Strange club with only two members, the Doctor and the Assistant. The Doctor would perform 'operations' which - curiously - everyone willingly queued up for. His tools were a compass (for incision) and Tipp-Ex (for 'healing'). When the operation was over you had to say 'ta'. Hence the name of the club.

"Ta ra ra bum di ay,
my knickers flew away,
They came back yesterday,
Ta ra ra bum di ay."
This unusual narrative casts aside the traditional form of beginning, middle, end, by leaving out the middle section that can be so boring to people with low attention spans. The knickers are gone - the knickers are back. However, the repetition of the first line in the last reminds us that it is a constant cycle, and no sooner have one person's knickers returned, than another pair have flown away.

What dicks taste like, according to a file we found on the school network during Computer Science one week.

Wicked game. Played only in music, generally. The tables we had were the type that had a drawer underneath them and a metal bar that went from one side to the other so if you lifted your knees up, the table would lift up too. The tables used to be arranged in a U shape and so it was pretty easy to "race" to the front. Mr. Brown didnt really like us playing that game. Strange seeing as obviously we were really keen to get to the front and learn more.

Another time in music i wasnt allowed to go and see the nurse, despite the fact i had just had a pen flicked in my eye. To be fair it was my own fault, I had the pen balanced on the edge of the desk and if you hit the end of it it will fly for miles. However its usually a good idea to get out of the way of the pen.

Mr. Brown was one of those 'cool' teachers who everyone thought smoked weed. He had been at the school for (literally) about 35 years and was about 67 when we were taking music GCSE and we still thought it hilarious to fill the blackboard with masses of graffiti to the effect, "Mr. Brown does Chong", etc etc. When i say fill the board, i mean FILL the board. He would then spend the first 5 minutes of the lesson rubbing the board clean. Another favourite was to blast Hardcore through his sound system with massive speakers. It was always a race between us and the "moshers" to get to the stereo first so we didn't have to listen to their 'shit'! Mr Brown didnt really appreciate that either...

The photography darkroom became home to Michael Steele's pornography stash (second roof tile along on the right) and after-hours masturbation club. That was until he discovered that his entire collection had gone missing, and that every word spoken in the darkroom could be heard in the staff room next door. Headmaster - ton of bricks - you get the story.

One of my primary school teachers tried to discourage us from climbing pylons (that was big in the 70s) by telling us about someone she knew who did just that, touched the wire and was instantly transformed into a piece of coal.

Can you POSSIBLY IMAGINE a tale more likely to result in a tearful child being forced to scale a pylon by a jeering mob?

WOOT WOOT WOOT

You know some teachers who just have a personal vendetta against you? I had one, and this became apparent fairly rapidly in her dull lessons. She was patrolling the corridors one break time when me and my friend were staying inside (against school rules) because it was cold and raining. I was asked why I was staying in and told her I was "waiting for Mr Dennis" (whose room I was outside). I was asked "Did he tell you to wait exactly here?" (this is her ignoring my friend and only questioning me) to which I took one step to the right and snapped "No, here." I got a rollicking for talking back but it was hilarious!

During a school field trip, one of our number (who was already cursed with the name Matthew Winkle) went to the toilet for an excessively long time. When quizzed about the duration of his visit, he claimed to have been 'talking to Frostie' - Paul Frost being a fellow pupil. 'Talking to Frostie' has thus become a euphemism for masturbation, with such derivatives as 'shouting at Frostie' and 'being ignored by Frostie' unfortunate - but natural - consequences.

Posh and less patriotic version of British Bulldog. One person started as the "catcher" and everyone else had to get from one side of playing area to the other. To catch someone you had not only to dob/tag/touch them, but to pin their shoulders to the ground by all means necessary for 3 seconds, thus increasing the potential for face-to-face spittle flecked mania from the more frustrated.

When we were 14, and after much pleading, me and a friend managed to persuade a naive Tamara to show us her left breast on the way home. As it was my first glipmse of live female flesh my groin responded as only it knew how. By lunchtime the next day my public erection had made it round the school, although the tit flashing element had been conveniently left out of the story.
Even in my final year, it wasn't unusual for a 12 year old girl to run away from me in the corridor screaming 'run, it's the sex addict!!'.

