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SummaryMean Boy

Should you be entrusted with the dubious honour of photocopying teaching material, it is incumbent upon you to make asinine alterations guaranteed to cause a giddy head rush.

Your starter for ten: a highly childish assault on the periodic table achieved by inserting the word "Jimmy" after the symbol for copper ('CU...Jimmy').

The "Flying Talbot" premise itself probably owes royalties to "Private Eye". You used to be able to buy sets of three ceramic winged cocks, in a flying duck style, from ads in the back of the magazine. The whole "Talbot" thing was some sort of in-joke they had at the time.

after dinner I did a shit,
(then backwards)
soon after desert I did another

A child with an exceptionally small penis. i.e. a penis so small, it could fit in the hole of a Polo Mint.
Accusations of minterdom are rarely backed up with any form of medical or photographic evidence.

Based on the Pepsi Challenge.
Participants are offered one cup of squash diluted with tap water, and one cup of squash diluted with river water that has just trickled through the corpse of a sheep.
They are then offered the chance to say which is the real "Barker '95". Their answer is entirely irrelevant.

At the start of physics, we "advised" the class spazmo Matt to spend the lesson in the cupboard, in case the "boogieman" came after him. Half way into the lesson he improvised, and burst out punching the air shouting "Come on Boogieman, I'll take you on". He got put in detention.

Apparently some lads in the year above would collect dogshit (or sometimes rabbit droppings), bake it with mint and try and pass it off as a block of cannabis, and thus sell it to gullable pezzas. Quite clearly a lie, due to the fact that dogshit smells no matter how much you try to mask it, and that only the dirtiest jip would consider picking the stuff up.

Led to our local bus company changing the signs to 'Emergency Door' - which, like some public-transport-fueled arms race, in turn gave rise to 'Virgin Loo'.

We had a lad called Dave Hill at school. We'd often try and 'recreate' the disaster by getting him worked up about it then squashing him against the wall. All in the best of taste of course...

Birmingham also has the delightfully named places of Camp Hill, Lickey End, Acocks Green and Shaftmoor Lane. Hours of fun.

Town planners do it deliberately you know. Rude-sounding place names are what made this country the Great Britain that it is. Ah, I can almost hear the sound of a suggestively brassy trombone and Esther Ranzen chuckling her way through a link to a piece on cot death. Nostalgia!

I swear someone said this to me as a comeback to a "your momma" joke but to this day I have no clue what he meant...

Directed Study is where you were put if you were a "classroom distraction". You got put in an isolated location for several days instead of being allowed to attend regular class. In my case, it was a janitorial closet/supply room just off the main hall. The powers that be seemed to think this was punishment. Since I hated nearly all my white trash classmates and was bored stupid with the narrow curriculum offered by the corn pone teachers, this gave me the opportunity to wrap up with the busy work fast so I could spend the rest of my time drawing. Now I am a professional artist in a big city and they're all still there inbreeding.
Thanks guys! I don't miss any of you.

It seems unlikely that this is really based on serial killer Ted Bundy. We did a similar thing based on WWF wrestling star King Kong Bundy who was something of a legend at an age where we weren't quite convinced that WWF was all fake.

If anybody called you a pig, you could declare that it stood for "Pretty, Intelligent Girl", and was thus a compliment.

I'm Popeye the sailor man,
I live in a frying pan.
I turn up the gas and I burn up my ass,
I'm Popeye the sailor man.

Take the bit from the end of a shoelace. Fray out the lace, and push a pin through. You now have a small dart, which when launched through the trusty hollow biro will stick into someone's body (or, more amusingly, face) and hang there in a relatively painless way, giving them tetanus.

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.

"Dense Yense" copied someone's work during a physics test. Right down to their name at the top of the page.

Q. Guess What?
A. What?
Q. Hotpot.
Q. Guess Why
A. Why?
Q. Pork Pie.
On reflection I'm a little dissapointed that we never utilised when, where, how or who. Especially who, because that rhymes with poo.

The next line is;
"Durexpect me to believe that"

Open gym, leave the equipment room unlocked, get the teacher's assistant to do attendance then leave the class to its own devices, getting paid for sitting in the P.E. office with the door locked looking at porn for an hour and a half.
The teacher got more exercise than we did.

Steve was the best ice cream man ever. He was pale, but his ice lollies were cheap and tasty and he had the coolest afro that I've ever seen. Unfortunately, Steve let us down big style when he left for Australia and was replaced by a new ice-cream guy...Dino.
The guy was Italian and scary. The ice cream tasted weird and we told him Steve's was way better. He smiled and winked and told us that HIS ice cream was better because "It's full of the stuff that little girl's need and little boys know about" He laughed and handed over his "ice cream".
The guys loved him and used to rush out shouting "Deeeeeeno! Deeeeeeeno!" thinking that this guy was just the dogs bollocks...the girls used to avoid that side of the playground altogether and Dino eventually disappeared once a girl in Year 10 claimed that he tried to grab her. We never got a new ice cream man. Thank God.

Version of telling, or arrrrrrrr. The main group of people would shout "ee-a, ee-a" for around three minutes, circling the offender, and one person would go for the teacher. Presumably we were a fleet of police cars, which is something of a disproportionate civil response to someone doing a smelly trump.

We did a similar one called Jig-Cal or somesuch. It suggested I become a Parole Officer; Butch Garry was instructed to become a roof-hanger and Camp Kevin's career was to be a Florist.

A potentially brain damaging game played - in general - with the class Warhammer fan.

It involves shouting duck!, and then hitting the victim around the head with a hard object.
After some time, the subject may get wise to the game, and take steps to defend himself. At this point, simply shout duck! after hitting him with the hard object.

all day I deserve a sexual (rubbing) - this version addresses the underused (R) registered trademark symbol.

At my primary school when someone said something that was blatantly untrue, like 'my dad drives a tank. He keeps it in the garage', the correct response was to push your tongue into your bottom lip and go 'urhhhhh chinny barbados'.

An arbitrary standard of quality devised by Phil to assess peoples technology projects. As in if it doesn't withstand being battered with a huge mallet then it was obviously a piece of crap anyway. In retrospect this may be a slightly unfair test of ply-wood and dowling strength. Note that passing the test did not exempt you from further retestings.

My best friend claims that when he was about 8 someone in his class called Wayne really did accidentally kill himself by putting pencils up his nose and bringing his head down on the desk. My friend's exact recollection of the incident was "I don't mind that I saw it happened, I mean, it made me the person I am today. I didn't really know what was happening to be honest, but there was fuckloads of blood."

I just laughed because this urban myth is rife with fifteen year olds around the time of GCSE mocks. I still don't believe him but he swears it's true. It happened in Wigan, which makes it ever so slightly more believeable.

Once a pupil has pushed a teacher to the edge, causing them to hit or throw something at said pupil, it is the moral duty of the rest of the class to chant "Sue! sue! sue! sue! sue! ..."

Previously, the only kids who got to watch a film in the main hall were the big ones going to secondary school the next September. So when we were told we were watching a film that afternoon, we reckoned it was the sex-education one we had been discussing since moving from infants to juniors (specifically discussing if there were willies in it or not). But it wasn't. It was a farm safety film, the action cutting between between a bunch of Children’s Film Foundation types playing hide-and-seek on a farm, and a crying mum making a party tea. Except the playing kids all died one by one (one drank weedkiller by accident, one drowned in silage, one got run over by a tractor) and mum was getting ready for a wake. It put us all right off willies.

I made my pre-school brother a Rocket Man suit just like in the series (BBC2, black and white – cliffhangers? – I know it had a Rocket Man in it). It had a helmet, a jetpack and some buttons on a belt. I was so proud, and the costume rocked so much that I played outside in it. And got spotted. To some, I remain King of the Rocket Men to this day.

The novelty record was sung by Mike Berry, who played Mr Spooner on "Are You Being Served?". One can only assume that this was not a career high for him.

Well at least you didn't get nicknamed Franzi after the damned thing. Like I did. Odd to find that gay pig around here.

A computer character also existed called 'POB', who would obey basic verbs; he could jump, smile and so forth. However, he seemed ever reluctant to eat my shit.

A boy, in need of support and companionship after receiving a prosthetic testicle, tells his 'best friend' about said operation. Within minutes the entire school knows. Within hours his name is 'clacker knackers'. Withing a week, kids are waiting for him to pass by at break times with a couple of Coke cans, clanking them together to match the rhythm of his walk. The bionic bollocked boy flees.

The act of grabbing the victims ankles and dragging them across the school playground while they struggle and scream. If you drag using the trouser legs alone, you can pull the pants down enough to cause bumdrag on actual cheeks, which is like an elevation to godhood.

Is Sillitoe pronounced 'silly toe', I wonder?

A totally non-PC game where somewhere's rubber is daubed with the union jack and the words BNP. For additional effect, the rubber can then be used as a stamp to accessorise exercise books.

It's "my dads a banker and he banks all day", actually. And I'm 15, so I should know.

Possibly the funniest joke of all time. BEWARE - if you read this you may die laughing. You approach the unsuspecting victim with the usual 'Knock, Knock', 'Who's there?' 'Idunnop'. Try to keep a straight face as he unwittingly replies 'I done a poo'. Hilarity obviously ensues.

If you walk into a toilet cubicle to find a dirty great fucking big crow sitting on the bowl, there are two options you can follow.
You can slowly back away slowly and find another cubicle, or you can shit everywhere and run screaming through the crowded dining hall with your trousers around your ankles. I chose the latter course of action.

'jew run' - a footballing term describing the glory-seeking pitch-length run of the boy who wanted to score the goal.
Thus, if someone selfishly hogged the ball it was called a 'jew run'.
In my innocence, I always assumed that what was being said was 'due', as in 'due respect'. It was only recently that I discovered the anti-semitic overtones of our playground taunts. Obviously I pissed myself.

The term for extreme peanutting is, of course, 'chokeanut'

In 1973, Gary Glitter's "I'm the leader of the gang, I am" was number 1 in the charts. To commemorate this event, Peter Bagnall's mom bought him a black bomber jacket and embroidered the words 'I'm the leader of the gang' on the back in big red joined up letters. The irony was that Bagnall was the snot kid of class 3B and was leader of no gang at all.

At my school one girl would be the horse, with the skipping rope tied round her, and another would 'ride' her, running along behind holding the handles.

So the game pretty much consisted of running, and I had no idea there was anything wrong with selling videos of it to sweaty old men.

A good comeback to someone playing this trick is to approach them and ask 'can you read palms?'. Thinking that you have walked right into their hands, they will reply 'yes'. You then reply 'read this then', at which point you extend your palm to reveal the words 'YOU ARE A COCK'.

The sound omitted from Mrs Tulley's mouth when Iain Lenton bit her on the neck in 1986, a year in which he thought he was a vampire.
She shouted 'fuck' quite clearly then added 'shun' on the end in a meaningless attempt to disguise what she said. Rumours went around for six weeks that she was being sent to teach in the Congo.

The practice of alternately dedicating the 6 urinals in the toilet boy girl boy girl boy girl. Using a "girls" urinal was tantamount to a confession of homosexuality and it wasn't uncommon to see boys desperately hopping from foot to foot waiting for a boys urinal to become free. Anyone unaware of the rules who blithely used a "girls" urinal would rightly be greated with screams and howls of disgust. I think the stupidity of this was apparent to us even at the time, that said the looks of confusion at being admonished for using a "girls" urinal are quite unlike anything I've seen since. The game recieved a welcome revival in 4th year at secondary school when a new toilet was built which had individual urinals instead of the "trough" style which had to be declared single gender as a matter of logistics. The fun was partially sucked out of the game when upon shouting at a first year that he was gay for using a "girls" urinal he told us to "grow up and stop being a bunch of tits".

Urban myth: Again a philosophy exam, the question is 'What is courage?' Answer: 'This is'. He gets an A too. Bollocks.

Also, try Spina Smiffida for anyone with the surname Smith. And they're ten a fucking penny, so it's not like one of those if you know someone called Sigourney Weaver, why not call her Big Horny Beaver? entries.

…Or, A Rather Upsetting Story From a Fifty-Year-Old Woman Inadvisedly But Heartfeltedly Seeking Some Sort of Catharsis on a Whimsy-based Internet Site.
We hope you all feel terrible now.

The boys loved me, and the girls hated me. I am fifty years old now, but when I was nine years old, I was the first girl in the history of my school to wear a bra in Grade Five. They were cotton then, with metal hooks, and pointed...Beverly Hillbillies was big back then, I had long blond hair...I became the immediate focus of all the boys attention, being yelled at with "falsies" each and every turn...I made the big mistake of replying "I don't wear falsies." I got a big guffaw, well prove it...I guess they expected me to lift my bra...this was aside from the boys always pulling at the straps. One day leaving school, I noticed a crowd of boys gathered..."You are going to prove that you are not wearing falsies", I knew I was in big trouble, I ran...I ran, and I almost made it home, but I was knocked down, and about twenty guys put their hands up my bra and got a good feel...oh this was about 1963 when all the world was full of prim and proper people...

Well with mine being Richard William Lowe - Dick Willie Lowe :-(

At Crossfields, an all boys public school, swimming lessons involved compulsory nudity.
I wish this wasn't true! The practice ended just after I left, due to the 'self-consciousness of the boys'. No shit. This was in 1985.
A nice twist came when the swimming teacher's daughters (in cossies) were in the pool on some sort of open day thing, and we all dived in to join them, much to their embarrassment, but not ours.

Nah, but you soon fuckin' will be was the retort, followed by the kthudkthudkthud noise that only a pupil cartwheeling down the flag stone stairs can make.
Happy days indeed.

Nah, but teaspoons do. Steal three teaspoons from the dining room. One each in live and neutral ( before the days of shuttered sockets this ). Flick the switch, then drop the third teaspoon across the now live pair.
As I discovered, one almighty fuck off great big bang later, and the transformer that serviced that block caught fire.
Most amusing. So much so I repeated it whenever I could. Damn the day when the circuit breaker was installed. Damn it and its eyes to hell and back.

I understood this was spent 'feinites'. Besides, we used cross keys down here, you shit northern wuss.

We also did a Jig-Cal. I (and possibly only 3 other people in the year) were told to become leather technologists. Quite what leather technology is I don't know but we were advised that you could do a course in it at some dubious ex polytechnic university in England.

My friend and I enjoyed nothing more than recreating in Attenborough-esque detail the savage zoological struggle for survival on the desk tops. My hands would form the "predators" in exactly the same way as Roger above. My friend would take on the role of the "pogolopes", a 3-legged creature made up of his first two fingers and a thumb. The predators would invariably maul the pogolopes until in a move of evolutionary brilliance the pogolopes learned to jump to great heights and escape the predators clutches. In response, the predators evolved to leap and float down with their legs spread like a parachute.
Nobody ever questioned any of this. We were 17.

Could also be used in various electrical chain stores (at least in the days before password protected screen savers), where the kids knew more about the computers than the assistants; i.e., all of them.

We had a different version. There was a girl who was "13" and she wanted to be "84". When she was "45" she went to the doctors and the doctor said 'oh' ("0") take these pills "2" times ("x") a day but she took them "4" times (don't press times this time) and she ended up ("=")... If you miss out the "0" then the poor girl ends up "bobless"

Yelled by a victim immediately after a strike to the testicles.
However, it takes the balls four seconds to switch from “spunk and fuck” mode to “Christ, that hurts” mode. So genuine testicle pain begins some time after the strike, leaving the poor man precious seconds of hope before the nausea, agony and red piss starts.
So, why the immediate awwwww!? Two possible reasons – it’s either a desolate wail of the man who foresees his immediate future, and sees that it is bad. Or, they’re filthy eunuchs who’ve never known the true agony of the thwacked nut.
Girls! Think you have an equivalent pain to the white thud of the smashed bollock? Speaking on behalf of the boys, I don’t think so. Convince me otherwise for a prize!

A pitiful cry in a bullying situation that very rarely leads to a moment of quiet introspection on the part of the bully. Although it would be nice if the bully replied;
Two things really. Primarily, I'm establishing my alpha male status in the only way I know how, and on a more personal level I'm venting the rage that I feel from physical and mental abuse in the home
as he continued mushing the weedy intellectual's face into pulp.
A rather pitiful response from a victim of, what they consider to be a needless beating, a victim of playground fun. This usually gives the victim about three seconds whilst the attackers think of a reason for said beating. The most common responses for this are: you have a weird face, cos I feel like it or the all time great...shut up you little cunt followed by another thump. what do they think, that your gonna suddenly think shit, what am I doing. Use of imagination would not go unnoticed, sniveling is just pathetic.

Stands for Big Tits. Requires two participants and a big titted girl. One boy shouts "beeee... teeee..", the other runs up to punch the tits and shouts "Cellnet!"
Then both parties run away, because punching girls in the tits gives them cancer.

A game derived from the rhyming slang of gypsy's kiss, meaning piss. Quite simply, drink four cans of coke and the last one to take a slash wins.

Acronym for pants off, legs open. A general term for a slapper.
Alternatively, penis out, legs open which is a general term for tediously drawn out foreplay.

Garden hopping to some. Had a Grand National which lasted over a mile and took retribution on posh kids in big detatched houses. Climbing each fence and hedge was exhausting especially with grown men occassionally in pursuit. Always liked the water hazzards as difficult to see them on other side of fence. Mate broke his leg when he fell into one and, unlike war films, we did leave him, it was better that way. There was also a flat course called the Derby over rows of terraced housing back yards that a competing school used but clearly missed the point of both amusement and class action.

I did the same with a mate. Claimed to be 'Spanish Inquisition' when sent to headmaster. All very odd as very mixed race school where caucasians in the minority. Still have great photo of me pretending to axe off my best mate's head (who was Indian) in the woodwork room. Pupils thought it hilarious and voted us joint winners of the 'mufty day' prize. School photo shoot with local paper was cancelled though. Instead put some fat female teacher dressed as a St. Trinian in. Original.

Get a thin drinking straw from a Calypso packet. Catch a frog. Spawning season is a good time, as they're too busy clambering all over each other to bother about having a thin straw stuck up their anus. Stick the thin straw up the frog's anus. Blow gently. Believe it or not, this inflates the frog, which cannot then deflate.
Added fun : launch the bloated frogs on a pool and try to burst them using marbles launched from Black Widow catapult.

There’s only one thing we hold sacred here on Playground, and that’s TRUTH. (And fags. Fags are important as well.) We believe this entry to be unmitigated bollocks. However if you know different, if you are a zoologist or specialist in frogs anuses, please write in. If you’d like to write in just to go "aaaaaah, anonymous user is a vast liar and probably GAY", then that’s all to the good too.

We can’t even guess how you’d go about finding a frogs anus.

A Black Country idiot.

Our school had pull-back partition walls separating some rooms. When we were upstairs in French, we used to throw planes down at a class diagonally below us. Their teacher usually went bananas at us but one day as a plane was slowly wafting down towards her, she looked up sharply and her left breast fell out of her dress. She didn't notice. Her entire class did. She ended up having a nervous breakdown.

Start of a Muslim chant. Teachers and Muslim pupils react badly if it is sung to the tune of 'Everybody Dance Now' by C&C Music Factory.

Sorry to crash your entry darlin’, but even us mighty editors can’t submit new stories while the backlog remains so big. (It’s my only motivation for wading through most of the fliddy tat we get sent, I can tell you.) (Just joshing, Log thinks it’ll sex up the site a bit if I’m all stern and authoritative. Fucking perv.) Anyway, our school consisted of about two hundred white kids and one black girl. The teachers were afraid to ask her what sort of "black" she was, in case they looked racist, so to play it safe they got us to learn about all the other religions in the world that weren’t Anglo-Saxon, the better to acclimatise her to our culture. This culminated in an RE lesson where we were told to split up and write a song about one religion per group. Our group came up with the wildly popular "S.I.K.H". Sung to the tune of YMCA, it went:

S.I.K.H, it’s fun to be an S.I.K.H/
You can worship five Ks/
Wear a turban on your head/
If you don’t want to do that, be a Jew instead, S.I.K.H…

If memory serves correct I played the letter H. -Susan.

