn - as if you would actually cut my ear with a pair of scissors", Andrew decided to squeeze a bit harder. To his dismay, the scissor blades actually met with a resounding click and a steady trickle of blood on to Mario's crisp white school shirt.
What I remember most was the look of 30% concern, 20% pain and 50% contempt on Mario's face changing suddenly to 100% concern when Andrew guiltily handed him a used tissue.
The Midlands is divided more or less equally between those of Northern origins who pronounce the popular tea-time snack scone so that it rhymes with 'gone', and soft Southern or social climbing types who rhyme it with 'bone'. In my final year of primary school this led to a schism as violent as that of the Crips/Bloods.
Forty kids racing towards me with a blood curdling howl of 'scooooowns!'
My best mate being forced to rhyme scone with bone at the top of his voice under torture and returning, his treachery never quite forgiven afterwards.
A ditch full of captured scowns with thousand yard stares, numbly awaiting their turn to be forced to utter the unthinkable word.
The headmaster even turned out to be a scown as he lectured both armies in assembly. The enmity over now, thank God, and I even regard one or two scowns as my friends.
A person with no pubic hair.
Probably a mis-heard and subsequently justified form of scoper. It's a person with a physical and mental illness, sat on a bus full of similar children. When the name was questioned, it transpired that the name was based on the lack of control over their arms, which were locked in a malevolent scooping shape, and moved up and down with great enthusiasm (a "chicken-winger").
Post-spastical name for people who were spastics before The Spastics Society changed their name in a bid to stop people calling spastics spastics. We didn't lose a word for spastic, we gained one. And it was scoper.
'Hilarious' variation on the classic, and in no way funny, game British Bulldogs. So called in deference to Craig 'Jock' Lawton. Interestingly, not stretched to Scottish Cow-Cats.
The first Gulf War prompted no moral discussion on the ethics of modern warfare. It did provide a sparkling new range of insults. Out went threatening to 'smack' someone and in came the terror-inducing 'I'll scud you in the eye', for example.

The 'exocet' shot was introduced to football, and everybody called Colin was re-christened Colon after Colon Powell.
Largely non-malicious game of obstruction and irritation. When someone is trying to get through a crowded seating area, and the seated people set about obstructing them as annoyingly as possible with their legs. This may not sound particularly harsh or amusing, but is surprisingly difficult to escape if the legs maintain a downward pressure. The combination of "walking through treacle" and "double gravity" can often lend a pleasing edge of panic to the victim's face. Endless repetition, as is so often the case, may result in tears. (cf doccer kill)
There is a common myth that seagulls explode if you feed them Alka Seltzer. They don't.
However, it's such a cool urban legend that it has to be worth a try...
Mr Eade was (and presumably still is) a very camp, unmarried man. Rumours of his homosexuality are probably exagerrated - he always struck me as more of a serial boy rapist. Anyway, he taught history. The textbooks we used were by a man called Terry Seaman. A comedy name to be sure, and much mileage was gained from the authors unusual monicker. We used these books for three years, so after a while the hilarity sort of abated, if you know what I mean. One day though, just when we thought the Seaman had run dry, Mr Eade was covering a particulalry dull area of the Schlesweig-Holstein affair and, obviously acting under the divine influence of Our Lord Jesus Christ himself, a certain Pete Rogers cried out in frustration, "Oh Mr Eade! Its all covered in Seaman."
Having found myself waiting outside the headmaster's office for a menial crime, I became rather bored and decided it was a good opportunity to practice my Kung Fu kicks against his door. However, mid-kick, the headmaster opened it to find an 8 year old girl in an undeniably threatening pose.
He was so horrified that he sent me to stand outside the secretary's office, a punishment, I was told, that he had never before been forced to bestow upon any pupil. As it was, the secretary was a kind elderly lady named Mrs. Brooks, who put plasters on children's knees when they fell over. She made me some Ribena and then sent me back to class.
Alligator => Masturbator
Crododile => Peadophile
Other creatures in the "Goodbye, sweetheart" range include "In a minute, donkey's winnit", "See you soon, Ken Boon", "Au revoir, pig in a bra", and "Auf Wiedersehen, Hitler's brain".
Not to mention "Cheers, Deers", "Caio, Cow", and "B'Bye, F'fly".
I'm sorry, I took a fairly naff entry and made it three times worse. Oops - Log
There was always someone who decided that their life would be vastly improved by adopting a cool nickname of their choosing. The idea was that news of your new moniker would spread through the halls of the school, and by lunchtime everyone would know you by your new, cool nickname. The problem was that most people chose something lame like 'mad max' or 'LL Cool J.' Sigh.
We were subjected to school assemblies in which motivational speakers, usually fat, badly-dressed men, would badger us for an hour or two. One such speaker, this time a fat, badly-dressed woman, held up a piece of paper, and informed us that this was our self-esteem. She then proceeded to go through all the rotten things that were said to us (or, we suspected, her) in the course of the day.
"You're ugly."