Tango Advertising Boardroom, 1993
Exec A : What's Tango like?
Exec B : Dunno. Orangey.
Exec C : It's more than just Orangey, my friend. It's got zizz, it's got zazz. The bubbles suck up your tongue like the kisses of goldfish.
Exec B : Oh, stop it. You always get carried away like this.
Exec C : It's an experience, a lifestyle. It's a path, a method. A liquid universe with CO2 planets constantly being created and destroyed. It's a cosm.
Exec A : I'll get some coffee.
Exec B : No, stay. Please.
Exec C : It attacks you. It gets onto all fours behind you while its friend pushes you over it. It bites you during a kiss. It slaps its hands over your ears.
Exec B : Ha. We used to do that at school. It was funny.
Exec A : Didn't it hurt?
Exec B : Dunno. Never had it done to me. Did it to the fat kid, though. Ha. Fat kids. Haha.
Exec C : So that's it. We get a fat bloke, and he slaps this guy over the ears. The guy is drinking Tango.
Exec B : Haha. Fat bloke. Let's paint him orange. Then he'd look like an orange, all fat and orange.
Exec C : You're on fire, Jeremy.
The advert was banned, when parents complained that their children had been sent deaf by thousands of copy-cat ear-slappings around the country. Tango's attempts to distance themselves from this "dangerous" behaviour were damaged by the fact that the children were shouting "YOU'VE BEEN TANGO'D" as they did it.
See the revised version of the advert at Absolutely Andy. It's some way down the page, so search for "Tango".

Nickname bestowed upon George Cornish after he managed to nick roughly half of the contents of the Imperial War Museum's gift shop, using only his trouser and blazer pockets to stash the booty.

Although why anyone would want to steal powdered egg or a pencil sharpener shaped like a nazi is a mystery.

A chant from the glorious summer of 76/77.
What d'yer think of Tarzan undies?
Do they scare yer?
Do they scare yer?

This method of attack on the dignity of fellow pupils progressed thus:
1. Creep up behind intended victim.
2. Place your hands either side of victim's mouth and pull.
3. To compliment the now mongish expression on said victim's face, shout out "TATEY FACE!" in a Joey Deacon-esque voice.
4. Depending on size of victim relative to self, either pause to bask in the approval of your peers, or run like fuck.

At Shortlanesend Junior School, Cornwall, when you had farted you said 'Taxi' while putting your thumb on your forehead. There were no recriminations or other rules - this was really just a badge of pride in case anyone hadn't heard/smelt the guff. You were really saying: 'I've farted! Woo-hoo!'

A song which was inexplicably sung by Robin B on several occasions at school, accompanied by a bongo-style drumming on his nipples:-
"Tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tchaikovskeeee;
Here he comes, banging his drums."

We has a teacher who would walk along the school corridors with the tips of his fingers of the hand closest to the wall always in contact with the wall. He also walked in a rather camp way. This was not particularly amusing until he went round a corner. He would move about half a step further from the wall and as he turned the corner, with his fingers still touching the wall, lean into the corner as he went round it.

This got even funnier as kids in the school cottoned on to this and decided to copy him. At times you would have a line of six or seven kid walking behind him through the corridors all with the tips of their finger touching the wall, walking a bit camp and turning corners the same way as he did.

This was a great source of entertainment. Hours of fun...

In the days before Madonna got her whamblers out willy nilly, a picture of her chebs carried top-rank cachet. When presented with a grubby page ripped out of the Sunday Sport of Madonna, chebs akimbo, it became my avowed mission to show everyone in the class.
As the Queen of Pop's paps were returned to me, our teacher, who shall be known as Mrs X, demanded to know what was going on, and that I bring the paper to her. This is a classic scene, we all know it.
Whilst huffing and looking hard-done-by, I managed to secrete another shred of newspaper from my bag and take that to her instead.
Unfortunately, my plan was rumbled and I was moved to the front of the class.
The walk of shame was crappy enough, but when that fat bitch Mrs X went to my bag to try and see what I was really passing around, I was outraged; that was my bag. It was bag rape. Plus it had my Maddybaps in.
I sprinted to the back of the class to intercept her, and we locked horns in an ugly tug-o-war. Panicked, I gave one almighty heave and Mrs X went sprawling backwards, legs everywhere. Her mood wasn't improved when Isaac Martin yelled "fucking hell, you can see her snatch".
Although threatened with expulsion, I was eventually just made to copy out chapters of a science book, in the technician's room with the stuffed albatross and the terrapins. I can't see a terrapin to this day without thinking of Madonna's tits and my teacher's fanny.