In a similar vein to The Fog there was The Lair, sequel to The Rats. It had a juicy scene in but at least these lovers got to finish humping before they both got killed. It was my first encounter with anything vaguely pornographic and as such was read and re-read so many times the book fell apart. I can still almost quote it verbatim. "At 25, Alan was up and coming, at 34 Babs was down and hadn't been coming enough..."

It goes on to descibe how he'd taken her over the filing cabinets and she'd dragged him yelping round the office with his bollocks tied by his tie. Still, they were having an affair so they probably deserved to get eaten by gigantic fuckoff rats.

(Also, in Creed, there was a bit where a nasty lady wanked off the hero and wiped her fanny with his "juices", (what a word, Mr. Herbert, what a word!) which created hundreds of little sex ghosts that floated around the room. I think James Herbert needs to give his mother a ring and start asking questions –Susan.)

Even better, if you blue tack one of those plastic craft knives into the fold down the centre of the aeroplane, so that the blade protrudes from the front of the aircraft, it becomes a highly accurate and lethal weapon of terror that will easily lodge into walls, blackboards, flesh etc.

Please don't try this at home, school or anywhere else.

(Unless you think it would be really funny, of course -Susan.)

When queuing outside classrooms, since one is only allowed to enter when the teacher arrives and gives the OK, there tends to be a certain degree of pushing. Should there be pushing then the pushee may shout 'frot frot frot' or 'frotter' or 'oh goodie, frottage'.

BMX boys have a lot of fun,
sticking their handlbars up their bum.

This is true.

Telling a bully that he is bullying you is one of the less effective way of stopping the bullying. You are most likely to get punched for the unnecessary commentary.
Employed with this exact effect by one Stuart Bywater, who perhaps believed the bully would look at his fist and say "God, and bullying's wrong, isn't it?" then become a fucking architect or something.

A Dildo Inserted Deeply Adds Stimulation. I was very proud of that one.

Taking the theme 'famous people' perhaps a little laterally, nine members of my school arrived at the sixth form Christmas party dressed as Klansmen and attempted to burn a six-foot crucifix in the quad. Only the fact that it wouldn't catch light prevented them as the teaching staff looked on in puzzled but benign indifference.

Hypothetical shop from which the really absurdly rotund female teachers get their dresses.

Bright sunlight. Teacher's eyes. Reflections from the watch glass. Interrogation simulation. Yum yum.

Verb: to parka
The act of swinging a smaller child by the fur-rimmed hood of their Lord Anthony parka until rippage, flight or boredom ensues.

More fun can be had by tying the parka's cords to the metal bars on the bus home, giving the wearer two choices - a new coat or an unplanned trip to town, missing Grange Hill.

Once stuck in the mud, you could dive violently into the back of unpopular people’s legs and send them sprawling to the floor. Being technically still paralysed, they would have to rise to their feet and remain still, allowing you to do it again. And again.

Leo was two years older than me and liked to take amyl nitrate so as to make anal sex easier. After one such session, he managed rather skilfully to curl an enormous turd around the seat of one of the toilets. This was a very traditional boarding school and since I was in the bottom year, as a "fag" I was called upon to remove the offending poo. I was able to do so successfully by using a silver trowel that the Queen Mum had used to lay the foundation stone to one of our school buildings. Eight years later my brother was at the same school and told me about the apocryphal "Legend of Leo's Log" little knowing that (a) it was a true story and that (b) I had been the one who'd had to clean up the foul mess.

Log says...Possibly this is made up. I don't care. A silver trowel! My sides are bursting with class outrage! Like an episode of Citizen Smith! Sadly this submission came anonymously but whoever you are, we salute you and your shitty past. You're head of ICI now aren't you?

In junior school a boy called Darren showed me the Vulcan Hand Fanny. When I looked at it, I had no idea what it was supposed to be.

"It's a woman's dick," Darren explained enthusiastically.

If you tried to charge more than 45p for your cups of tea the game would stop you doing it, explaining that "It's cheaper with British Rail".

An amusing way to spend a physics class. We all had to sit in the lab on stools that had small cushions on. These cushions were fastened to the stools with elastic, and they could be removed. In a moment of pure genius, one boy farted while sitting down, then got up, picked the cushion off the chair, walked behind the unpopular boy, and held the cushion to his face. This was the birth of the first fart transporting mechanism, and amused everyone for the remainder of the term.

And come on, who hasn't farted onto something and then smelt it out of curiosity?

Interesting how an assembly can be held on the issue of someone (me) shitting in a urinal without mentioning anything at all. For example...
"The cleaning ladies have complained about someone inappropriately using the facilities... and that the person responsible knows what we are talking about mean by that and I hopes it will not ever happen again, because measures will have to be taken if such an occurrence should repeat itself."

At aged 10, I got to first touch a girl's private parts under the table in school. It was very sexy. I was ten, and she pulled down her knickers to her knees under her dress during art class. I used the classic "dropping a pencil" scam, and went under the table.
I am now 32, and I should probably get a new fantasy.
(Uncle Log advises : why not re-enact the fantasy with a current partner or prostitute, then have sex? You might have an erotic version of that thing where you hear half a song and it's stuck in your head until you hear the whole thing. An important footnote to this advice is that the re-enactment should NOT be with a 10 year old girl. Unless she's got lovely tits.)

Is also known as a Dirty Sanchez. An alternative is to run the finger all round the mouth giving a poo goatee rather than just a poo tash. This is known as a Dirty Beppe, and is considerably more difficult to apply.

Inevitably there came a time when a teacher would ask the pupils to make a list of their names- with luck it was a supply teacher who didn't know who you all were and would then read the names out. In these cases, it always paid to have some handy rude spoonerism names to pad out the list. E.g.
Betty Swollocks
Paul Smeenis
Mary Hinge
Kelly Smunt
Joe Blobb
Tex Soy
Trevor Nyanalsecks etc.
Not to be confused with more direct humour of names like Mike Hunt, Hugh Jarse etc.

"Would you suck a black man's willy for a banana?"
"Would you suck a black man's willy for TWO bananas?"
"Well what WOULD you suck a black man's willy for, then?"

Hilarity will ensue, as assuredly as night follows day.

Also consistently staggering is the inappropriate naming of a child as Richard with certain surnames. Hare, Spray, Spring, Lovatt are just four of the ones I know, and that's not even counting the hilarious Jasper Carrott "Richard Dick aka Double Dick" routine. Yes, I know it's old stuff, but if it's good enough for King Carrott, it's good enough for The Law of the Fucking Playground.

Shinny the shoe was probably a nice kid but was never going to fit in because he had a briefcase, and even more unforgivably, shiny shoes. Word quickly spread that it was good luck to touch Shinny's briefcase and his shoes at the same time - but you must never speak to him during the act, as this would immediately undo the good fortune.

Shinny led a distraught and solitary life, and the nickname accompanied him into his early career. I like to think his personal accessory choices may have helped him along a bit in the real world of work, as some kind of compensation.

Spray the tips of your shoes for around twenty seconds with deodorant, light it, and kick random objects about - can and should include attempts at kicking fellow humans.
Very briefly became Fireball - the same principle as above but applied to an old Mitre football instead of one's footwear. Briefly, because people started getting hurt.

Making sure the board rubber was fully loaded, run up to someone, and start battering the baord rubber with your hand, or batter still, a second, fully loaded, board rubber, producing a cloud of chalk dust which would envelop the unfortunate victim. Skill (the kind in the English non medical dictionary) was required not to suffer blowback.
If blowback does occur, however, take advantage of the situation and have a cartoon fight, in which spectators will only see the occasional arm or leg coming out of the dust cloud as you shout "Ooyah!" and "Take that!"

When deciding which library book to take out from the school library, simply hold the book by the covers, and turn it upside down. The 'well thumbed' pages, containing either breasts or imaginative death, would fall apart.
More pages breaks mean more racy passages, which you can then learn and mumble under your breath instead of saying the Lord's Prayer in Assembly.

Then you can do it backwards, and in your dad's apartment...
sex all day in dad's apartment

after diarrhoea I detest anal sex... whether as giver or receiver is left to the imagination.

Actually, at our school, the question "what does a ship do when it arrives at the harbour?" was followed by the questioner immediately shouting "Ties up!" (while flicking the victim's tie up into their face) and "anchors down" (while stamping on their foot).

Saves all that fucking about dropping your trousers and trying to take a shit so fast the person doesn't have a chance to take a single step back and tell everyone you're being a full-blown bronno.

When playing Battleships in study period, under the tolerant eye of a female teacher, be sure to report unlucky guesses with a plaintive "Miss...", thus ensuring that she constantly has to look up from her work.

A unit or activity of hard work. When a classmate exerts more than the accepted 'minimum effort' in the classroom, mime the motion of spooning a substance out of a container. This substance is "effort" - feel free to say "eff-ort" whilst spooning.
For extreme cases, imitating a JCB operator or the motion of the Channel tunnel excavator is required.

Hold out your palm and tell someone that you have a three inch man standing there. Ask them to tap the man on the head. Then ask them to shake his little hand. Then ask them to close their eyes and poke the man up his little arse. At this point you quickly place your pursed lips where the man's arse would be, so your friend sticks his finger in your puckered, wet arsemouth.
At this point, your friend will probably open their eyes, as they weren't expecting the little invisible man to have a tangibly wet anus. You will be looking up to see their reaction, pretty much like a dog. It's difficult to know who's in the most undignified position, really.

When you fart, you say 'Texas'. If someone else farts and you say 'Sixer' before they say 'Texas', you're allowed to give them six dead arms without fear of reprisal. Though you probably won't want to do so straight away, what with the cloud of their eggy banner still mushrooming from their backside.

Homer said this on an episode of The Simpsons. Your fame's spreading, buddy!

Kim Charnley (brain-box, future head boy) arrived for rugby without his shorts, and berating his mum for not packing them, was told to get some from the gyppo box. Only one pair was in there, and they were covered in what looked to be excrement. Disgusted, Kim exclaimed "Uggh someones shat in their shorts and I've got to wear them", while the rest of the changing room jeered and hollared as only teenage boys can, but we all fell silent as he announced excitedly that there was a nametag stitched into them. The air was thick with anticipation, the imagined short-soiler was about to be named and shamed! Imagine the fuel for taunting this would provide. Suddenly Kim's face fell as he realised why his mother hadn't packed his shorts: "fuck, they're mine"

Same idea as Ottoman's, but we'd first start with "joe-a", "joe-b" etc. Happless victim ends up with "joe-e". After much laughter and pointing, we'd move on to round 2 - "a-con" etc. The victim usually half cottoned on, so your mates'd leave a slight pause after "c-con". Victim usually jumped at chance of getting in early (or so they thought) to beat mate no 5 and shouts "d-con". Double the laughter and pointing.

There was a kid at primary school who claimed that he dreamt that he was eating a giant marshmallow and when he woke up, he had eaten his pillow.

I didn't know that this was a widely-known joke until recently when I was perusing a children's joke book.

By far the most amusing use of a punctured football is to form it into a bowl shape, place it on your head and strut round the playground, hilariously pretending to be bald.

Marcus Smith and his group in the drama class were supposed to mime an occupation. When the first three members began to mime wiping their arses with their hands and smearing it on the walls the teacher intervened. Marcus pleaded successfully for patience, whereupon he and the remaining members of the little group entered the tableaux as (ta-da!) "the men who spray down the cell walls during prison 'dirty protests'".

I had a maths teacher who wore a t-shirt with a picture of a t-shirt on it, and that pictured t-shirt had a picture of a t-shirt on, and so on.
Pupils who had seen the Twilight Zone lived in constant fear of turning their head around quickly enough to see a huge version of themselves looking down at them.

If the tupperware is tinged orange from some contact with tomatoes many years ago, then yes, I'm afraid it's bad.

Skinny banana long legs with webbed feet,
Went to the pictures and couldn't find a seat,
When the pictures started everybody farted,
Skinny banana long legs with webbed feet.
But what happened next? I'm not sure if I'd have stopped and watched the film. Not standing up.

Our Biology teacher, when confronted by yet another gem of witticism from me and my friends, responded with the words 'what's wrong with you Olifant, did you have too many comedy biscuits this morning?'
This phrase has become legendary.

Oh, but those things DID have a name. They were called 'cootie-catchers'.
And yes, I owned a mood ring, but it was a GIFT.

Also available as an adjective, scopey.

Sorry to be a spoil sport, but for god's sake, can't you see that this is clearly a made-up story? Blasting cap cherry bombs? Six cans of whipped cream? And the clincher - the fake gun, like in a bad comedy movie, with a flag that unfurls with a message on it? And think about the mechanics of setting that up compared to the mechanics they teach in science class. And then think about the force required to hurl six cans of cream into the hallway and cause them to burst. And then think about the mental agility of someone who incorrectly writes the phrase "your gay" on a flag, instead of "you're gay". Then put it all together, and you'll come to the conclusion that this is nothing more than a really poor lie.

Can't you pay more attention to the posts here? I was about to complain about the post about hitting the frog on the back with a hammer, but I refrained. (Think about that one - surely the frog would have moved with people approaching it, and even it not, where the hell did the kid get a 'claw hammer' from at that particular moment?)

While this site used to be the Financial Times of playground law encyclopaedias on the web, it's fast turning into The Sun.

Sometimes, even the clearly made-up has merit. Prisoner Cell Block H was "made up" but we all enjoyed it. What we enjoy even more though, is when readers get as bitter, angry and fuming at submissions as we do. We’ve dragged you to our level and we love it. Point taken, though, and well made too. Marvellous. xxx

Surely that should be Turdis?

It's very possible to hit the ceiling. I saw someone do it once and thought it so incredible that I tried to emulate the technique myself. However, from where I was standing, it looked like he had held his foreskin shut, before letting a thin jet of extra high pressure piss shoot to the ceiling. I tried this, and it ended up filling up rather too rapidly for control, then I released my fingers a little too much and the whole 'balloon' of piss emptied over my shoes.
The point I was missing? You grip the actual end of the cock itself, pinching the piss hole half shut so that it's really small. Then start the flow, and you'll have a fantastically long-reaching stream. Great for standing at one urinal and pissing sideways into one that's about two or three down.

Take a Jammy Dodger biscuit, put it on the edge of the table, whip out your dick, and take a polaroid of your member touching the biscuit.
Warning. This will not work with a regular camera because the lab will call the police and you will be arrested for fucking a nostalgic biscuit.
Take a packet of Jammy Dodgers into school. Offer them around, with assurance that they haven't been spat on. The second the biscuit is in their mouth, show them the Polaroid.
The photo is good for around three packets of Jammy Dodgers before word gets around that it's a joke. Or that you're the guy who puts his dick on Jammy Dodgers.

In my early school days we had a quite famous rhyme:
"Winnetou der Weise spricht:
Laute Forze stinken nicht,
aber die leisen,
die um das Arschloch kreisen,
vor ihnen hüte dich,
denn sie stinken fürchterlich"

For the non-german-speaking, here is a rough translation:
"Winnetou the wise says:
Loud farts don't stink,
but beware of the silent ones,
that circle around the arsehole,
for they smell terrible."

Winnetou was a native-american character from the popular cowboy and indian stories written by Karl May.

Damn. An autistic friend and I thought of this name for a device, too, but in our case "Retardis" was the name of a machine which harnessed the unpredictability of retards to travel through time.

Susan's joke reminds me of another joke. A man called Mr. Bigtittedladytocomeroundandblowall-Thefactoryworkers (he was posh, hence the double-barrelled name. He had fallen on hard times, hence working at a factory despite being posh enough to have a double-barrelled name) starts work at a factory. His wife rings up to speak to him and says to the foreman "Do you have a Bigtittedladytocomeroundandblowall-Thefactoryworkers there?"

The foreman replies "No we don't. The closest we've got is Maude the tea-lady, who's a bit of a slag, but never with me, the bitch."

It was told to me by my friend Billy Yourjokeisthemostcontrivedjokei'veeverheardanditsucksspackers'herpesoffaspork. We used to tease him about having apostrophes in his name, but he insisted it was how his name was spelled. We drove him to suicide. Grrrrrreat days.

'jewish flick' - another semitic footballing term. This refers to an attempt to control a ball that is behind you by bending your knee and raising your foot to around arse-height. Almost always unsuccessful.

Popular in the playgrounds of North London, hence the name, which is consequently not actually anti-Semitic. Consequently, not actually that funny.

I'd gladly do so, Susan, but I keep forgetting my damn password.

A book graffiti campaign was launched to free Deidre Rachid - a fictional character wrongly - but fictionally - imprisoned in a (fictitious) jail.

The best one featured a young child praying to god, with the caption "Please sir, free Deidre" crudely inserted in a speech-bubble above his head.

We like to think our little campaign in some way influenced the decision of the Coronation Street writers to release the chicken-necked cunt.

>> pick up magic wand
I do not know how to "pick up magic wand"
>>fuck right off
I do not know how to "fuck right off"

The story of a similar "gay tray" also occurred at my school. I attend a school which is subject to more riducule and steroetyping in regards to gay jokes. My school is a ballet school where we study the art of ballet. Unluckily for us we are steroetyped to be gay. Some are gay but of the most part male ballet dancers are not gay. The relevence of the gay tray is the fact that our cafeteria in our residence has ALL blue or green plastic plates and clear cups. However ther is one Pink coloured plate and one pink cup. These items are known as the "gay set" and whoever takes them it thought to have "caught gay" (which of course is contagious) and whoever touches this gay person is said to have caught gay, and so on it goes.

A joke my friend made up:

Q: What do you call 7 gay guys at the bar(re)?
A: Ballet class

Mrs. Fenton (openly nicknamed "Jabba the Slut") was emboldened by the optimism that a bright sunny day can bring. Her mind full of possibilities, she walked out of a two-hour lesson around half-way through, and never returned.

We had outside toilets with no roof at my primary school. John Climie was to be able to piss over the wall (must've been 9 feet high), with a whip like flick of the hips. We'd come out and see kids looking skywards, holding their palms upwards, checking for rain.

Craig Eady shouted this at our art teacher while standing approximately six inches behind him.
Sir's reaction proved that he was entirely, or at least partially, deaf.

Really? Gosh. Whilst I appreciate the offer of sex, I'm deeply in love with someone else. If you have nice tits, I'll accept a picture, but that's as far as I'm willing to go.

Dear Uncle Log:

Disturbed by my own perversion, I took your advice and decided to act out this fantasy with my wife. We went to a restaurant, and I asked her to pull her knickers down to mid-thigh, then I 'dropped' my fork and bent down to take a quick look. It was quite disappointing in how little a turn on it was. So now I'm cured, and have moved on to another fantasy, this time involving a healthy middle aged woman.

Love, The Poster who Posted the Above Post.

French Jinx
I have it from a very reliable source that when a jinx arises in french playgrounds they say "you shall be cuckolded before I".
Nobody wants to be cuckolded - not because it's the fearsome prospect of being married to an unfaithful wife; more because it sounds like it's got "cock" and "hole" in it, and is therefore referring to the fearsome prospect of your unfaithful mum.

If you tell anyone that you like Pink Floyd in year eight, you will be singled out as a bender.

When Mr Craig asks you to 'parse' part of a Latin sentence, you must reply with this answer. Mr Craig will then mutter "Oh, God" and put his head in his hands before weeping quietly.

Also the amount of time required to shag Jenny Evans 'round the back of the sportshall after school.

Maybe they provided the biscuit.

It's spelt, 'inappropriate', by the way.
We know. It's, um, ironic. Oh piss off you KEENER.

Well, it's only partly true. Dickon got the crown, not the horn.

It may not sound like a good idea, but when I did it, nothing happened. Probably because, living in Bromley, there were no gangsters.