"No, you can't sit with us."

"Jesus, you honk like a good'un, Cheryl."
With each insult, she would tear off a strip of paper. At the end of the day, evidently, one is left with a very small scrap of paper, or self-esteem.
It was common in the following week for children who had been insulted to pick up a piece of paper and rip it with a mock-sad face; that fat useless jabba had accidentally given children a decent defence to any insult.
Both the user name and the password used to gain access the school's most important files, the Powerpoint presentations for assembly. A few swift alterations later, Jack Petchy had sprouted mysterious nose penises and the award receiver was replaced with a picture of Mr T.
After the terrorist attacks, anyone who destroyed a paper aeroplane was referred to as a terrorist, and would be violently beaten. Also, hitting someone with a paper aeroplane became known as a 'September 11th' and if this happened, people would pretend to cry over the 'tragedy.'
This story contains the words "bucolic" and "boob-pinching" and caused the PL team to go for a little lie down. (Not with each other, donít get funny.)

Sergeant Major was a game played by a lot of girls behind a garden shed in our bucolic playground in primary school. My friend, who invented the game, would always be the Sergeant Major, and another girl would be her Second-in-Command. Mostly the Second-in-Command would be played by a nice, docile girl who was kind to us, but occasionally the School Bully would take that role, which would add an extra frisson to the proceedings. The game was very simple and involved the Sergeant Major lining up the other girls against the shed and giving out small but curiously disturbing punishments such as boob-pinching and chinese burns if we didnít stand up straight enough. It usually lasted all lunchtime because of our lax posture. Despite the oddness this was one of our favourite games. My friend who played the Sergeant Major also instigated Lesbian Day every other Friday.
A more extreme version of kiss chase which never existed at my school, although at the age of about eight, I unsuccessfully tried to convince my cousins it did.
In middle school we got to watch a tasteful and informative series of sex education videos with our pretty young teacher Mrs Wood. At the end of the first video, which we had sat and watched quietly without giggling or crying, she asked 'Now, are there any questions?'. One young boy stuck up his hand and in an earnest and fearful voice asked 'Miss, what's a rainbow kiss?'.
A game that was played with the bladder of a deceased leather football. The bladder itself was known as "The Sex King Ball Bags", and was adorned with a superabundance of graffiti.
The actual rules of the game were vague, to say the least. It was played in the tennis courts, and involved kicking a half-deflated football bladder around, with a valve sticking out of one side.
In Primary, the boys and girls loos were next to each other, separated by a wall. Me and a friend worked out a rythm of banging on the walls to the girls with our fists which meant we wanted to have sex with them. If they answered back with the correct return code, it was on. They never did get the return code correct.
One is left with the enduring image of a bunch of girls, standing in a toilet, listening with marked bemusement to the sounds of excited banging emenating from the boy's bathroom - Jamie.
I got my first stirrings when Mrs Ramsay bent over to cut a large sheet of sugar paper I was holding, and I got an unencumbered view of her tits down her top. I was 8. Later that year, sex was explained to me when I asked Lee Davies what he was referring to when he sang a song containing the lyrics '...And the hairs of her Dicky-Dido went down to her knees'.