Teacher Teacher, I declare,
I can see your underwear.
A memorable opening couplet to a piece of junior school playground poetry. There was undoubtedly more to this rhyme, but I can't recall it. Anyone who can supply the missing lines will have my eternal gratitude, as its keeping me awake at nights thinking about it.

School magazine time! It's almost the end of term of Year 12, so this self-published effort needs to be an absolute cracker.

Step 1.
Gather your material, making sure that every single satirical article, poem and/or cruel caricature targets the pathetic maths teacher Mr Wills. Don't forget to poke fun at him specifically for his shitty breath, his weight, his psoriasis-afflicted scalp, his alcohol problem, his cheap clothes, his overactive sweat glands, his effeminate girly voice and the open secret that his wife left him for a hotel manager. Don't hold back! Really go to town.

Be bloody, bold and resolute, ruthlessly suppressing any qualms you might have about the ethics of kicking this fragile shell of a man to death.

Step 2.
Print magazine, distribute on the second-last day of school, enjoy minor sensation caused. Get called up with your fellow Oscar Wildes to the headmaster's office for a half-hearted bollocking in which the headmaster more or less agrees that Mr Wills is a complete fucking loser, and why did you have to go after the poor man like that?

Step 3.
Find out the following year that Mr Wills took early retirement. See him a year or so after that in your local shopping centre, three times his previous size, barely able to walk, face covered in blotchy scabs, wearing stained tracksuit pants, pushing a slab of Diet Coke along in a trolley and looking forlorn, abandoned, and utterly, utterly collapsed.

Step 4.
Feel guilty for the rest of your life.

Just randomly came across (so to speak) the "Thunder Tits" item, and it reminded me of a teacher at my primary school called Miss Keeble, who was pleasantly endowed and who made practical use of quality engineering in the underwear department.

It being the 1970s, and what with certain stupid toys being advertised with a convenient jingle, we were inspired to sing "Keeble's wobble but they don't fall down" a bit. OK, a lot.

Were any other readers inspired by a unique combination of teacher's name, physical characteristics and contemporary popular song in such a manner?

while in science the teacher had to go to the toilet, so leaving us to our own devises (allways a mistake at towneley high )we noticed that he had left his jacket on the back of his chair.at this what ells could we do but to get all the lads in class to wipe their foreskin on it and all the girls to either spit or wipe thire noses on it .from that day on he was known as stilton coat

Every school has these, so a brief rundown of Arnold Hill; Mr Heeley, made to cry after relentless taunts about his sexuality. As you can imagine, this didn't help the situation at all. Mr Manicom, who returned to work full of life after a kidney operation, to find that children had become no kinder or more understanding, and died weeks later. Mrs Greaves was a balding woman, which was curious enough to be commented upon, again and again (although we were too young to think of "chemo-sabe" as a cunning nickname - that came later).

I will never forget that sunny afternoon our Geography teacher Mr Bridges left our class to collect an armful of textbooks. Much hilarity ensued when we realised he hadn't come back and it was 10 minutes to home time.

I suppose if we'd have tried to find him we probably could've helped prevent his heart attack on the stairs. Or at least seen a dead body.

A question for Mr Wilson. Did you really think it was a good idea to leave teaching in order to pursue a career as a plain-clothes store detective? WH Smith must have lost more money than usual, as hordes of your ex-pupils descended upon the shop en masse to grab handfuls of booty, often to wave it triumphantly at you before fleeing, leaving you open mouthed and crestfallen.
I only hope you are happier now in your role as proprietor of the local "Mr Minit" key cutting and shoe repair emporium.

Over to you, Mr Wilson. No, it was a Yale, you twit. That's a shoe. - Matt