At nine years old, word reached our rural primary school of the existence of amazing characters called 'Jews'. David Nichol explained: they looked just like you and me - the only difference being that if you threw a penny at them, they would pick it up.

Word got around about these Jews, in utter isolation from reality. Those two worlds colliding during a Nativity service, when James Dunlop read from the New Testament. He managed to finish 'he shall be King of the Jews' before collapsing into laughter, along with the angels and choir.

Walking home from school with your mates? Found a nice, fresh dog poo? The conditions are perfect, so why not play the Poo Game?
Stand face to face with your mate, the poo between you, and link hands over the poo in a soldier's grip. The name of the game is to push and pull your mate until he steps in the poo.
Simple, effective, entertaining. Best practiced when your mate is wearing new shoes with good, deep treads.

If you've found a dog poo on the way home from school, but are bored of the Poo Game", why not go solo and bedazzle your friends with a flamboyant "poo dance"?
Based on the (pooless) Scottish sword dance, the protagonist cavorts above the poo to the strains of a pretend bagpipe. Points are awarded for technical complexity and how close the Clarks goes to the poo without touching it.
The game ends when the Dancer either stands in the poo or gets bored and, if it is a dry poo, kicks it at a spectator.

I had the same misinterpretation for several years. The source: my older sister's 70's "horror" book "Flowers in the Attic". On the mostly-black front cover there was the cheery tag-line: "Kidnapped, Raped, Murdered". Beneath this there was a picture of some bloody scissors which, I presumed at the time, were used for raping.

I used to think that as well, but Telephone are in fact not even slightly fictional.
I know this because when some friends of mine went on a French exchange trip, two of the first questions they got asked by the French kids were "ecoutez-vous le musique 'Hard Rock'?" and then "ecoutez-vous la groupe 'Telephone'?".
See them on Amazon here
Apparently Telephone are pretty crap, which is surprising, considering they're a hard rock band called Telephone.

MC Hammer sounds a bit like MC Spanner. This was combined with "Wanking Spanners" to make MC Spanner a term for wanker.
Fairly basic, but always a pleasure to see someone interrupt a conversation with - Stop - Spanner Time - then mime wanking for a while.

In the long lost valley of the arses,
by the sign of the Swinging Tit,
There Hu-Flung-Dung was murdered,
by his brother Hu-Flung-Shit.
This was printed on a bus stop outside our school. My big brother's mate conceived her first child in that bus stop. Awwww!

In certain circles (such as the US Military), B.C.G. stands for birth control glasses, referring to the thick lensed and framed specs that could prevent most anybody from being pulled. Nerd Glasses.

The Leo's Log story reminds me of 'The Mummy'. The Mummy was a legendarily large poo that my friend laid in the toilet at school. Being at a private school, we were well trained in flushing the toilet after using it, so the thought of leaving the turd in the bowl for all to see was disgusting to him. And rightly so, for who but the most filthy comprehensive school pupils would not flush a toilet?
Since the turd had a good six inches protruding from the water, he wrapped his hand liberally with toilet paper, reached in, and rescued it. He wrapped it up in reams of toilet paper and smuggled it out to the playground.
He then proceeded to show us what at first glance could have been a baby mummy snatched straight out of the Egyptian Room at the British Museum. But no, to our even greater delight, he unravelled the wrapping to reveal a firm, long, and generally mammoth turd.

An effeminate Adrian. Also known as Aidsdrian.

There's every chance that we did know what our woodwork teacher meant, when he said "pack it in or i'll stick my size nine up your backsides". There's a considerable possibility that we knew he meant his shoe, in a non-penetrative sense.
But we never let him know that.

To some teachers, a good excuse for being half an hour late for a lesson. Trialled by Matthew Kelly (not the), this excuse was audacious enough to make most of the classroom laugh. The supply teacher took grave offence, and lectured the class on the merits of a career in percussion, and that artistic musical instincts should be encouraged, not mocked.
Dim. Bint.

The time-honoured 'giving somebody a sweet that has previously been inserted in your arse' trick had become so tired, that no one would ever accept a sweet from our gang. Then one day, we came up with this variation.
The boiled sweet was passed around a group of about nine of us, all of whom rubbed it around inside our cracks before it was carefully rewrapped. The next person that walked into the room was subsequently invited to participate in a beautifully choreographed game of 'scrambles'.
Havoc followed and the sweet changed hands many times before the victim finally emerged triumphant, and with a bummy, shit-flavoured sweet in his mouth. He genuinely believed that we wanted that sweet - I still remember the look of pride on his face at having won.

It was considered 'gay' to touch the arse of a girl (or boy) when I was a youngster, because gayness meant a fondness of bumholes to us ten year olds. It was much later that we learned that heterosexual anal sex was most certainly not gay. If it was, then my wife's newfound love of the exhaust pipe would make me more of a homo than a sickening composite of Quentin Crisp's lips with Graham Norton's hair.
Alternatively, you hetero back-sporkers are just closet homos, and simply aren't MAN enough to admit that they are sur l'autre autobus. Always stick with your first answer, faggot. - Mansh

The fact that "plastic" rhymes with "spastic" led to some speculation that Scopers were made out of the stuff.

Half a pound of nuts and bolts,
Half a pound of plastic.
Stick them in the washing machine,
Out pops a spastic!

The single redeeming feature of this rhyme is the jubilant bursting out of the washing machine by the freshly manufactured spastic. You could almost imagine him with a rose between his teeth and jazz hands.

A similar game to kippering is the game of 'Aaaaah'! To win a round of Aaaah, simply get someone to correct a blatantly false statement. For example;
A and B are listenind to the radio. Wham!'s hit single Careless Whisper begins playing.
A : I hate Adam and the Ants
B : This isn't Adam and...
A : Aaaaah!
Annoying yet rewarding, even as a 28 year old.

I must have attended the only nice person's school in the country. The worst bullying ever that I can remember was that there was a fat girl who didn't get much sun and was rather pale. She also had very pale hair. She was like a self-imposed albino. We used to call her 'Moomim' because she kind of looked like one of those cute hippo-like creatures on TV at the time.
Had she attended one of your schools, she'd have been called 'Albino Cunt Bitch', repeatedly abused to the verge of mass rape, then exposed to some kind of (dog) poo-related activity that you're all so fond of.
Readers! Have you had surgery that has replaced your real memories with birdsong and rainbows? If so, please use this entry to tell us your heartwarming tales of calling fat kids Mr Healthy Appetite, and calling the effeminate kid Captain Diversity. We'd love to hear how idyllic life was for you. - Log

In Upper Sixth, our form-tutor noticed a boy called Gideon, who happened through no fault of his own to be Jewish, fiddling absentmindedly with some lab apparatus. To a shocked classroom, he called out "Stop that, you thieving little Jewboy."
From then on, that teacher was owned.

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.

My friend's name was Clint Walker. You've probably already guessed, but with a couple of quick pen strokes, you have Cunt Wanker.
Every school year was a dash to steal his books from his bag, administer these pen strokes, then politely return the books.

AIDS can also stand for....

"Adios, Infected Dick Sucker!" Chuck in a Speedy Gonzales impersonation and you're away.

Gerard Big Head had a big head. During a school trip to Chester Zoo he took his shoes and socks off and jumped in the carp pool to collect all the copper.

As well as strobe lights and computer games, pencil cases may cause eppie fits. In particular, when thrown with precision at a sufferer's head.

Norman McCaig was a scottish poet who so impressed us with his poetry and name that we rechristened him Nurmin MacQuaggey and recorded his adventures in cartoon form as the Norman McCaig Saga.
This three-part epic featured Norman meeting someone and saying "I am the poet McCaig", before receiving pieces of sage advice.
His three oracles were a man with a large hammer, Yoda and the Jewish Cheese Man. Jewish Cheese Man regularly appeared in our workbook defacing, and had a book of Norman's poetry hidden in his large cossack-style hat.

Actually, a dubbins is an old term for a wank used by prozzies in days gone by. As in, "It's a shilling for a dubbins, half a crown for a suck and a sovereign for all the way."

I managed to use the online love calculator to work out that I apparently love my ex girlfriend 99%, ie. more than I'll ever love anyone else.
Has anyone else had a similarly depressing experience, such as finding their name on a gravestone with 1974-TOMORROW written underneath?

If anyone is queer and gay enough to ask you what time it was (the stinking pooves), the proper response was to look at your bare wrist and inform the aforementioned cock-fairy that it was,
Half past the monkey's ass, and a Quarter to his balls.
Honestly, where do these gaymosexuals get off?

If you want a bunch of crap hackneyed jokes to fill your website why don't you just buy the FHM pub joke book and copy out the entire thing putting the word "teacher" in where appropriate. The child in this story is even called Leroy for fucks sake! Whats happened to the editing of this site? Remove this bucket of shit story now and ban whoever submitted this story as an example of what hapens to lying dick-faced asshole turds.

Phil: anonymous user, you make a compelling argument. I am afraid to admit that I was the foolish editor who allowed this one through, though in my defence I was pissed at the time.

But bizarrely, not the letters n and t.

It's spelled 'spelled' by the way. Irony in a basket.

The Polo Challenge can be adapted to form the Fisherman's Friend Supermatch Game. One Fisherman's Friend is pretty hot, and will clear out your sinusses. Three or four, and you'll be batting the back of your head and weeping steam. Put the whole pack in your mouth, and a curious anaesthesia will take you, and your mouth will puddle with spicy drool. Racing to eat the Fisherman's Friends in this state will result in you biting your own mouth to shreds, numb and oblivious to the trauma you are causing to gob and tooth.
As played by a rosy-cheeked, spangly-chompered teenage Shane McGowan.

And America's middle-east policy.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Rory Bremner has left the building.

Calling somebody a test tube baby is a great insult; because as well as suggesting that they haven't got a mum, it also proves that their dad likes going to the hospital and wanking into a dirty cup for 5p.
a: "Can you climb up glass?"
b: "No."
a: "Then how did you get out of your test tube? - Is your star sign 'Pyrex'?"

Used as a way of protecting yourself from girl germs, boy germs, David germs, etc. Simply clutch the area that comes into contact with a boy, girl, or David, and shout germlock!.
Leave it too late and you might accidentally lock the germs into the affected area, so be careful.

On cold frosty mornings poo found on the pavement could be more fearlessly kicked at passers by, safe in the knowledge that only the freshest, steamiest of bobs would not be frozen solid. Sadly the impact on the target is less impressive thanks to the very same splat-failure.
Life is a compromise.

Our cupboard-bound RE teacher was heard muttering something about strawberry 'Opal Fruits'. I suppose we all have our individual preoccupations.

Actually, there was loads more to it than that just spunk bubbles like a black man's toothpaste;

Let me tell you a story 'bout a man named Jed,
Couldn't find a toilet so he went behind a shed,
Couldn't find the bogroll so he used a bit of grass,Up popped Ellie May and shot him in the ass.
Next thing you know old Jed's in bed,

Wanking himself till his balls turned red,
erm, can't remember the rest rumtitum...
Next thing you know old Jed's a millionaire,
Selling condoms at 2p a pair,
2p, 4p, even two bob,
It all depends on the size of your knob.

Thank you very much ladies and gentlemen.

Here follows a counterpoint to the complaints we have received regarding this submission. Obviously, this person is not a spokesperson for the entire disabled community, and as this is the internet, we don't know if they even "really are" a disabled (there may be a give-away in the use of the phrase "step down from my soapbox"*) but they do make an interesting point.

*Oh what a shit joke. Sorry. Um, I only put it in to "test" you. Please don't run over my hands with your wheelchair, if you are one of the wheelchair ones. Xx

Excellent story Ian. As a disabled person nothing angers me more than do-gooders moaning about stories like these. It's hangovers like them that make decisions like having children in wheelchairs pushed at speed on running tracks.

If something is funny and it happened, that's life, live with it, it's the PC society that has been created today by moaning, do-gooder muppets that makes living in the UK today like living in a totalitarian state. Shut your faces and let people live their lives and laugh, life's too f*****g short.
I now step down from my soapbox.

A fairly rare second year pastime, which involved staring 'longingly' at the subject of ridicule during lessons.
When they turned to look back, you'd sharply look away, and busy yourself with your work, perhaps putting the finishing touches to a pencil sketch of your victim.
This is continued throughout the lesson, until the victim is either irritated to fuck, or harbouring his first nervous hopes of love.
For instance, Graham Matthews always reacted with this game with a genderbending cocktail of embarressment, anger and curiosity.
Pretending to be gay outed him to all.

Also; piece of lavatory paper.

Putting a banger in a dog poo is all very well, but it isn't playing with the life of another living thing.
  • Place a banger in the path of a large black slug.
  • Wait until the slug gets close. Move the banger if the slug changes direction.
  • Light the banger.
  • Watch the slugs antennae spring up in terror, as it realises what is happening.
  • Run backwards as the slug strains to do a 180.
  • Try to find traces of big black slug in the surrounding area for the proper, respectful burial.

In years seven to nine, there was a persistent rumour that you shouldn't touch the toilet doorknobs with your bare hands because people pissed on them.
While it was true that the doorknobs were always wet, and that in a world where children shit up walls and in hats, it wasn't inconceivable that disturbed children would stand there and piss directly onto the doorknob, I still feel that it had more to do with the broken hand driers.

And the non-boarding school version: quizzing a sweet after sticking it up your bum.
(WHAT? What are you talking about, anonymous user? Why would you quiz a sweet after sticking it up your bum?
"Why were you up my bum, sweet?"
You put it there, you buffoon/'nana!
Not to mention that
egginess doesn't apply to things actually being up your bum. That's sulphurous farts, not shit-smeared Swizzle Sticks you've had jammed up your ring. Leave this website immediately. If you haven't already left it in the nine months since you posted this entry. Sorry!

Log this funny with my addition of a tips pages walkthrough?

Phil it's not

Log says...fuck you I'm approving it anyway

A text-only adventure. I always got stuck on the bit where you had to cross the river in the bathtub with polygonal holes in it.

Well, anonymous user, we can help you there! In the true spirit of Crystal Tips and Alistair, here is the solution to that tricky bathtub teaser! To plug its holes, USE TETRAHEDRON, USE CUBE, USE ICOSAHEDRON, USE OCTAHEDRON, USE DODECAHEDRON. To make yourself light enough, DROP BOTTLE, DROP PHIAL. Then LOOK BATH to traverse the flow. Does anyone else have any problems with 1980's text-only adventures? Have you tried asking Gandalf to carry you?

"I jonny well do!!"

Often, boys will believe that girls only have one hole - a universal hole for everything. A hole from which drops piss that stinks a bit like poo. And poo that has the golden glisten of piss and babies.
As our understanding inevitablly developed, we discovered that the front hole had ANOTHER two holes in it, like women were a damn Mandlebrot set of ever more specific holes.
One boy who clung to the single-hole theory also believed that a vibrator was a kind of footspa, and that you could ask your hairdresser for a blowjob.

Raise the volume and tempo on the keyboard to maximum. Then, start the Bossa Nova drum pattern. This will transform a GCSE music class into an impromptu early-90s hardcore techno dance club.
Recreate the rave piano effect by pressing one note with the forefinger of each hand, like a retarded typist.

If a music teacher is using the National Anthem to illustrate some point or another, it is your duty to the Queen to stand up every time it's played. It's doubly important to do this if the treasonous order is given not to.
If the national anthems of other countries are played, be a part of the global village by standing for those, too. If you are told not to stand to these, say "ar, sir, don't be racist".

In an attempt to avoid bangers being confiscated by our teachers we used to hide them in our shoes as we got back on the coach - amazingly we got away with it year after year. We once stuck a large banger in the exhaust pipe of the school caretaker's car which made a surprising mess of the back of his vehicle.

Reads so much better if you read it out of context (as I did) and visualise sausages instead. - Phil

Nothing odd about the story. Blindies use balls with bells in them to play soccer. The trouble is when the ball stops moving the bell stops ringing.

Oh PLEASE let this be true! Yes, it's cruel to mock the afflicted, but if they voluntarily choose to run about in the dark listening out for a jangling hamster toy, they deserve everything they get, frankly.

A : Have you heard the gestapo joke?
b : No...
(A slaps B hard around the around the face and shouts in a comedy Nazi accent)
A : Liar!
If the question is answered with a weary "Yes", then slap them and call them a liar anyway; disorientation is a perfectly valid method of interrogation.

Another situation in which you should never shout mum - and there are many - is when you have been stung by a bee. And you are in your shorts, during a P.E. lesson. And you are running towards your teacher, who is a man.
Although the hysteria will get everyone sent to the changing rooms early, you will never convince anyone that your mother isn't a big hairy man.

We also used Jig-Cal. In the days when children were better programmers than adults, one friend managed to adapt the program so that whatever choices you made, no matter how much you loved animals or wigs, you were always advised to give up your education and become a Mujahadeen Freedom Fighter immediately.

Poem found on the wall of a "hut classroom" outside the school.
Baa baa baa, the sheep is in the field.
Baa baa baa, he's keeping his eyes peeled.
Baa baa baa, he's feeling kind of funny.
Baa baa baa, he's looking for his mummy.
The poem then becomes more broken in style, perhaps reflecting the panic of the young sheep. It continues;
He spots his mum in the corner,
He runs to hug his mummy,
But it's not her!
It's a great big rock!
The poem then climaxes with;
Oh no!
No-one can argue that this is the best poem ever.

No, Jesus no, it's this;
Down at fragle rock,
Grab a fraggle by its cock,
Swing it round and round,
Then bash it on the ground.
If it wants some more,
Jam its bollocks in the door,
If it isnt dead -
Kick it in the head.
If you think its right,
Blow it up with dynamite,
Pick up all the bits,
And throw them in the bin...
Throw them in the bin...
Throw them in the bin...
Although this starts out as a routine session of Fraggle-bashing, it's worth noting that the second verse is done with the Fraggle's permission, and the third verse (the Fraggle probably being unconscious by this point) only carries on the violence if the attacker deems it right. Say, if the Fraggle had been touching up the Doozers, in which case the filthy little bastard deserves everything it gets.

I don't know what kind of crazy smack you guys are on but pinfinger is :
  1. Getting a candle from art class.
  2. Melting the wax onto the tips of your fingers.
  3. Before the wax hardens, insert a drawing pin.
  4. Scratch the face of the fucking dick who grassed you up for spitting off the top of the English block.

Make sure they know it's a pinfinger, otherwise you might be confused with a girlie-fighting fingernailed ladyboy.
An addition to this basic pinfinger is to write AIDS over a bottle of Quink, and dip the pin into it before attacking. Make sure your victim sees this.

I very much wanted this to be true, BUT:
1) I could not be bothered to leaf through the entire Bible
2) I do not own one
However, as 30% of the Internet consists of Christian Americans, I thought a quick Google search would confirm or deny. Here are the helpful, and conclusive, results:

Stock phrase from a teacher, when confronted by pupils making a mess.
Best met with the reply "yes, they are". Because, after all, they fucking are.

The inventors of Infra-Red Remote Control watches allowed the disruption of many an Apaches video.
Adjust the volume.
Hopefully, the television will be before on-screen displays of the volume, so it would just seem like a mechanical glitch. The teacher will be concerned, but not enough to stop the video.
Pause. Resume.
Timing is everything. First, quickly stop-start the video to let everyone know something is amiss. The second time, not too long after the first, and only resume when the teacher gets out of her chair, leaving her hovering in mid-air, unsure which way to go. Then leave it for a minute or two, until everyone thinks it's working again, then pause and leave it until she actually gets to the video before you hit play. Then hit pause the second she sits down. When she gets back to the video, move to the next stage.
Fast Forward / Rewind
Convince the teacher that something is seriously wrong by pressing something on your watch immediately after she presses something on the video. She presses play? Hit rewind. Continue until she is hopelessly flustered, and fetches another, more male, teacher.
Resume Normal Service
When the other teacher is in, you obviously let the video run normally. You should also complain that this video on the Bayeux Tapestry is really interesting, and it's frustrating that you can't seem to watch it in the manner the programme makers intended. The other teacher will leave, perhaps rolling his eyes at the flapping woman in his wake.
Tear Her Soul Apart
No mercy. The second he has left the door, bombard the video with everything you've got. The look of pained helplessness and growing panic on her face will inspire sympathy in only the gayest of children.

In the late 80's there was a weekly, Captial radio phone-in about personal/sexual problems. It featured self-appointed sexagonal-aunt Anna Raeburn, and a Doc. Essential listening for all 16 year olds eager to learn about loving relationships, Or the eye-watering ins and outs of butterballing.
One night, Adam Wright was the anonymous caller. After the tragic death of his mother, his dad was forcing him to do the housework. Wearing her frocks and perfume.
As things worsened, he was urging young Adam to pay particularly close attention to the bedroom. In order to show him some fundamentally incorrect love.
Adam was gulping and fighting back tears throughout, and so moving was the concern of Anna and the Doc, that Adam didn't have the heart to tell them - even when his mother called him down for tea - that they'd just been fished in by a fuck-minded teenager.
The TDK D90 containing this conversation was a treasured artefact for many weeks.

Ineffectual racism is crap, because it leaves you looking both morally repugnant AND bloody stupid.
Bullied to the point of "the rage" (q.v.) by a sikh boy, I decided in my desperation to retaliate by being racist, as I'd been told that this was "the very worst kind of all abuse".
Alas, my chick-pea eating, Greenham-common-supporting upbringing got in the way, and all I managed was a rather oblique comment about "things having a rather dark complexion."
He just looked a bit perplexed. However, he must have brooded about it nightly for a long time, because after not seeing him at all for four years, he suddenly approached me and threw me down a stairwell.

In the view of our woodwork (Design/Technology, if you must) teacher, the activity definitional of homosexuality; much more so than the rubbing together of four balls and two dicks.
Mr Hardy: "Where have those two boys gone?"
Mr Laurel: "They're both in the storeroom."
Mr Hardy: "Humph. Reading the Gay Times, I expect."

Our R.E. teacher once set us the homework question "what is the meaning of life?" Only slightly beyond the scope of a 2nd year religious education course. What if one of us had got it right, though? That would have fucked him up.

The letter 'H'? Were you a popular girl?

it's the acronym that keeps on giving:

all day I drink animal spunk

A phrase which, as well the well-established meaning of "I found it, it's mine", announces an impending mugging, much like a highwayman command to a coach party to stand and deliver.
Particularly loquacious bullies in the Wild West of Scotland might say "fin', keep: brek beak" which roughly translates to "I'm going to pat you down and if you've lied about not having anything, you get a fucking broken nose".

From the too good to be true range...
For the matinee performance of one my school's plays, the special education students were brought into the auditorium in their wheelchairs and parked in the front row. To prevent the students in the motorized chairs from going anywhere, the teacher turned off the power on their chairs.
Being the light-board operator I had seen the production several times and was paying more attention to the audience than the show. About halfway through the performance, one of the handicapped children caught my attention; he had pushed himself out of his chair. I watched him for about twenty minutes as he pushed himself further and further to the right, until he finally reached his goal.
A boy in a motorized wheelchair, who had fallen asleep on his joystick.
Motorized wheelchairs are capable of decent speeds, it seems. So when (after twenty minutes of sterling work, mind you) the crawling young man flipped the power switch on his neighbour's chair, the hapless sleeper was rocketed forward full throttle, slamming the chair into the low stage.
The now very much awake student flew - in that slow motion way that disabled people flying out of their wheelchairs have - onto the stage. The actors stopped, the audience was aghast, and the only sound louder than the wailing cries of the student on the stage, was the hysterical laughter of the young man on the floor where once a wheelchair was parked.

Second-eldest son of a headmaster, inflicted upon Toll Bar School between 1985 and 1990. The originator of many anecdotes involving puddings, spunk and vodka. Here are some of his crimes;
Getting pissed on a fourth year trip to Stratford, knicking a traffic sign and singing 'On a Clear Day You Can See My Penis' outside the girls' dormitory at midnight.
Bringing ice-cream to school for his packed lunch. Ice cream melted in his bag, ruined his books.
Bought a frozen dessert from Tates for his lunch, tried to defrost it by putting it under his armpit, ate it.
Jacked off into a 35mm film canister as a love gift for Natasha Holmes. She ran off.
Got smashed on vodka in the 6th form, puked up neat vodka through his nose onto his pudding at lunchtime, continued eating it.

For passive partners in gay relationships who wish to avoid being made gay by the experience of constant passive sex, you can avoid being gay by not pushing yourself back onto the penis. Also try not to make too many enjoying-it noises.

I remember a nurse playing with my foreskin in primary school. I had just been tested on piling up some coloured bricks, and I assumed that the penis examination was a punishment.
Parents say they'll "throttle" you if you don't shut up... getting your foreskin raped seemed, therefore, entirely appropriate for underperformance in a coloured brick-piling exercise.

"What do you think this is lad? Some kind of... Idiot Park?"
A rubbish insult, but a wonderful image - Alton Towers for half wits. People queueing the wrong way. People buying do-nuts and hugging them, and suffocating in the plastic ponchos you buy for the water rides.
It still makes me smile 10 years on.

When Mark Roberts, a fat child with an extrememly large slaphead, lost his claim to a decent childhood when he was punched in the back in a science lab, and everyone heard the booming noise his hollow bloat made.
Attempts to recreate this biological marvel meant that it would be a rare day which didn't result in Mark acquiring at least half a dozen new bruises.

An unpopular teacher walks into the classroom at the start of the lesson to find, written in large letters on the whiteboard, the phrase
With facts used clearly marked, try to uncover better instances of heresy.
Assuming that it was left over from the previous lesson, she will reach for the board rubber and begin to erase the quote... only to discover that certain "choice" letters have been written in permanent marker, leaving
     f     u    c          k      y  o u       b      i  t  c      h     .
Cue hilarity.

June 1987. Sports day. The fifth form 100m final contestants line up on the start line. Among them, Peter Bliss - wearing size 12 rugby boots, tatty grey baggy cloth shorts, a too-small t-shirt died pink in the wash and his trademark NHS glasses.

And they're off.

Ten kids hurtle down the track encouraged by the shouts of 500 kids and adults. But - within a few seconds, the noise falters, withers, then dies completely. Apart from a faint "phut phut phut phut phut".

Peter Bliss, with a furious look of red-faced determination etched on his spotty mug, is running faster than all the other competitors. He just isn't running in the right direction. Nobody's watching the race any more; all eyes are on Peter as he runs straight through the crowd of kids and shellshocked parents, and straight across the empty playground behind.

He runs straight into the toilets. With a big pile of shit tumbling out the back of his shorts.

It doesn't stay quiet for very long.

At the time of the Teenage Mutant "Hero" Turtles (Psst, the BBC - we all called them Ninja Turtles anyway, you dicks), a variant of tag where instead of being it, you were 'Sexy Splinter'.

This is a photo of Splinter. Sexy Splinter. Phwoar. Splinter.

It's barleys, you arse turds - anonymous
It's called "ecksies", because you cross your fingers. Like an X, you see? - Jimmy Disco T
For thousands of of us in the north-east it was "skinch" - Spuddy
Shut up, it's "SCRIBS!" - Lou Watson
It's "paxies". From the latin for peace. You flimsy jizzrags. - Jimbob N

Well - you had to be sure.

I had the following question on a philosophy degree finals paper: "Could you have done anything other than answer this question?"

Being a philosophy student, I'd spent all my time drinking red wine and wearing berets in a fug of existential despair instead of doing any actual work, so to this day I have no idea whether I answered it or not.

What fun it must have been to write your name in shit on the toilet wall of infant school! And yet how sad that you spelled it "bean" instead of "dean".

Good God. I am reminded of a time when the pure energy of class 2B's non-sexual anal-train managed to shunt the teachers desk (large, wooden, full of useless educational pamphlets) from one end of the classroom to the other in a shockingly innocent congo bum line.
Hindsight is not helpful in this instance. It is still unfathomable. Unless, of course, you posit that we were all terrible little homos.

Believe it or not, and I suspect you won't, we had a living Batty Book title in our year. His condition? He was deaf. His name? Ian Kinnear. No he can't. God how we laughed.

We asked "were you born with happiness or a fat knee?"

The assumption is that these are mutually exclusive conditions, but I've met many cheerful chubby people, and they can't all have been hermaphrodites. Could they?

The object of fouling soccer, quite intuitively, is to foul as much as possible. By the end of the game, most people would be exhausted, but everyone would manage a last burst of energy for Injury Time - which, bien sur, was where you caused as many injuries as possible for around a minute.

So, you've been taken to see some Shakespeare play, and whilst you're trying to be polite and enjoy the thing as best you can, given that it's all in Stupidish. But there's your fucking English Teacher next to you, guffawing too fucking loud at every damn joke and pun.
Watch the actors closely - you can see the spear carriers mouthing 'wanker' at each other.

I was told I should be a photographer's assistant. I'm now a teacher, and took the test again, to see if my results would be changed by world experience, and a more profound insight into the workings of the program.
Nope. Photographer's assistant.

Gerrunder - a regional pronunciation of "get under", as shouted by Pamela Tatler throughout her entire fourth year.
She once made a teacher so frustrated by her persistent one-word outbursts that he picked up her, her chair and her desk in one scooping movement, and put her outside the class.
After he deposited her outside the door and returned to the class, everyone went quiet. The calm was punctuated by a plaintive question from outside;
This was an innovation; she'd never punctuated her gerrunders before, and a new range of Gerrunder Moods was born.

I know! Lets' get the dog to lick our cocks!
[pause as we tried to work out if he was joking]
Brilliant idea! That'd be amazing! You go first!
[he wasn't joking]

In the Fifth Form, rumour had it that somebody on my street had indulged in some heavy 'bottom canoodling' with Sandra.
Thereafter, she was only ever referred to as Sweetcorn Sandra, as it became widely known that upon extraction, he discovered that a piece of sweetcorn had become lodged in his Jap’s-eye.

On a similar line, the signs reading "Please mind your head" on our local trains, reminding travellers to watch out for the overhead luggage racks, were easily and often changed to "Fleas in your head".

astounding and surreal compound obscenity exclaimed by James "Lucy" Lockwood during a game of Wembley.

Babb listened to Radio 4 and collected stamps. Despite this, his fate was only sealed the day he missed the bus on the sixth form university open-day trip.
Instead of running, or walking off swearing, Babb, chose to skip contentedly behind the bus. He only fucking skipped. For long enough for everyone to see.
Subsequently, when you had a conversation with him, there were people queuing up to do a Babb behind his back. From that day, Babb was cursed to never have another conversation with anyone who wasn't laughing at something that wasn't quite him.

Any thrill which causes adolescent excitement is a cheapy. You "get your cheapies" by becoming embarrassingly over-excited at any mention of sex, violence, snuff movies, girls pants etc.

Used pejoratively as a self-regulating disciplinary mechanism amongst groups of teenage boys:
"Eugh! Smiffy's getting his cheapies"

In days of old,
When men were bold,
And women weren't invented.
They drilled big holes in telegraph poles,
and walked away contented.
I think the implication is that they fucked the hole in the telegraph pole. Otherwise it's a pretty weird way to get your kicks, drilling holes in telegraph poles then walking off.
For those of you who didn't know that women were invented after telegraph poles, here is the first ever telegraph conversation.

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.

The sullen statement that came, seemingly out of nowhere, by Andy, after we'd been laughing at the suicide of our French teacher's wife for 15 minutes, including a detailed reenactment of him discovering the body.
We're still not sure what Andy was getting at.

Cribbage is a disease that causes the sufferer to freeze in a comedy pose. If, during a conversation with your friend, his fists raise to his face and press his cheeks into his eyes, it is polite to ask "ooh, nasty cribbage there?", then carry on talking.
It was funny for exactly one and a half days, by which time we'd run out of comedy poses.

Michael Michael Motorcycle,
Turn the key and watch him pee.

The stock schoolyard chant for when you wanted to torment someone by the name of Michael for no other reason than the fact that his name was Michael.
Other popular variants include "John John Leprechaun", who also did a pee when you turned a key.

The older of us remember that aiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeee! is actually the noise made in the ace Commando books by the evil scheming Germans as they got utterly shot by the square-jawed Brits. The only other words the Germans uttered were 'Actung Spitfeur', 'Hande Hoche', 'Englander Schwein' and 'Gott in Himmel'.
That Germans made such a vowel-heavy nasal whine in their death throes made them big wet pansies. A stout Englishman dying in the field would bellow "WHOOAARGGGHH". In days of heavier casualties, it was like being trapped in the Brian Blessed dimension.

(Further discussion here. Good grief. - Log)

Mr Bright taught commerce. He taught it with such a passion that spit would fly out of his mouth.
This was bad enough, but when he was using an overhead projector, the very considerable amount of spit that landed on the sheets was magnified, heated, and projected onto the wall.
It was the saliva equivalent of shitting onto a glass-topped coffee table, but with thirty children sitting underneath.

The rallying cry of dedicated onanist Dewy Gibbon, as he attempted to initiate a group wanking session. Dewy Gibbon was - unsurprisingly - the most unpopular and bullied kid in the school.

It may be mostly boys who shit everywhere, but we had a phantom tampon and sani pad spreader. This might have been one girl, two highly specialised competitors, or a boy trying to frame all womanhood, which would quite frankly be typical.
This is particularly unpleasant if you leave them in the middle of the playground in summer, and your school is in Mombasa. Where mine was.

Dewy Gibbon, the dedicated onanist, ended up in the same class as me at sixth form college. In a unilateral bonding session, he decided to tell me more of his one-man sexploits.
He told me that he enjoyed wanking wearing a condom, as it was 'practice for the real thing'. But you had to be careful, as johnnies didn't always flush away down the loo.
His dad once found one of Dewy's spunk filled rubbers floating in the bog, and to spare his son's blushes, he fished it and put it in the bin.
Unfortunately, Dewy's mum then found it and demanded of her husband an explanation. To save his own skin, Dewy's dad grassed him up and Dewy had to face his parents, and explain that he wasn't having sex, but just poshing it around the house at every possible opportunity.
But it doesn't end there. It should, but it doesn't. Dewy went on to say that we couldn't be sure that he hadn't left floating johnnies in his grandmother's house.
I don't know what's more disturbing;
- an old woman poking at a floating, spunky sheath
- the fact that Dewy, on hearing that he was going to visit his grandmother, had grabbed a condom and said "this calls for a wank!"

Our fat teacher at primary school was Mrs Caligeerus. A name slightly too convoluted for some of our immature mouths leading to her being called Mrs Crocodile. Which might have been a pretty good insult, if we were Bengali.
(How does that relate to her behemothic monolithicness? More fatties please.)

The canonical response to claims of 'Skill Magill' was, of course, 'Luck McFuck'

A toy that - if you weren't educationally subnormal - would be snatched from you and confiscated, with an unsympathetic order to "grow up".
You are only allowed a mong dolly if a) you are a mong, and b) you're willing to cry for six hours if anyone so much as touches it.

At a school we used to play rugby against, one of the P.E. staff who refereed our games was so fat that he had to referee the entire game from the half way line.
Additionally, if he was knocked down he couldn't get up again. He'd thrash about briefly, like some gargantuan speaking tortoise enjoying a mudbath, before blowing the whistle and asking, plaintively, "help me boys, I can't get up".
(How can I get out of the mud? I know! I'll eat my way out! scronfscronfscronfscronfscronf! Oh no, I've eaten the entire mantle of the Earth! Why oh why was I cursed with my bigbones™?)

A: [puts 2 tips of index fingers together] "Cut the wire."
B: [separates the "wires" with his index finger]
A: "Your bum's on fire."

Alan West is an easy anagram of Anal Stew, if you're lucky enough to know an Alan West.

Arnold Hill, Nottingham; Mr Bunting was a PE teacher with a triple whammy of lampoonable afflictions; a monobrow, a lisp and a spazzy finger. His song went, to the tune of Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye;
Bunting's Eyebrows,
Bent Finger,
Bunting-baiting had a brief renaissance when we overheard someone with a Japanese accent pronounce his name "Mr Bum King".

Any sentence beginning with "I said" can be adjusted, with only minor tinkering, to sound like "Arsehead". This is, of course, funny. Arsehead!
However, if your friend doesn't quite hear you saying "four quid", a golden window opens, and you can say "arsehead fuckwit". This is such a rare occurence, that you should celebrate by running around your victim six times, pulling an imaginary trucker's chain, and going "HOOOONK".

Once when I was in secoundary school, this bloody tosser came up round this girl we knew as Stephanie Stank ( real name Stephanie Stanck) and triend to pull up my skirt so that him and his mates could all have a good look. Well, they were able to get the skirt up to Stephanie's head, but sad for them, good ol' Steph hadn't changer her nickers for three days. (She was wereing those nickers with the days on them like they had in the 70s). Well needless to say, we all thought it was funny, and the day after me and my mates slipped a note to the tosser saying

Cockfingers says...What a cliffhanger! This really is the standard we're aiming for here in Cockfinger's Department of the Wrong. Do you think you've got a story as lacking in everything as this? Come on. I fucking dare you.

Dan, Tony and Esa are talking inferior grade gobshit. It is self-evident and unarguable that the term for semen-based anal drippage is, of course, Pugwash.

Sounding uncannily like 'mega hurts', when used in questions, can cause physics-minded kids to unwittingly consent to a solid beating.
What's that, Spod? You want 10,000 Mega Hurts? Well, OK, but it's going to be painful...
Simon, can you help me with something that's been bothering me? I was just wondering what you call a thousandth of a mega hurts. [receives answer] He says he wants a killer hurts, Stephen. Would you be so kind?
Before you look them all up, the only other ones that kinda work are "terror hurts", but that's a bit rubbish because you'd have to pull a scary face while you're punching, and "fem two hurts", which is tenuously useful if you're punching two lady's tits.

An ultra-urgent version of "dog in the playground" was "wasp in the classroom".
As the game was more urgent, you didn't have time to shout "wasp in the classroom". You'd just shoud "Wasp!", and the entire class would jump to their feet, waving rulers around without any real aim, stand on their desks, throw books at the wasps, and ignore the weak child who would squeal that we were "making it angry". Girls would pull at their hair, convinced that it was in there, or hide under their desks to avoid the books and flailing rulers.
It resembled the Muppets' green room, crossed with Airplane's "Don't Panic - PANIC" scene. Only three things could return calm;
  1. By an extreme fluke, the wasp is killed.
  2. The wasp flies out of the classroom.
  3. The teacher sighs and leaves the room.

A practice pioneered by a small but evil kid at my school. He would stealthily creep up to someone enjoying their sandwich or chocolate bar, snatch it from them, and then proceed to cram it into his mouth with an expression of evil glee on his evil fucking face.

This continued until the day when Russel, much to his dismay, dropped a virgin Topic bar on the ground.
Inspiration struck me. I searched for and found a dog turd, and dipped the Topic into it, giving it slightly more than a hazelnut in every bite. We then waited until the inevitable swan-dive. Revenge was very very sweet.

The evil kid had the gall to complain to the head of year about this. I explained to Mr Cooper that I had just instructed Russel to dispose of his dogshit-encrusted Topic into the bin lest any young children or animals think to eat it when the swan-dive occurred. Despite Mr Cooper's huge grin and barely stifled laughter, he appeared to believe me.

I don't know if dabs exist anywhere else in the world, but in Feniscowles in Blackburn, they were slices of huge baking potato dipped in batter and fried. At 10p each, they were an extremely cheap, tasty and unhealthy meal for a growing child.
Paul H., our school's most prolific and robotic swearer, simply could not order a dab without referring to it as a "fucking dab". In everyday life, some nouns would escape the fucking prefix. But never dabs. Perhaps he just thought dabs was too short a word to make sense on its own - perhaps he just fucking hated the fucking dabs.
Briefly, the school grounds became 'The Place of the Eighteen Fuckings', when Paul H was hit across the back of his legs by his best friend, and managed eighteen uninterrupted fuckings before another word broke the flow. I think this has never been beaten anywhere else in the world.

'Yeah, well you're ugly and your mum dresses you funny' was a popular retort to the pronoucement that your dad is gay. The small yet significant flaw is that it does not of course deny that your dad is a homosexualist, but in fact almost seems to confirm it.

Lois Alderson was convinced that it was possible to catch AIDS by eating a sandwich that had been stored in a cracked tupperware lunchbox.

Quoits are used for various cunning tortures including throwing one at point-blank range into Jamie's face, and rubbing the perished and cracked rubber in a sawing action on Jamie's head.

Before you begin to think that we were extremely cruel to Jamie, be advised that Jamie did ballet, was proud of it and once performed it in assembly in front of the whole school wearing tights.

Two 'special' kids, one called Tom and one called Robert. Robert was big and dumpy and knew all the bus times, Tom was skinny and smelly and went everywhere with his snorkel pipe parker jacket hood done up, even in summer. Every breaktime two of us were picked to look after their retarded asses to make sure that Tom didn't set the fire extinguisher off...again. Everyone hated being picked to be the spastic sheepdogs, but it became a feature of break that we would back them into a quiet corner of the playground and then make them snog each other with tongues. Robert liked it but Tom hated it and would make a noise he called 'snarling'...a gutteral growl. Strangely we never tired of this innocent fun.

Public swimming pool sessions reserved for the differently abled. You escaped the cold pissy chlorine ten minutes early on vegetable soup days.

The regularity of Torr & Torridge's calamities led to every journey being known as a roulette of death and calamity.
  • The giant rear side window falling out after being slightly leant on.
  • We ended up at a 45 degree angle in a ditch, for no better reason than the driver was just crap.
  • We hit the support strut for a porch, which promptly fell down. Needless to say, the driver didn't stop. Or make any gesture of acknowledgement.
  • The driver pulled out in front of one of those tractors with the huge spike on the front, which ripped down the entire side of the bus.
    Thanks, Torr and Torridge, for dozens of scenes of mild peril.

The caption of a grisly doodle or the cry accompanying a re-enactment of an excruciatingly painful demise. Represents "Arrrgh Pain!" interrupted by death.

Mysterious chemical additive included in food to induce postconsumption belching. Fernandron does not appear on any list of ingredients because, of course, the manufacturers are "too scared to admit it".

A similar, but non-fatal, injury befell Nicholas Smith in our third year. Holding year-group assemblies in the dining hall was a brave move, given the dangerous mix of weaponry and boredom, but ironically it was a carefully positioned 3-inch pepperpot that did for him.

From my vantage point one bench behind the suspense was paralysingly funny, but when the time came he sat down with such vigour that it still sends a shudder through me to picture him rocketing back to his feet.

By sixth form he had taken to wearing an orange ankle-length frock around town.

We had 'IDBT', or 'if destroyed becomes true'. This causes a dilemma: Destroy it and it's true, or don't destroy it and everyone can see 'Danny is gay' scrawled on a desk.

The corridor cleaning machines with circular furry discs on the underside.
This name must be unique to my school. As a group of us were engaged in some light vandalism of the sixth form common room, the head caretaker walked in and caught us.
Angry, but not having enough respect or guts to challenge us directly, he said "stop that, or I'll go and get Mike Webber". The idea of our Deputy Head, Mr Webber, having an informal first name didn't register, so there was a moment of confusion before someone asked "what's a kwebber?"
The only thing that made sense was that he was offering to tidy up our mess with his massive sandy-wheeled machine. So on we carried.

A boy at my school was called Paul Hiscock.

Now why would his mum and dad do that? I cannot believe for one minute thay didn't try the two names together at some point before the Christening and go "oh, better not", which means it must have been deliberate. That's nothing short of child abuse in my book.

[matt]Could have been worse. They could have called him 'Aaron'.[/matt]

Word owing its origin to a fusion of the two words molecule and models. These brightly coloured kits of plastic balls and flexible grey sticks were routinely handed out in organic chemistry classes to allow pupils to visualize complex hydrocarbons by building them themselves.
The perennial teacher cry of "don't just make a man and a dog" was traditionally met by a bunch of children waving a man and his little dog.

My name is Patrick Seers and I am nothing like these things you explain. Maybe next time you decide to write something to leave out a name cause I am sure there are other people with your name that has done bad things too.

Hello, Patrick Seers! I hope for your sake that you are nothing like these things I explain! Point taken, Patrick - maybe next time I decide to write something to leave out a name - because as you so rightly say, there must be other people with my name that has done bad things. - Log

Word coined by a boy in my primary school who thought it was the Best Insult Ever because it was a compound of the two Worst Swearwords Ever. He was disabused of this idea when he tried to use it to insult smarter kids, who pointed out that if you thought fucking ladies in the cunt was bad, then you were obviously a big gaylord.

The larger 'Rollaround' blackboards were just large enough to hide a smaller member of the class. Once, prior to our maths teacher appearing, Ian Wright (no, not that one!) hid behind the blackboard armed with a piece of chalk. Throughout the lesson Mr Riat was most confused when the things he had written at the beginning of the lesson had mysteriously disappeared when we asked to him to explain them again.
Mate, I would have had as much faith in your story if you'd said it WAS 'that' Ian Wright. If you expect me to believe that your mate was the elastic bloke out of the X-Files and that Mr Riat didn't notice a pair of legs coming out of the bottom of the board, then, well, you'd better blummin' well think again. Do you remember shortly after this happened, you woke up and ate your cornflakes? - Mansh

Contrary to what Log says, I live in Derbyshire and have never once fucked a cow, a tree or my sister. And neither have my friends.
Just so we don't all get a reputation as incestuous, bestial hippies.
Don't think the fact you missed out sheep in your list of things you haven't fucked didn't go unnoticed. For you, Mrs Ramsbottom isn't a person, it's the fact you were too pissed on Tennant's Super to get it in the hole. Nottingham wins Derby! - Log

This is what our African geography teacher seemed to be saying when he was trying to tell us about ox-bow lakes.
He may have mistaken our keenness for actual interest in the subject. However, all we really wanted to hear was a teacher saying 'ox bollocks' over and over again.

From "The Thirty Nine Steps" by John Buchan: "They were all on me at once, and the policeman took me in the rear. I got in one or two good blows, for I think, with fair play, I could have licked the lot of them, but the policeman pinned me behind, and one of them got his fingers on my throat."

Teacher training notes. Pigs liver dissection:

Don't warn your class at the beginning of the lesson to ensure they do not leave any bits of liver lying around due to the stench it makes when it rots. They will simply spend the entire lesson cutting the liver up and hiding it around the classroom and in peoples' pencil cases.

Would you feel like a dick if you walked into a gay bar?

Yes: Then you want some big gay cock.
No: Then you admit that you would feel right at home. And therefore want some big gay cock while you're there.

"Crime and Punishment" by Dostoyevsky features a hen party novelty biscuit destined to scare children. Let it not be said that the Russians are a dour and humourless lot.
'Just fancy, Rodion Romanovitch, we found a gingerbread cock in his pocket. He was coming home dead drunk, but he did not forget the children.'

'A cock? Did you say a cock?' the gentleman from the commissariat cried.
Should your English class wish to recreate this scene, may we humbly suggest the fantastically named Masturbakers as a possible source of phallic fingerfoods? Alternatively, if you bite the arms off a classic gingerbread man, the results will be more than sufficient to cause aunties everywhere to blush.

An alternative answer is "syphillis".

Having read the above submission, I feel that the fat girl discussed has really missed out on the full playground experience:
Why, just in the last few minutes I have come up with the following:
  • Moonmin-troll (a variation on the building blocks already provided)
  • Rentaghost
  • The New Shmoo
  • The Phantom
  • Snow White
  • Gippo - (if she went to our school and lived at Springfield Road)
Please pass these comments onto her her, not forgetting to steal her lunch money, and give her a punch in her pasty fat stupid tits.

You'd have thought that poking Geoffrey in the eye with his cock would be sweet ursine revenge enough for Bungle, but no...
Bungle stuck his bum out the window
Shat in Geoffrey's eye
Geoffrey said "You bastard Bungle,
You are gonna die"
Paint...Geoffrey's...face...with...a...Big poo!".
Doof doof dodo dododoof!
Geoffrey can give it out, but he doesn't like it back! You get plus marks for the Eastenders style drums at the end, but did you not hear what Ponky said? I don't see ANY mention of Rod Jane & Freddy doing it Frenchie style here. - Mansh

There was a very similar song about our amusingly incompetent Scoutmaster, also called Jed:

"Right" said Jed,
in the potting shed,
with a naked woman on his head,
with melting mars bars on her tits,
but Jed just sat there, doing shits.

This was expanded over the course of one scout camp until it had assumed Homeric proportions, but unfortunately I can only remember the first five lines.
The inspiration for this epic came from the contemporary popularity of the band 'Right Said Fred', the rumoured existence of mars bar parties (qv), and the fact that Jed was a cock. I mean, what kind of fool would just do poopy when he had a naked woman sitting on his head?

I think you mean;
I fucked your Mum
I opened up her legs and made her come
She was outstanding
Especially on the landing.
Then move onto the father, remembering that it's not gay to fuck another boy's father;
I fucked your Dad
I fucked him, sucked him, played with his gonads
I felt his power
When we were in the shower.
(Let me try! Cough - here we go...
I snogged your gran,
I mopped up her womb juices with a naan.
I fisted said womb
In her filthy bedroom
- Log)

It's a well known fact that every time you get hit in the head, you lose 10,000 brain cells.

A 1984 experiment to test the efficacy of the claim yielded conclusive proof that it is indeed true. As Sam set about repeatedly hitting precocious upstart Andrew between the eyes, Andrew replied in his excruciating matter-of-fact way "No, no Sam. You've got to hit me much harder than that."

The inevitable ensued.

Hermann Melville's always hilarious Moby Dick contains a special treat for anyone who manages to make it past the first hundred and four chapters without going mental.
A description of a successful whaling ship in chapter 105 ends: "indeed everything was filled with sperm, except the captain's pantaloons pockets, and those he reserved to thrust his hands into, in self- complacent testimony of his entire satisfaction."
And if you don't believe me, look here.

I'm 29, and my dad still uses the term 'windy poo' when talking to me about farts. Even though windy and poo are both completely innocent words, there's something innocuously horrific when your dad talks about a scirocco of shit whipping up a turdstorm from your anus.

Polling is very much like posting, in that it includes slamming a child's balls against something unforgiving. However, polling takes place on the top deck of a bus, and rather than having one single "post", towards which all your energies are focussed, you have around ten metal "poles". This allows for a much more chaotic sense of potentially-endless bollock agony.
  • Form a committee. Nominate a Pole Master and a Pole Greaser. All other committee members are muscle
  • Block the stairs to the lower deck. The Pole Master shouts Grease The Pole!
  • The Pole Master walks up the aisle, looking at each boy, smiling and rubbing the poles. His gaze falls upon the selected boy.
  • At the same time, the Pole Greaser has been polishing the poles with a cloth - once the child is selected, he announces The Pole Is Greased, Master
  • The selected is hoisted up, and has his bollocks slammed against the poles.

Not how you pronounce "spasmodic", Ian Lucas.

We had a Japanese assistant in Geography who taught us about "arse cakes". Plate tectonics have never been so pantwettingly hilarious.

At lunchtime, a banana, a large red grape, a carton of milk and a straw can be combined to fashion a most amusing sculpture, as follows:

1) Cut the tip off the banana.
2) Insert the straw through the cut tip, pointing down along the length of the banana. Push through until the banana is skewered on the straw, with about an inch protruding from the severed banana tip, and at least an inch protruding from somewhere along the length of the banana.
3) Blow down the straw to remove any banana detritus.
4) Cut the grape in half and attach one half this to the cut end of the banana by skewering it on the straw.
5) Take a mouthful of tasty milk. For Christ's sake, don't swallow.
6) Put mouth on non-graped end of straw and blow.
7) Sit back and enjoy your fellow students' hilarity at the sight of this facsimile of an ejaculating penis.
Don't try to be too clever and use oranges or plums for balls. Remember - less is often more, and you don't want to be accused of gilding the lily.

The names of special schools make for strangely credible christian names; For instance, Carlton Digby, Beck Meadows, and at a push, Swanwick Delves.

Anyone would think that the founders of these mong sanctuaries are trying to give normal schoolkids insult ammunition.

Hazel Hurst is a good one for ladies who "might be better off with a more vocational education".

Salt'n'Shake Crisps. The victim would be held down and forced to admit they were gay. Whatever the response, the little sachet of salt would be emptied into their mouth. Quite right too.

At first glance, this might seem a less painful act of torture than the other entries for this subject. However, if one considers the pain experienced by regular recipients of this punishment in later years, due to heart attacks, strokes, osteroperosis, gastric cancer and other ailments brought on by an excessive salt intake, it can be seen to be particularly vindictive, cruel and cleverly planned with an eye for the long haul.

An early example of viral marketing. The people behind Hedgehog crisps, it was rumoured, used real hedgehogs to flavour their snacks. The age-old "well they do taste like chicken when cooked" excuse can be used when sampling a bag of the roast chicken crisps, though this will not get you very far when attempting to explain the distinct lack of hedgehog flavour in the salt and vinegar variety.

Spencer Ashley brings in a fake, homemade bomb before a Spanish lesson consisting of a shitload of blutack, the face of an alarm clock, and some straggly, multi-coloured wires which he places under the desk of our teacher, Graham "Sweetie" Underhill.

We hide under our desks in readiness for Sweetie's arrival. And the depressingly predictable scene unfolds -

Spencer Ashley: There's a bomb under your desk!
Sweetie: Don't be so bloody stupid.

Sweetie kicks shoebox across room.

Not a particularly amusing story at all, unless one considers the vague, one-percent-at-best possibility that Sweetie just might - JUST MIGHT - have been wrong about this definitely not being an explosive device.

Showing more adult sensibilities than DJ Splish and MC Splash, "Master Pete and Nigger Jay" laid down the rhymes at my school. Needless to say, both were uncompromisingly white.

Our Fat Teacher was also called Mr. Jones; he was so fat that his belly would rub against the board and rub off the writing underneath, which seemed to confuse him no end.
Also, to this day, there is a coffee stain on the ceiling above his desk from when he had a sudden heart attack and threw his cup into the air.

Ben Watt quickly learned to write his name with the smallest possible space between the words, to prevent a couple of 'T's being squeezed in there.

Geeks sometimes get to play one of those funny big recorders.
In fact, those 'funny big recorders' were not for geeks - only the coolest people (me) got to play the Bass Recorder. Bass Recorders are to regular gay recorders as the Bass Guitar is to the mandolin. People openly envied me, and my gigantic plastic Aulos.

Similar to penises, the bigger the recorder, the more prestige. Strikingly similar to penises in another way, the tip of my recorder had an 'old spit' smell to them that no amount of rubbing on my jumper sleeve could remove. Teethmarks, too.

The unfortunately monikered Rammy was widely rumoured to take it "right up the batty hole" and so a song was composed to commemmorate this. The only lyrics were as follows:

Who takes it?
Rammy takes it,
Right up the batty hole.

This grew in popularity to such a level that impromptu renditions, often involving the entire class singing repeated verses in close harmony, became commonplace in most lessons.

The dance remix was inevitable, but still welcomed.

Baby frogs strike amusing limbs-at-full-stretch "Kate Bush" poses when they jump from ones hand and land delicately into a fresh cup of tea.

After having discovered your site today and wasted most of it reading entries (on company time) I can only conclude British kids are suspiciously preoccupied with gayness. Little closet faggots, all of you, eh?
In my country (Sweden) we were never called "gay" just for being athletically challenged, interested in arts or books, or generally not fitting in. They beat us up, don't get me wrong - they just didn't call us gay while they did it.
(Two things, anonymous gay Swede; the fact we talk about it means that we're not scared of gayness. It's you lot, the Swedes, who are gay-scared, and that means you're super-gay. Arguing with the logic of this only makes you gayer, so just shut up, bend over and take one from big butch Denmark.
Secondly, the reason this website has a lot of gay references in it is that I'm a gay, and I'm pushing my agenda with a view to attracting burly doormen. Are you a burly doorman? If so, please get in touch. I'm Log, and I'll do anything for Dairylea.

Used correctly, a small, snappy National Health glasses-case can be used to capture and store a fart for most of the duration of a double French lesson.

This in itself is not surprising. What's more unsettling is the power that said glasses-case will exert over you as it sits on the edge of your desk, smugly full and pregnant with aromatic promise. You know perfectly well that it contains Spencer's fart, but for some reason the urge to check and make sure exerts a rising, and ultimately irresistable, pressure on you.

Eventually I checked. It stank.

Collecting ketchup packets became popular among some in my American high school one year. However, since they were free this considerably upped the ante for what made an impressive cache of the packets. Shortly after one zelous collector filled a trash bag with the packets, the school switched to pump bottles of ketchup. THESE then started disappearing until they were chained down to the counter.

The road signs pointing to the village of APSE HEATH on the Isle of Wight can easily be corrected using one piece of black electrical tape.
The county council doesn't think it's funny, but they're wrong.

As a six year old, I was blown away by the amazing film Indiana Jones: Raiders Of The Lost Ark.
At that age, I was oblivious to the stigma attached to Nazism, but was somehow subconciously affected by the film's sensitive portrayal of the Nazi war effort and the beautiful colours of their regalia.
The next week in class, we were asked to design a hot air balloon. My balloon was perfunctory, adorned with the usual childhood scribble. The picture was completed with a toothsome couple in leather jackets and milkbottle glasses, saluting to the people below.
Oh yes, and there was sign with a giant swastika on it, jutting out of the side of the basket.
I was really pleased with my effort. The teacher, however, was disgusted. And at the end of the year, when all our work was traditionally returned to us to take home to our proud parents, my nazi balloon masterpiece had mysteriously gone missing. My guess is it's either in my permanent record (providing a silent warning to employers that they have a potential Nazi sympathizer on their hands), or my teacher has it framed on her wall at home. In her secret Third Reich bondage dungeon. The filthy bitch.

  • Your whole class tries to stand on the playground bench at once on a windy day, arms out-stretched.
  • Everyone shouts "WILLY WHISTLERS!"
  • Then you all get off again.

The number of partners you have of the opposite sex is linked directly to how gay you are. For instance, a boy with over twenty girlfriends is pretty damn gay - but if he had fifty girlfriends, his gayness would shoot through the roof. Similarly, a girl with two hundred boyfriends is such an impossibly up-front lesbian that she might as well have a velvet-tipping machine strapped to her jowels.

A woman with 225 boyfriends wearing her newest velvet-tipping machine.

If your name is Nicholas, you should never admit to going commando on wash-day.

A girl in my first school was not such a tease...

If you were quick enough to run back to the classroom after P.E, Helen Whitton would take her knickers off, stand on the desk and turn around. In addition to this spinning top of prepubescent wank fantasy, she would also sit on your lap in exchange for marbles.

Helen now plays for the Sussex County Womens football team (pictured top row, 2nd in from the left).

We decided in the changing rooms after P.E one day, to see who could endure the longest spray of aerosol deodorant point blank onto their nipple. After a few rounds, my friend Pobba beat the record with an immense 45 second long spray. The second after he finished however, whilst enjoying his applause, someone flicked at his icy nip, whereupon it detached itself from his body and flew away, to be lost forever.
Have YOU seen Pobba's nip? If so, call me, Mansh, at Police 5, and you could win a community action trust reward. Keep 'em peeled. - Mansh

Mr Travers was a very old supply teacher who had hair the creamy-yellowish colour of a Milky Bar. It was therefore traditional to greet his entry into the classroom with a rousing chorus of the Milky Bar song. We enjoyed a love-hate relationship with him until the day Rachel Dawes put a drawing pin on his chair and he sat on it and morphed into the fire-breathing detention-giver of doom.

Unusually-shaped signs have been specially designed for the River Uck so as to provide no quarter to schoolboys with pen or paint in their hands and a gigantic letter 'F' in their heads.

However, the ever-so-diligent local council failed to recognise that the smutty minds of their schoolkids are not so easily thwarted; our roving reporter provided this photograph of a nearby town sign which shows that they still have some way to go before they can entirely eradicate filth from the streets of East Sussex.

Our science teacher once gave us a demonstration of what happens when you reverse the motor in a vacuum cleaner. We soon discovered that the best use for this device was to fire red-hot boiling tubes at unsuspecting students.

If any readers are interested, what Sweden did in the War was lay on large quantities of weapons-building grade steel to the Germans, let them use their rail system (at a suitable price) to get their troops into Norway, and swap Reichmarks for ballbearings until Churchill threatened to flatten Stockholm.

By the way, Sven, I've spent five years in your herring-powered country and the reason you never got called gay is because it was so blindingly obvious there was no need. I have yet to meet a Swedish man who possesses even 1% of the masculinity of your average Britt-Marie or Elin. You bunch of emasculated, pale, dickless shadow-men.

I quite like it here really, though, so please don't hit me with your handbag.

Our English teacher, Miss Richardson, was notable for her complete inability to maintain order in the classroom. Then she became pregnant. Get in.
Someone would shout out "Miss!" to get her attention. Someone else would follow this up by shouting "carriage!". She loved us for that.

At school in the 60s, it was deeply uncool if you hadn't snogged anyone. Snogging people kept your lips moist and delicious, so if you developed chapped lips, it meant you'd never snogged anyone, and were also a virgin.
If you developed a cold, you would be a snotty, bunged-up virgin who'd never been snogged, until you got better. Then you would have snogged and had sex again, until the next chapped lip, when you would, once again, become a virgin.

Recommended by ALL teachers as the perfect anti-bullying method. But when I tried it, the cunt spat on my neck.

The school bullying policy was quickly defaced to:
We do not want bumming of any form at Arnold Hill School.
If you are being bummed, or know about bumming or rapist incidents, then speak to someone in school and/or fill in an incident form.

This would probably be a more efficient policy, but was never enforced; the school was full of bummers, and three out of four in my year went on to become successful rapists.

Irrefutable logic is a supreme irritant for physics teachers - particularly the histrionic shouting type who never actually carry out a threat. Notably, Mr Linton.
Spotting me chatting in the corridor with a friend, who he'd also just chucked out of the class, he shouted 'Alexander, I thought I told you to stand outside the staff room! Why are you in the corridor?'
My response? 'Sir - I'm not standing INSIDE the staff room, and since I AM standing, I can only conclude that I must be standing OUTSIDE the staff room.'
Impressed with my scientific reasoning, he screamed in my face for a few moments before meandering away, muttering threats.

Jenny Turrell used to look like Jimmy Nail. This would lead to people interrupting conversations she was having, to inform the other person "she's lying", just like in the hit song "Ain't No Doubt".
She says
I don't want nobody else, I love you
She's lying
There won't be somebody else and that's true
She's lying
Say you'll always be my friend sweet darling

Note that Jimmy says "she's lying" more than once, so it was perfectly acceptable for us to do the same. Anyway, it was rumoured that Jenny stuck Lynx Deodorant and a kind of plant up her arse. Her denials were ably met with;
"She's lying."

A particularly spotty individual who was deemed to have more than just a crater-face amount of acne.

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.

Mrs Waterhouse once taught an entire French lesson without saying a single word about the fact that the whole class were wearing paper bags with little eyeholes cut in them and smiley faces drawn on.

Shower-time practice of stretching the scrotum out with both hands until it is perpendicular to the body, causing the genitals to resemble the titular item. Accompanied by a cry of "Sausage on a plate!!"
Most commonly seen in lunchtime rugby practise. Does not go down so well in french lessons.

Strange. I always thought I had rather enjoyed my school days. Perhaps I'm just repressing those terrible memories.
Matt King? Is this the Matthew King whose entire sexual experience during his school years was with Stuart Hoskins on a snooker table? Surely he can come up with a better character assassination than this over a decade after I spread that rumour.
Well, Matt? Did you do it with Stuart Hoskins on a snooker table? Are you Stuart Hoskins and was he any good? The LotP team would like to hear from you. Ponky

Well, my plea for information was eventually answered. This isn't a funny entry, but I'm approving it in the hope that it might inspire a new generation of toilet mountaineers. Go on. Tackle that north face - Matt.

You need to have cubicles with a rotating circular bit below the window showing red or green. There should be a slot in the middle of the circle, allowing the key to be inserted.

Nickname of Steve Sampson, a christian tee-totaller who would only drink orange juice.

The tube of a cotton reel neatly accommodates a pencil. Loop a thick elastic band over the bobbin (fnuff!), pull back the rubber (phraa!), and you can fire the pencil out at puncturing speeds.
If the idea of launching a sharpened pencil into someone's face and eye causes you some concern, simply launch the entire school pencil supply into a polystyrene ceiling.
If anyone asks where you got a ladylike thing such as a cotton reel, answer "I stole it off a gay". If they ask why you are stealing things from gays, reply "to better know mine enemy".

Where the loneliest and most desperate children gathered, and a beacon to bullies all over the playground. The buddy stop was a 6-foot tall imitation bus stop sign; the idea was that if you had no friends to play with you would stand at the buddy stop. We were encouraged in assemblies to ask the children at the buddy stop to come and join in our games.
This encouragement was roundly ignored. If you played near it, the teachers would come over and point out the lonely children and make you ask them to join in. Hence a large area of permanent emptiness formed around the buddy stop, and after a while, no children, no matter how friendless, would ever go near it.
Seeing the unused buddy stop, the teachers probably congratulated themselves on running a school with no friendless pupils. As usual, they were as wrong as I don't know what.

Ezekiel 23:20 talks about a woman who enjoys the company of lovers who are hung like donkeys and who can ejaculate like horses.

Editor’s note. We were a bit sceptical about this claim, but it turns out that it bloody well does. And how about 23:21? "So you longed for the lewdness of your youth, when in Egypt your bosom was caressed and your young breasts fondled”. Phew! It seems that the whole of Ezekiel 23 is pretty damn filthy. It starts off like the premise of a Tania Russof movie and ends up in a Tarantinoesque bloodbath. The smutty bible-writing perverts.

In the customary, desperate attempt to be cool, our English teacher insisted that we read from the cowboy novel, "Shane", in an American accent.
To help us attain the desired Western drawl, we were encouraged to eat Toffo sweets, like the toffee-chewin', kiddy-fiddlin' cowboy from the TV ads.

To Gay Bar someone, pin them down and punch them repeatedly in the anus with a big swiging motion of your arm shouting "GAY BAR!"

I can neither confirm nor deny whether such behaviour is widespread in drinking establishments on the other side of the street.

We spread fertilizer on the playing field in the shape of a giant cock. It was funny enough to have a big brown pud marked out on the turf, but to our delight, as the weeks went by, the grass grew thicker & greener in this area and the result was a luscious big grass donger. It looked really good from the tower block in our school, and as mowing it just made it even more distinct, there was nothing they could do to get rid of it.

Coming from Croydon, the "wittiest" (and only) roadname change came in the form of Compton road, which some brainbox renamed Oompton (well done, lads). However, one of the local pubs got attacked by drunks one night, and the following morning "The Leslie Arms" had it's removeable letters rearranged into "Shit Arse".

Puerile and slightly anti-corporate readers may also have noticed that the letters of Starbuck's Coffee can similarly be rearranged to spell "Best Of Arse Fuck". I'm not saying anyone should steal into Luton town centre at 3:30 in the morning and do this, but if anyone did, I'd suck their balls for a year - Log

Conclusive proof that our french teacher was a homo: his name - Pete Binns - was an anagram of 'bent penis'.

Alas, the teachers at my school were wise to such cock-japery, so on the last day of term nobody was allowed out on the field. But wait! We were wise to such anti-cock-japery measures, so we'd already smuggled in a tin of paintstripper. Net result: one giant, spurting cock on the floor of the assembly hall. Score!

Geography supply teacher Mr Mitchell noticed a switch by the white board. On asking us what the switch was for, we told him that it flipped the board over to reveal a clean writing surface. He then proceeded to flick the switch many times, with no resulting magical board reversal. Exclaiming that it was clearly broken, he remained utterly oblivious to the fact that the lights were constantly going on and off.

At primary school we would have little plastic beakers of squash at break time. One day, a girl decided to give the class pet guinea pig a drink by shoving it head first into her beaker. Unfortunately, a vacuum was immediately created, trapping the poor creature as the distraught teacher, surrounded by screaming six year olds, attempted to cut it free with child proof blunt plastic scissors. Needless to say, the girl in question had few friends for her ensuing primary school career.

Our very own bully magnet was Roland Price, who had blue-white skin, weirdly red lips and took private ballet lessons. Playground beatings were a regular event, until the day Roland took the bull by the horns and performed a classical ballet routine in front of the entire school at morning assembly.
The unanimous respect that followed him thereafter could perhaps be put down to his astonishing gall, or possibly to the fact that performing in tights revealed Roland as the possessor of an impressively large dong.

Sung in the dinner hall between courses:

Arsehole, arsehole, a soldier I shall be,
To piss, to piss, two pistols at my knees,
Fuck you, fuck you, for curiosity,
Fight for my cunt, fight for my cunt, fight for my counnnnn-tryyyyyy.

Caused many a detention. I wonder why?

An alternative ending was "Fight for the Queen's cunt, fight for the Queen's cunt, fight for the Queen's cunt-ree". Some people think that this scans better and is funnier because it's got the Queen's cunt in it. It's all a matter of perspective, really.

Safety lessons with Mrs Burge in primary school were a riot of incomprehensibility. We learned that if someone touches a live wire their muscles will be paralysed by the force of the electrical current and they won't be able to let go. She got Kevin to pretend to be electrocuted by the lightswitch (eyes rolling, tongue lolling, zzzt! zzzt! noises).

Obviously you can't touch Kevin to push him away from the switch, or zzzt! zzzt! - you're frying too. You need something that won't conduct. Plastic. What's made of plastic? A lunchbox!

Mrs Burge then took my Thundercats lunchbox, complete with Marmite sandwiches, and used it to nudge Kevin away from the switch.

Fucking *weird*.

"Cack" was our word for excrement - solid, liquid, cold or still steaming. Immortalised in the nursery rhyme,

Doctor Foster went to Gloucester,
In a shower of cack.
The dozy twat forgot his hat,
And it all ran down his back.

At least on this journey he was spared the indignity of stepping into a puddle of shit that went right up to his middle; although this must have been before that occasion, considering his oath never to return to Gloucester at the conclusion of that episode.

In fact, considering his adverse reaction to just getting his legs wet in the classic rhyme, you'd imagine a faecal downpour running over his head and face, before trickling its moist brown path along his spine would have caused a much earlier embargo on Gloucester-going, that might have spared him the unfortunate puddle incident.

I bet he liked it, the Hippocratic scatwizard.

The gauntlet is well and truly thrown down by Anonymous User here. I know I'm probably the only person who gives a fuck about this, but I'd like to hear from any readers who just GET OUT THERE AND LOCK THOSE DAMN TOILETS. Lock them like they've never been locked before. - Matt

Feh, who needs a radiator key, or a particular variety of door lock? Was the previous contributor gay? Or stupid? Or both?
Any key, credit card or belt buckle will do. Pull the door closed and hold it with your foot, insert your chosen tool into the outside bit of the lock, and shift it round or across. This is also useful for locking your cousin into the toilet at home and inducing 9-year-old-boy-hysteria.

Someone's done this to the only cubicle that actually locks in the ladies' bogs in the council swimming pool, but I'm buggered if I'm going to be the one who unlocks it.

Referred to as the Reverse Kanga in Australia, it made an appearance in the highly-criticized fifth season of 'Big Brother'. It is so-called because the squatting position one needs to assume is much like that of a kangaroo, which is having a backwards-facing shit in a toilet.

Isn't it "melena"? Online Medical Dictionary definition: "stools stained black by blood pigment or dark blood products". Often indicative of gastrointestinal haemorrhage, for example as a result of a peptic ulcer.

Bleeding from the lower bowel usually results in a brighter red discharge as the haemoglobin in the blood does not have time to oxidise before being expelled.

Spunk in the stool is usually a primary indicator that the patient is a complete and utter hom - a right bottom boy. Like your dad.

Anonymous User misses the fucking point by a mile. I despair, I really do. - Matt

Just lock the door from the inside, climb over the top of the stall and into the next lav. Repeat again and again until all toilets in the building are locked.

Also in this range are fountain-pen flicking, and in the chemistry lab, mild acid-filled pipette flicking. Yes, mild acid. We were reckless children, not Bangladeshi honour killers.

If you poo yourself during PE, simply run to the toilet and clean yourself. Don't, as Martin Watts did, spend long, visible, seconds trying to somehow push the poo back into your anus, looking agonised, before explaining - out loud - that you have done a poo, and have been trying to push the poo somehow back into your anus.
The inclination not to attack an easy target, remember, does not occur in children.

In the days before Thatcher stole our breaktime school milk, the bottles were delivered to my Primary school in two differently-coloured crates.
It was crucial that you got your bottle from the green crate because, of course, "Green green, the football team". Taking one from the red crate was social death, because, naturally, "red red, you wet your bed".
Milk from the red crate definitely tasted worse as well.

Q: (Pointing)Whats that?
A: What?
Q: Snot put your bogey on top.
I fell for this many times, but I never felt too bothered. I still don't understand what was happening.

Our maths teacher was of much the same bent, although he added a rather sinister twist:

After doing the usual inoffensive "Mexican on a bicycle", "Mexican on a bicycle going up a mountain" and so forth, he then drew a circle with three pointy triangles inside it, radiating from the inner circumference.
"What's that?" he asked.
After a few guesses, we relented.
"What is it then, sir?"
The maths teacher looked pleased with himself, and proclaimed:
"The last thing a black man sees after the Ku Klux Klan have thrown him down a well!"

Silence. Utter silence.

From the age of about 8 until his late teens, my younger brother, Phil, kept a tupperware box of trumps under his bed. I remember Phil first telling me about his 6 week old collection and, me being his senior, I could only congratulate him on this fine antholgy.
He would run home from the swings, excuse himself from Sunday dinner, whatever it took to ensure a safe deposit. Years later we opened it and to this day, I know I'll never smell anything like it (think ammonia with depth) - this was pre-ebay days otherwise I reckon Phil would now be a squillionaire and I, a proud brother.
How much would YOU pay for a box of trumps? Earlier on, I ate a corned beef pasty and I've got the tupperware ready and waiting - Mansh

Anonymous User One tells of a toilet mountaineering variant which might be of interest to small children and midgets. Not quite within the spirit of TRUE toilet mountaineering, which aims to achieve maximum lockage with minimum effort, but an interesting historical footnote nonetheless. And certainly preferable to *tchoh* climbing over the toilet walls. I mean, really.

At junior school the toilet partitions were high enough from the floor to enable me (being of a suitably weedy build) to crawl under the partition in order to achieve toilet lockout.

Anonymous User Two tells of an evil twist in the toilet mountaineering tail.

Wait until the you really badly need a poo. Place a wad of lightly-clumped toilet roll into the bowl before dropping your load, ensuring that the poo remains above the waterline for maximum stink. Wipe, leave and lock.

A group of friends, curry with raisins in for school lunch, and careful planning can result in a dozen reeking and locked cubicles by afternoon break.

Apart from the original story from James W, everyone has submitted entries anonymously to this topic. You should all know by now that to partake in this noble sport is absolutely nothing to be ashamed about. - Matt

I got "Oceanic Cartographer". This was due, I suspect, to the fact that I could (a) swim, and, (b) colour-in maps really well without going outside the lines or anything.
Don't know if I could have done it underwater, mind.

has anyone else noticed that this entry has appeared before but on a different month, thus highlighting the fact that all the entries on this site are from the people who put it together.

monumental twats.

Just to prove that we don't do this all on our own, anonymous user, I'm going to include your completely off-topic insult. That'll show YOU.

Sometimes I wish we did concoct the stories ourselves; it'd reduce the amount of time I have to spend wading through shit like yours.

Other readers! If you feel the need to insinuate that we make this all up, at least have the courage to pen your name alongside your insults. And try to use the shift key, too.

Thomas Locking made a very bad mistake in confiding to me, in nonchalant tones, for all the world as though it was nothing to be deeply ashamed of, that his dad had had a vasectomy. Within the hour, everybody knew about Tom's Dad's jaffaness, and the fact that he could no longer come.
Things became worse for him in more ways than he could ever have imagined when he informed us that, "He CAN come, there just isn't anything IN it!"

Once, in Biology, an amusing remark generated such mirth in me that I accidentally hawked up a copious amount of nasal mucus onto Richard Hull's biology book. The resultant beast sat there on the page, quivering like a transparent jellyfish laced with red veins. Unimpressed with the new life-form that I had created, Richard tore out the offending page and threw it away.

John W. achieved school-wide fame in the sixth form when he was spotted through a badly-curtained bathroom window having an energetic wank. Of course, indiscreet masturbation is hardly that unusual at boarding school, but two factors elevated John's performance to the status of School Legend:

1. In an impressive display of coordination and efficiency, he was brushing his teeth with his other hand.

2. He frequently paused in his manipulations to slap his cock energetically against the basin.

John was dubbed Basin Basher for the remainder of his school career, and "Arm & Hammer" toothpaste suddenly became hilarious. The event was immortalised in the following song (to the tune, vaguely, of Do your balls hang low?):

Is your name John or Jason,
Do you bash it on a basin,
Do you cover it in Colgate for better lubrication?
Does it give you satisfaction,
Does it get a big reaction,
Do you use Double Action for better foreskin traction?

The beauty of the final line is that John was a quiet, earnest student: the image of him diligently evaluating toothpastes until he found the one with optimum sensual enhancement was entirely plausible.

The standard number sets you are taught in school in increasing order of complexity are natural, integers, rational, real and complex. Deciding this was too restrictive we added on the new sets of gay, lesbian and nomad numbers.

Gay numbers were any number that had a repeated digit. 66 for example. Clearly too in love with its own kind. Lesbian numbers were a complex number where the real and imaginary part were of the same value. 6 + i6 for example. Nomad numbers were numbers that changed every day depending on where you were on the world and could only be found out by connecting via satellite to the international nomad number determination board. In reality I made them up.

This should be shouted whenever a goalkeeper ventures outside of the goal area, in football. You know, like when they go up for corners and stuff. I'm sure John Motson said this once.

Another weirdo writes:

When I turned my BMX upside down, it churned butter. So it appears that different bikes can produce different dairy products. Thankfully, I didn't know back then, so I wasn't upset at missing out on unlimited supplies of ice cream.

Did your bike make cheese? Perhaps it became the 'Magical Milkshake Machine' at the flick of an imaginary switch. Why don't you form some sort of club? - Ponky

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.

My old school still sends me its twice-yearly magazine, and in it I recently read that Mr Sheldon is retiring. That's the Mr Sheldon who formerly gloried in the title Master of the Lower School at the risible Eton-wannabe institution I had the misfortune to attend for six years. In an interview for the magazine, Mr Sheldon said that he'd enjoyed his career, but the one thing he could never bring himself to enjoy was having to administer corporal punishment.

So that'll be why he used to make you spread your legs apart, bend over on his plush red leather chair, and wait, arse up, for long agonising minutes while he stood in the corner where he kept his quiver of canes, selecting one cane after the other, flexing it between his meaty fingers and swishing it through the air a few times to test its suitability for the melancholy duty it was about to perform. He was punishing HIMSELF more than anyone else. And his distaste would be clearly evident afterwards, in the way he'd stand there puffing and blowing, sweaty and claret-faced, agitated out of all proportion to the physical extertion involved in botty-whacking a small boy a few times. It was because he HATED it.

Also the name given to a retaliatory attack following a fart. A cry of 'beats!' would be the call to arms for those nearby (the ‘fartees’) to quickly deliver painful blows to the farter's face, chest and lower torso, and so the previously disrupted moral equilibrium of the playground was restored (although the amount of 'beats' were probably never entirely proportional to the offensiveness of the fart).

More devious students would carry out controlled, easily transferable farts in the company of an individual for whom they concealed intense and sinister hatred. This would allow for a beating to be administered without revealing any dark, evil intentions/repressed sexual feelings to the victim.

Back in the ealy 1970's at Borough Green CP in Kent, the toilet block was separate from the main school, with lads and girls entering via doors at opposite ends. Inside the building was a partition wall to keep the boys and girls apart, but, inexplicably, it only reached to within a foot of the ceiling. This left a clear opportunity for scat-based mischief:
1) Help yourself to a lot - say 6 yards - of bog roll.
2) Fold it over a couple of times so that it forms a thick, 18 inch long strip.
3) Use your arse cheeks to hold it in place hanging above the water in the bowl as you drop off a steamy bob into the waiting dung 'hammock'.
4) Gather the two ends that have been sandwiched between your buttocks and the bog seat and, in a David and Goliath stylee, sling your cack grenade over the top of the partition wall and into the girls' side.
5) Listen for screaming and walk out, whistling and with your hands in your pockets.
Considering how crap at lying 6 year olds are it is a miracle I got away with it.

For advanced pinfingerers there is pin-needling, which goes as follows;
Push needle with thread through the top of every finger.
Dip newly webbed hand in fairy liquid solution.
Wave your hand around to create multiple bubbles!

You call that a death book? (them's fighting words - jamie) Richard Burns' dad was a forensic scientist, and one day Richard smuggled one of his dad's books into school. It featured full-colour glossy photos of atrocities. These were way, way beyond the coping abilities of the dozen or so 12-year-olds who clustered innocently around to look. I remember a stab victim with multiple wounds, a shotgun-in-the-mouth suicide, a woman who'd died in the bath from loss of blood during an attempted DIY pregancy termination, and a guy who'd had a heart attack and fallen chest-first onto a circular saw.

Now that's a death book.

...can I just add to this that Mr Sheldon was the uncle of Bob Sheldon (see: 'Bob baiting'). If you could provide some sort of link between these two entries, it will give readers a chance to reflect on the way in which being a bullying cunt can be genetically inherited.

No sooner said than done, Simon.

1994 was not a particularly good year for Mike Swinburn. During the months that PJ & Duncan topped the charts, he lived in fear of the sudden cry of "LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLLLLLLLE" resonating throughout the playground, followed by a chant of "watch us wreck the Mike, watch us wreck the Mike, watch us wreck the Mike - psyche!"
Unfortunately for Mike, "psyche" meant a punch in the stomach. Sorry, Mike.

This means "seal egg" in French. It is a great tragedy for pupils in French lessons everywhere that seals don't lay eggs. Or that you can't ask for one in Paris restaurants.

In geography lessons, any mention of the country of Yemen MUST be said loudly as "Yeah Mon!" in the style of Porkpie from Desmonds. Similarly, Oman must be said in the tones of a tired hippy. Deviations will not be tolerated.

When I was very small, I heard an older boy exiting the school toilets and saying "it bloody well stinks in there". I thought this was by far the funniest thing I had ever heard, and decided to adopt it as my own.

The following weekend, on a family trip to the zoo, I engineered an opportunity to visit the toilet while my parents, siblings, aunt, uncle and three cousins waited outside. Upon exiting the facilities I declared to my audience "it bloody well stinks in there", with just the right measure of raffish je ne sais quoi.

Nobody laughed, and my father hit me across the back of the head.

Should the present Monarch pass away, this song will not be rendered obsolete. Simply switch your allegiance to the new head of state by changing the last two lines to:

"Fucking and cunt, Fucking and cunt, Fucking and Cunt-er-ee!"
And thus a new generation gets to savour the taste of illicit playground swears.

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!

I DID shag Sally Francis at college, and she wasn't bothered about sensitive types at all.
Trust me, I'm a RIGHT CUNT. She fucking loved it, as well.
Sally, if you're reading this, please DO get in touch and let us know what sort of guy you go for: sensitive, like Tony Green says; or RIGHT CUNT like our anonymous and, I suspect, poorly hung user suggests? DO you love it? And don't forget to send us some pictures, as well - Mansh

Primary: Sextus plays with his dog's bone.
Secondary: Anus means "grandmother".
Sixth form: Eheu (a ho) means Alas; Euge (pron. "you gay") means "Hooray!".
Postgraduate: Pedicabo ego et uos irrumabo means "I will sodomise you and ejaculate in your mouth".

As a deaf child, I sadly have a good appreciation of deaf related bullying. I especially recommend you don't try the "sneaking up behind the deaf child, removing his hearing aid, and throwing it to other kids" game, as one day he might finally snap and break your fucking cheekbone in 6 places. Alright?

Harmless stories retold in school only need about two periods to change into nasty perverted rumours that win the hapless victim a year's worth of beatings. Let's study the following case;
Gareth and Joe walked to school together everyday. One day, Gareth told Joe that he felt sick because he had to share bath water with his brother. He had waited for his brother to get out, then got in himself and washed his face with the water, but his brother then told him he had done a piss in the bath.
Gareth's brother pissed into the water in front of Gareth and then Gareth drank the water. Once.
Gaz lets his brother piss into his mouth. REGULARLY.
Gareth ALWAYS begs his brother to piss into his mouth, because he loves pissdrinking SO DAMN MUCH.
Gareth CONSTANTLY sucks his brother off in the bath. So much so, it's amazing he has time to come to school.
Joe having to go into hiding for the rest of that week, as Gareth tried to track him down to kick his teeth in.

Song about Anne, sung to the tune of 'Consider Yourself' from 'Oliver':
Anne fingers herself,
At home.
Anne fingers herself,
In front of the family.
She wanked off a horse,
At the farm.
Its clear,
Didn't do any harm.

Not to be confused with 'Annie's Song' by John Denver. In THAT one she wanks off a pony.

According to school rumour, womens' bits smelt of raw potato. This could never be disproved because the girls wouldn't let the boys check.
For the record, mine don't smell of potatoes, raw or otherwise, and these days, I'd be quite happy for you to pop round for a sniff. My address is: the remainder of this entry has been witheld.

Paul Statham once spat in my sandwich. In memory of this crime I composed the following refrain, sung to the tune of Grieg's In The Hall of the Mountain King:

Statham is a fucking cunt
Fucking cunt
Fucking cunt
Statham is a fucking cunt
A fucking, fucking cunt.

Not big on variety or lyrical invention perhaps, but like many simple mantras it contained a kernel of profound truth.

Moving swiftly on to medieval pooing habits, we see the return of the telegraph poles.
In days of old when knights were bold,
And toilets weren't invented.
They dumped their load,
At the side of the road,
And walked away contented.
In days of old when knights were bold,
And toilets weren't invented,
They wiped their holes,
With telegraph poles,
And walked away contented.
Being a Catholic primary school, we didn't know about Durex until secondary school.

Meh, where to begin.
A seal's egg would in fact be 'un oeuf de phoque'.
Before anyone else bothers... a)We don't care.
c)Look, just fuck off. - Ponky

My 2nd year Maths teacher had a regular habit of "dropping" pencils next to girls who were wearing short skirts, so that when he went to pick them up, he'd grab a sneak peek.
He's now a supporters representative of a football club and, as a journalist, I have briefed my colleagues of his previous reputation. So when he has occasion to make an appearance at a press conference to moan about managers/chairmen etc, the air is filled with the sound of the assembled press dropping pencils on the floor.
We're onto you, Perv.

This would be the same Mr James that bawled me out when I cheered on the fire engines when they turned up one day. The graffiti wasn't there before I was kicked out, but I have seen it. The person that did it is right as well. Jimmy was indeed a cunt.

What a load of f**king crap this is- you bunch of white honkie crackers! I bet you're all fudge packing nancy boys!

I'm regretting showing you the site at all now, mum. Conor.

To embelish the flid flippers joke, make sure that everyone stands in front of you. Perform the maneouvere, this time with the added impact of taking your shoes off and kneeling in them. This produces an excellent "fliddy dwarf" effect.
It is so funny, it is actually worth the stultifying wait for you take your shoes off, put your arms double in your shirt and tell everyone to stand in front of you. It is. I swear it is.

My suggestion to all budding toilet mountaineers is to buy a Leatherman. After reading this story I have studied many lavatory doors, and one day soon I plan to take out every public toilet in the city centre.

This is exactly what we want. Let's hope we make it into the newspapers. - Matt

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.

Everyone knows that Swastikas are funny. Especially when drawn on a rubber, in reverse with permanent ink and then stamped on my friend's forehead during a German lesson.

Our headmaster allowed a playground fight between the two thickest boys in the school to escalate to the stage where one participant was hospitalised and the other suspended, simply because it was the week before the SAT tests and the school's league table scores ended up being a lot higher without those two dragging the average mark down.

*checks score on chinometer* Hmmm. Ah, fuck it. I suppose it COULD have happened.

The windows in some of our classrooms would often steam up with condensation during lessons.
We discovered that if you had greasy skin (as many teenagers do), you could rub your fingers on your face, transferring some 'facial grease' onto them and then write 'invisible' words on the glass when dry, e.g "Bill Marlow is a Cunt".
When the windows next steamed up (which could be during another class) the invisible words would miraculously 'appear'. Often the blame would be directed at innocent pupils and once a whole class got detention for not revealing who had done it; they really didn't know! IT WAS ME! HA!

What we kids in the late 70's called spastics, and by association anyone who was a low achiever no matter what the reason.
Im now a responsible and mature father of two teenage girls who would not dream of mocking the mentally subnormal just for kicks, so did NOT curl up in hysterics when their school's drive towards 'spelling, punctuation and grammar' was launched under the banner of 'S.P.A.G'.
And I definitely did not laugh to the point of vomiting when my daughter brought her english exercise book home with the word 'SPAG' written in red biro by the teacher over each and every spaggish grammar or spelling mistake.

On a school trip to the Lake District, John Sampers went for a swim in Malham Tarn in his pants and emerged with a stiffy (tricky bearing in mind how cold the water was)to which someone exclaimed "fucking hell, he's done the indian rope trick!". We also killed a sheep.

Our 5-a-side team was called Bumjamum. We did, too.

i was eating the jelly us poor kids on free school dinners got after the fish fingers, chips and (cold)mushy peas, when i looked up at the Gypo kid( he really was, he had a caravan and everything)sitting across from me, and saw my jelly on his face. Not literally, See, this kid had such a spotty red face and it looked just like the school dinner jelly where it hadn't melted in the water peoperly leaving blobs of red, thus resulting in an exact replica of this scabs face. I never ate school jelly after that as it just didn't taste the same, all i could taste was puss and sh*t. What a bastard though, you know, like it was'nt bad enough i was poor and couldn't afford my own food, he had to deprive me of the free food aswell. So take note spotty kids, (and Gypos) poor kids are hungry!

The rumour mill worked overtime for this one:

Rufus once bit his lip in front of the school vicar.
And thus:
Rufus said 'fuck' in front of the vicar
Rufus told the vicar to fuck off.
Rufus pushed the vicar and told him to fuck off.
Rufus twatted the actual Pope.

I spent a lot of time making a poison pen letter to insult my ex-friend, even assembling the note from cut-out letters from the newspaper like they do on Miami Vice. Once I had posted it to my victim's house, it only took ten minutes for me to be caught, slapped round the head and made to apologize. Perhaps I shouldn't have waved to her mum as I posted the letter through the front door.
Anyway, my best friend made me do it.

Five Doritos fit perfectly into half a medium sliced sandwich. Primary school maths taught me this is known as a 'tesselation', a word I have never needed to use until this moment.

Whenever a policeman comes to school (either to talk to you about careers and shit, or to arrest someone, depending on the calibre of your school), it is customary to point them out to a ginger, exclaiming "Ooh, someone hasn't paid their ginger tax!"

The ginger in question is then expected to reply "Damn, I knew I forgot something", and then spend the rest of the day in hiding. If he doesn't do this, you may hit him.

Apparently what Christopher Rose had for his dinner. Every. Single. Day.
Despite being a great believer in brevity, this entry is a bit short, even for me. What method was used to apply the AIDS to the toast? How did it taste? How many slices did Christopher eat? Mark your entries: 'I have a fucking doctorate in AIDS on toast and ye shall heed me'. Ta.

Variation on the more commonly accepted and widely practiced self gratification pastime, masturbation. Could be Italian in origin.

According to Ste Roberts, the method involved boiling an amount of pasta (pasta type was not specified so presumably most shapes will suffice)until 'al dente', then transferring pasta to an empty jam jar, leaving the lid off but covering the top with a double layer of cling film into which a small slit is made.

Once pasta cools from very hot to quite warm, the pastabater's penis can be inserted into the jar of pasta, at which point the pastabating can begin in earnest.

Never actually tried this, however having actually written the process up, it sounds more plausible than it did 20 years ago.

We were only having a laugh when we lined up to watch the class fatty launch himself onto the trampette in PE. They were just jokes, we didn't really think that his vast weight would tear through all the springs and smash the thing to bits.

That was what made it so funny, really.

The phantom shitter struck in our school too. After laying a few hum-drum journeyman turds on toilet floors and in storage cupboards, he topped off his career by shitting off a lighting platform in the rafters off our huge assembly hall. The hall - called "Big School" for some reason - is where the end of the film "Clockwise" with John Cleese was shot. To this day I find the mental image of a poo falling thirty feet onto rows of plastic chairs funnier than the entire film.

We had a fucking huge dinner lady if that counts, nicknamed 'Sweaty Betty'. She was gargantuan - legs like melted candles and a six part tit/gut shape defined by her huge bra and unfeasably massive undercrackers - all packaged of course in bright highly flowered curtains that doubled as a dress. We found her tabard unattended once - the size label had been cut out but it was easily the size of a six-man tent.

She was so slow it would take her half of breaktime to cross the playground. However, we didn't dare arse about too much, as the rumours was that a few years previously one boy got sat on when eventually caught and he was still living in the rolls of fat, scavenging from the various partly eaten food items that dropped in.

She even gave her name to a playground game, where one person would wobble around pretending to be hugely fat, and the rest would try and 'pop' that person with an imaginary pin.

I'm 'monoballed' and am pretty certain that I've shagged far more attractive women than you. Shame.


Two interesting things about overhead projectors:

1) They get pretty hot.
2) Inside one is the last place your teacher will think of looking when trying to trace the smell of hot, week-old rotting kipper.

In retrospect, this is best used in someone else's form room.

After 16 sheltered years of life, Robert was unable to tell us what a prostitute was. He did venture that it might be 'something to do with Parliament,' which might have passed for satire, had he not been 16.

A great way of briefly scaring the shit out of somebody, without actually doing something they can be really angry about.

Your mate is standing on a ridge / riverbank / cliff. Push him hard toward the edge, and then yank him back in one fluid movement whilst shouting "Tell yer Mam I saved your life!"

We never actually did this on a cliff, but the minging pond in the school grounds was a popular choice.

Being harder than you, the hard kids would just push you in, shouting "Tell yer Mam I couldn't be bothered!"
That pond stunk.

Minus the sunlight
Minus the morning
Here in the bright light

Equally baffling was the reference to "springing, fresh from the lawn" which only added to the surreal imagery of the lyrics, perhaps referring to the blackbird who has pulled up some tasty worms.

Q - What do you find up an Ethiopian's bum?
A - Spoon marks.

I know a senior academic at the British Museum who is still, at the age of 40-something, trying to convince people to call him JD in the hope that it will make him seem mean, moody and magnificent.
Rather than a spazz. Called Jeremy.

Law of the Playground Uncovered: By way of a response to someone who asked recently how the approval process works, here we've included an editorial conversation regarding this submission. See? We genuinely do care, and we rigorously look at entries from all the angles before approving them.

Jesus, you people... I submitted this Stop 'n' Grow entry about six months ago, and can assure you I did not do so under "Welly full of water fleas". Maybe the people directing traffic on this site are the same mongs who cack-handedly sub-edited my original submission and made me sound like a trans-Atlantic cross between Dirty Harry ("rookie mistake" - wtf??) and a Viz character. Cunts. Simon M.

Matt: Conor, he's talking to YOU.
Conor: What a cunt! He should be fucking grateful we even looked at his shitty spack-handed entry and turned it into something halfway readable. Shall I approve this or just delete it?
Matt: You could put a news article on the front page that says "Simon M is a CUNT".
Mansh: Hey you guys - chill out! Can't we just all get along?
Ponky: Up your bottom, Grandad.
Log: I like lucozade
Phil: Get off me. Just get OFF me.

This is because you are a fucking wanker

Ladies and gentlemen... Oscar Wilde has left the building. - Ponky

A game devised at primary school which entailed standing on a step and making a fart noise, then jumping off. So simple but so much fun.

It's not Béard, it's Béart, you pig ignorant plume de ma tante. See me.

We actually had a game called 'Skids' at our (no surprise) all-boys school. The aim was to produce the most impressive skid marks in your pants. Anyone actually shitting themselves would immediately lose...
...though now that I come to write this down, it's quite clear that we were all losers. Losers with shitty underwear.

An interminable staple of Geography education in UK schools. Many, many hours are devoted to the study of these fascinating geological features.
Since leaving school, no-one has ever, under any circumstances, needed to know what the fuck an oxbow lake is, or how it is formed.

It all began when someone tried to kick a football and their shoe came off. From there, it was natural progression to see who could flick their shoe the furthest, and then why not start a fight with shoes?
It all ended when a shoe went through a window and the culprit was immediately identified as the kid with only one shoe on.

The most potent tool of any troublemaker in German lessons was the swastika. Our tools were a particular kind of felt tipped pen, and a 50p coin. These pens, with slow-drying ink, were used to draw a reverse swastika on the 50pence piece. Then, after finding a gullible victim, you would tell them that it was possible to test their intelligence by pressing a coin to their forehead and timing how long it took for it to fall off. If executed in a timely manner, the victim would be completely unaware that they were spending the lesson a la Charles Manson with a fucking great swastika displayed proudly on their face.

Unfortunate sounding contraction of Andrew Peacock. Also see his older brothers Chris and James. The last one never really worked.

As a child, this one-line song was performed every time I had finished a number two, prompting my father to come into the bathroom and wipe my arse. This is normal for small children, of course, but I got used to this luxury and opted-out of doing the deed myself probably for longer than I should have.
Eventually my patient father encouraged me to get on in life, fend for myself and embrace the defecation related hygiene that came with it. In time, I had almost forgotten about my brown jingle.
That was until I reached comprehensive. I'll never forget the mix of shame and fear I felt hearing my older brother and his gang of rough bully-boys yelling 'Da-dee I have Fi-niiiiiished' across a packed playground on my first day.

Simple Simon
Met a pieman
Going to the fair
Said Simple Simon
To the pieman
What do you have there?
Pies, you cunt.

The name of the company I made business cards for in year 8. They claimed to cater for "all your hamster's sexual needs". Run from 10 Downing "dtreet".

My 'finger friend' was the Half-Blind Raccoon. He was created by painting your thumbnail black and adding half a black raccoon mask to your middle finger. Then you would place the black nail over the missing half of the mask and wiggle your fingers. It was obligatory to yell 'half-blind raccoon' whilst shoving it in a nearby classmates face.
Try as I might, I can't visualise how on God's Earth this works. If anyone wants to send in a photo, please be my guest. - Matt

this is only funny to a retard. and even if you were a cretin it is not very funny at all.
the only wit i can see is the pathetic use of 'cunt' which just shows how far downhill this site has gone since you sold out.
anyway the last line is let me taste your ware.
So, does that mean retards are easier to amuse than cretins? DO YOU HAVE A CHART?

One day Tez came into school with a rhyme his mate from another school taught him:

In the German nick
They hang you by your dick
And the bats play snooker with your balls.
Then your mind goes blank
And you're dying for a wank
And the cum goes shooting up the walls.

This rhyme proved to be so popular that by the end of the first lesson, the whole class were singing it. The only problem was, I didn't actually know what cum was. Eventually I asked Tez who laughed in my face and told the rest of the class who also all laughed at me. I still reckon none of them knew what it was either. Bastards.

The brilliantly misguided defense used by a contemptible shit in my year by the name of Ben Wilbur, when encircled by a group of 12-year olds, doubtless virgins themselves, mocking him for not ever getting his oats.
He was roundly hated before he revealed he'd spaffed in his sister, but after that bullying efforts were trebled on the irritating twat (he used to get in your face and make a noise like Snarf out of the Thundercars, the cunt), culminating in the most astonishing display of mass youthful brutality I've ever seen, nay, been party to. To win some friends, he climbed onto the school roof one lunchtime to retrieve a football. Seeing him up there, prancing round like a cock, made some sort of collective tolerance get breached, and suddenly the hapless wank was bombarded with rocks – even the fucking prefects were joining in, loner girls who'd never been heard to speak were fucking pelting the git and baying for blood. Mad, sad, and a little frightening. The whole school got bollocked immediately after lunch in the only emergency assembly we'd ever had, with Ben getting carted off in an ambulace.

It seems that Dunc Cameron's entry about the DJ button has sparked a wave of nostalgia amongst our contributors. Here are just a few (all) of the many (some) we received.
The DJ button is indeed the finest thing ever put on a keyboard. Our Music lessons were a doss at the best of times, but the day we discovered the uses of the DJ button was like finding the Holy Grail.
This culminated in a couple of lads using the moaning sounds to recreate a porn soundtrack. All it really needed was the kid next to them playing a bit of 70s funk guitar, and if you shut your eyes, it'd have been perfect.
(Anonymous user)

The DJ button also infuriated our teacher. When asked to go away and write a composition, those with the new Yamaha keyboards would invariably come back with a mishmash of orgasmic moans, "DJ!" and "Dictionary" (another function). We were eventually banned from using that key.
(Nicky w)

Pressing a certain combination of keys under the DJ setting can produce the phrase "COME ON! YO! MOM!". Which is, frankly, class.
(Andrew Barnes)

I remember that you could push the keys in a certain order to make it cry out "DJ! Push the- dic- dic- dic- OH YEAH- One more time!"
(Bionic Sheep)

And lastly...
I'm still at school, and I'd like to say that making a Yamaha keyboard say "Lesbian!" on the DJ function for an hour every Monday morning brings immense happiness, as well as bragging rights.
(Anonymous user)

So there you have it. The DJ button is OFFICIALLY the best button ever. Not even the off switch on Jimmy Carr's life support machine comes close. - Matt

Kevin Holcombe painted his 12-inch ruler with a fresh coat of Tipp Ex during every lesson for a whole school year, eventually achieving what can only be described as a diamond-hard block of solid Tipp Ex, and the most sought-after weapon in ages.

And indeed he did, constantly.

He also once asked me to look behind his cupboard as he had "something special" for me. It was a turd. His turd. He proudly stated that he had done it there earlier that day as a thoughtful surprise gift for me.

I took great joy telling my friend this after she drunkenly snogged him 12 years later. She refused to confirm if he tasted of snotters.

Sigh. I KNOW. - Mansh

The comeback to this is, of course, "So you shit in your hand, then?"

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.

A planet discovered by William Herschel on March 13, 1781, and named 'Uranus' by him, for a laugh. An absolute comedy staple of geography lessons, and by far the funniest of all the planets. Examples of usage include:
"Miss! Last night I looked through a telescope and I could see Uranus!"
"Miss! I know Saturn has rings, but what about the ring of Uranus?"
"Miss! Is Uranus part of a constellation? Is it Great Bare or is it the Big Dipper?"
Recently, teachers have tried to convince us that it is pronounced 'Err-en-us', but their efforts are likely to be thwarted by the announcement that planet 'X' is to be officially recognised, and re-named 'Stinkycornhole'.

I snuck into the older boys' toilets halfway through my first year at primary school and one of the things I did while I was in there was eat a urinal cake. Not because I thought it was a marshmallow, but because I thought that eating it would grant me the strength of all the older boys who had pissed in the urinal. This, I reasoned,would make me a superhero and bestow upon me the power to destroy all my enemies.

Ms Williams and Ms Woozley are both correct. Geordie Racer was one of the classic stories in the "Look and Read" series. The genius BBC marketing department obviously saw the opportunities in the TV/gaming tie-in and developed a rubbish 4-colour blocky graphics spin-off game for the BBC computer.

The game can be downloaded here, along with other big name titles such as Suburban Fox and Martello Tower. No sign of Granny's Garden, unfortunately.

A universally popular game at my elementary school.

1. A girl shouts "neener-neener-neener" at a boy and then runs away.
2. The boy chases the girl until he catches up with her.
3. The girl beats the boy up.

If a boy does not give chase, that means he wants to cut straight to the beating. It is considered polite to oblige his unspoken wish.

Surprisingly, boys usually played this game enthusiastically and frequently. It lasted for the entire two years I attended the school, with no reaction but bemusement from the teachers at the sight of five-year-old boys happily being kicked repeatedly by girls until they fell over.

Crap looking half red, half blue, credit card style bits of plastic that you received around the time of your sixteenth birthday.

At first these gained much kudos as a mark that you had reached maturity.

That was until 'Pikey Steve' got his, and it was decided that it had been sent by the government as a hint that at least SOMEONE in his family should go and get a fucking job.

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.

I'm sure everyone who had been forced to learn Latin at my school knew that they had free reign to scream "Fac id!" and then be left to try to explain to a teacher how actually they were demonstrating their dedication to their schoolwork by practicing irregular imperitives in their spare time.

A list of rules on a nearby public Pool Area (including one about 'trespass') was unwisely constructed with those little stick-on letters that are pleasantly easy to peel off. This allowed the creation of the line, "NO ASS IN THE POO AREA". Sadly, a new sign was eventually put up, minus the stick-on letters.

Also nearby was a sign in front of an ice-cream shop advertising 'Buttercream Milkshakes'. The 'er' was stolen from that sign about four times within the space of one day before the store just got rid of it. I had to admire their persistence.

"I see your dad's got the company car" was what Dan invariably said as we were walking into town if a bin lorry went past.

Not one but TWO space penises. Truly our cup runneth over. Thanks to Darren and Anonymous for these.

Yarm School, Teeside:

Bellemoor School, Southampton:

Approximate French translation of “BURRRRN!”. Used when someone is insulted en français, as here:

Madame: Deuce, qu’est-ce que Père Noël va te donner pour Noël?
Deuce: Une voiture.
Madame: Ha. Bon chance.
Jacques: BRULÉ!!

Also useful when, during a project on French cooking, Charles actually does burn himself on a bowl of hot shrimp.

'I come here to rub my balls/And read the writing on the walls'

Philip Larkin, Finchley Catholic High, 1962

When I was 14 our school caretaker offered to take me and a few of my friends on holiday to his caravan in Wales.

To show us what a fun time we would have, he produced photos of previous under-age female pupils sunbathing in bikinis, or having water fights in tight white t-shirts.

My mum never did let me go. Selfish cow.

We had a Mr. Emerson, who taught maths and physics.

The look on his face while he was using a calculator was something which his entire class shall carry to our graves. Y´know how the stereotypcial paedo leers at young children? He did that to calculators.

I remember Stan, and have fond memories of being picked on for his "demonstrations" where he proceded to either half dislocate my shoulder or near snap my neck. I'm sure he claimed to have killed a crocodile once.

These days, especially amongst the urban 4x4 driving community, homemade bread will no doubt have a 'wow' factor. Children with names like 'Oliver' and 'Harvey' and fucking 'Archie' will open their lunchboxes and smugly chomp away on walnut foccacia.

But at rural schools, homemade bread was the epitomy of pikeyness. I mean, your mum can't even afford BREAD? She can barely scrape together the price of flour and yeast? AND A PINCH OF SALT?

A grille-covered drain that was the terminus of a large-diameter grey plastic pipe outside the staff room.

Completely innocuous and unlikely to cause harm or even dirty your shoes, but having been given the nickname, being shoved into that deadly zone by an opportunistic fellow pupil would earn the unsuspecting victim many hours of bewildering taunting for having breached the "Poo Pot".

Possibly speculated to be the source of the "fleas" that everyone was so terrified of inheriting by any kind of glancing contact with the wrong sort of person (girls).

We've been sent LITERALLY er...four pieces of celebrity shit writing. So watch out kids, here they come!

Here I sit smart and artful,
paid fuck all and dropped a cartful.

Robert Burns, the mens lavvy, Barnton Bar & Bistro, Stirling.

They fuck you up, sex pests at school.
They may mean to, and they do.
They split your arse without KY,
And give you shitty cock to chew.

Phillip Larkin again, undisclosed locale.

Here I sit in stinky vapour
Cause someone stole the toilet paper
Should I stay, should I linger
I will be forced to use my finger

Joe Strummer, spotted Helena College, 2005

And finally...
I come here to done a piss,
I dunno what they do in India probably sqot on the floor or sumfink.

Jade Goody, Bermondsey Special School, 2004

I heard this when I was eight. OK, so it's not German. Like I care.

There's a ball of wind
It goes to your heart
It travels down your backbone
and turns into a fart.
a fart is very useful
it gives you lots of ease
it warms the bed at night time,
and suffocates the fleas.

Q: How do you kill 100 flies with one blow?
A: Punch an Ethiopian.
(6/10, Good twist on the Jack the Giant Killer fable of "seven in one blow")

Q: How did the Grand Canyon Form?
A: An Ethiopian went on holiday dropped a pea down a rabbit hole.
(3/10, if just one Ethiopian went on holiday, there'd hardly be a canyon-forming rush to get the pea, would there? I mean, Americans wouldn't get out of bed for anything smaller than a gigantic pea pie.)

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

Skill meant two things at our school - African Bum Disease, or Penguin Poo. At a class reunion, I imagine many of us would agree that this was a useful introduction to the fluid and essentially subjective nature of language.

When you see an ugly, fat, or disabled person on the street, you may allocate them to your friend by pointing them out and saying "Yours". The more ugly, fat or disabled they are, the better the yours.

[log]There are ways around this, for the person in receipt of the ugly, fat or disabled person. First, look for any attractive people nearby, and pretend they meant him. "What, the nude man with big brown nips? Thanks!"

If they try to correct you, acknowledge the intended target, look academic for a moment, and say "no, you can't mean him - he's legally yours". If there is no attractive person, simply front it out with "yeah, and he's got a massive cock, I love it".[/log]

There is a global game of cock smack going on right now, and if you have a cock, you're playing. To initiate a round of cock smack, you must first warn your target with the phrase "you know the rules - cover your jewels". For obvious reasons, the warning phrase is often shortened to "Yehnehtheruhcuhyuhjuz". Then, smack them in the cock.

Smacks range from the full cock-punch, to the more advanced and surprisingly debilitating bell flick.

Our class Barry had Barry as a surname, rather than a first name. He compensated for this in two ways:

(1) He only had three fingers on his left hand. In order to avoid drawing attention to this he would keep it in his pocket at all times. No only did this not work at all, it also earned him his first nickname, The Hooded Claw.

(2) Once, whoever wrote the day's roll had terrible writing, while the supply teacher who read it obviously didn't know the names of anyone in the class, and thus spent a good ten minutes attempting to track down someone called "Batsy". This immediately became his second nickname.

"My name is Mr. Reese. Don't call me grease!", snapped Mr Reese one day. To be honest, the thought had never occurred to us, so it was good of him to make us aware of the possibilities.

More than earning himself a new nickname, Mr Reese's outburst had such a satisfying rhythm to it that it quickly became a popular playground chant.

John Whirley had some sort of epilepsy. We discovered that it could be triggered in several ways: shining bright light into his eyes, sneaking up on him and yelling in his ear, and - once - a satchel full of books thrown into his head triggered it. That's serendipity, is that.

During his fits his eyes would roll up into his head, a soft moan would come from inside like he was haunted, then his hands would flutter and rise above his head. Ideally, he'd then pass out and collapse.

Obviously, these were pretty entertaining, and we got to the stage where the demands on Whirley for an eppy were so constant that he'd try to fake them. But he was the only person who'd never seen them, so he was shite at it. Not blowing my own trumpet, but I was much better.

The victim (let's call him Ian, for argument's sake, it was always an Ian) would be asked "Do you have a BHI?"

A positive reply would be met with the ear-splitting declaration "Ian has a baldy half-incher!"

Negative replies would be met with the slightly less offensive "What, so you don't have a big hairy invader?" On the whole, we preferred the positive response.

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.

Robert Birrell was an excitable child of short stature with twiglet legs and a tendency to cry easily under pressure. His wholesale lameness worked in his favour, in that it placed him outside the radar of even the most desperate bullies.

Until the day that teacher Miss Belcastro decided to make a big thing of his birthday. She called him out to the front of the class, stood him in front of the blackboard and said "Now everybody, today is a very special day. Today... is... Robert's... birthday!!!"

It was all too much for Robert Birrell. Overcome by the emotion of the moment, on the word "birthday" he leaned forward and projectile vomited.

This of course catapulted him instantly to playground stardom, especially when Alan Blackwood started calling him "Gobbert" in reference to the chunky, spattering sound he'd made during the spew. Within a short time it became customary, upon seeing Gobbert, to yell GOBBERT!!! and punch him hard in the stomach.

No-one said playground stardom was easy or painless.

The full story behind how a sixty-nine titted lady became boobless? Allow me:

There once was a woman with 69 boobs
(press 69)
which was too, too, too many.
(press 222)
So she went to 51st Street
(press 51)
to see the mysterious Doctor X.
(press the times symbol)
Eight surgeries later
(press 8)
she was completely
(turn the calculator upside down)

An optional "sniff sniff" sound effect may be added between the third and fourth lines.

To create the impression that you are actually getting an intimate faceful of your victim's mother's vagina, lean forwards as you sniff. Otherwise, it's just a basic "phwoo, I can smell it from here".

I would like to share this lovely homage to the '70s hit "Seasons in the Sun" Courtesy: Southfields Infant School, Peterborough.

We had joy, we had fun
Flicking bogeys at the sun
But the sun was too hot
And the bogeys turned to snot

In Yorkshire in the 70's, we managed to have awards for the first ten places.

First the worst
Second the best
Third the royal princess
Fourth the King
Fifth the Queen
Sixth the witch of Hallowe'en
Seventh the Executioner
Eighth the Dirty Donkey
Ninth the girl
Tenth the boy

There's such an impressively deflating failure of imagination in the ninth and tenth positions that you kind of feel like you're letting yourself down as you chant them.

"You're a boy."

Written on a toilet wall at school was the legend "Dai Cooney hates hard work". It was only some time later did we realise that he'd probably written it himself.

Hello Mrs Murphy
How's your heart and soul
I tried to ride your daughter
I couldn't find her hole

At last I found her hole
Covered by her frock
For fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
I couldn't find my cock.

At last I found my cock
as straight as a pin
For fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
I couldn't get it in

At last I got it in
And waved it all about
Fot fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
I couldn't get it out.

At last I got it out
All sloppy and sore
For fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
your daughter wanted more.

This is kinder to the daughter than the original, giving her a nice frock instead of a hairy fanny, and enquiring into the "heart and soul" of Mrs Murphy before regaling her with the tale of fumbling, wild-eyed sex with her daughter.

It also enjoys a certain level of exasperation with the voraciousness of Mrs Murphy's daughter, who seems unsatisfied with someone sticking it in, panicking, and pulling it out again.

For a short period in Year 6, a few boys discovered and promoted the practice of making a pile of sherbert in one hand, blowing it in someone's face and saying "black magic, man!" in a Jamacian accent.

If they'd just used a bit more French language and Catholic
imagery, it'd basically have been voodoo.

If you're going to insist on having a war about fish with a country as silly as Iceland, then you could be accused of trying to engineer a real-life Monty Python sketch. But the Icelandic Cod Wars were a real thing, not a whimsical Footlights jape. And the dispute over fishing rights had a very real impact in British schools. Namely, primary school boys would grab each others dicks and scream "COD WARS".

Nottingham boasts a number of bands that sound like they were made up by schoolkids. Enjoy the melodic, Half-Biscuitesque strains of "Arse Full Of Chips" comes the wonderfully juvenile "Jesus Of Spazzareth".

What do Jesus of Spazzareth sound like? It is a noise that cannot be tamed and contained by microphones.

Me and Tony Jenkins were sliding down the old grassy slope known as "Ballas Hill". It was called that because it was made up of the ballast from the ships which had visited Llanelli to take on coal from the local collieries.

[log]That's very interesting but you've called your story Bloodshot Buttocks, and when you've got a title that magnificent it behooves you to get on with it. I'm a busy man and I demand my bloodshot buttocks.[/log]
We were using bits of corrugated iron we had found as sleds, and we were going higher and higher up the hill to gain more speed each time.

On what would turn out to be the last run of the day, I was in the lead - but I fell off my sheet after hitting a bump. Tony came down after me, slid over my sheet, and screamed.

Skimming over my sheet had had an effect on his buttocks not unlike taking a large ham slicer to them. He lost two large round chunks of buttock muscle, and his bum ended up looking like two bloodshot eyes staring out of his shorts.

[log]Is Tony Jenkins reading this? Can we have a look at your buttocks please? We tried looking you up on Facebook but we just got some sex pest from Kentucky[/log]

For those intrigued, Track 21 of Anal Cunt's It Just Gets Worse album should read "Hitler Was A Sensitive Man"

Love, from the people at Earache Records who don't think this should have been censored.


Cockfingers says...We've already got the gold standard for naming a man after his shoes. Thanks for whatever the fuck that was, though!

Nicky was a hulking child of Eastern European lineage who had the physical structure of a 38-year-old dock worker and a thirst for violence that simply could not be quenched. His entire secondary school career was spent in the position of the undisputed tough of our year - a tenure that was peppered heavily with savage beatings and a management style that could be characterised as an iron fist inside a steel glove.
Like all repressed peoples living under a totalitarian regime, a creative outlet for dissent will always be found. Our's was through the underground communications network of scribbles in the back of Auf Deutsch textbooks. 'Nicky is a gay ape' being the most profound entry into the history of people's resistance.
Like all tyrants, Nicky too ended up on the ash-heap of history as shortly after leaving school he promptly stabbed someone. Say what you like about Stalin being hard, but I'm pretty sure he never killed anybody.

A group of boys sits at a table while a girl goes around under the table giving blow-jobs at random. The object of the game is to keep a straight face.

Cockfingers says...You know what? This didn't happen.

How are you supposed to know that a word isn't acceptable? If your dad stroked the hair gently around your mother's face, and cooed "gargle my balls in Listerine, you grotesque slag", you'd grow up thinking that it was a loving and romantic thing to say.

So when my grandfather called our battery powered stereo with Dolby and auto-stop cassette functionality a "wogbox", with no hatred or racism in his voice, we didn't bat an eyelid. "Slap some Paul Young on the wogbox," we'd yell out the windows. "Turn up the wogbox, I'm trying to dance over here."

Wogbox. To this day, it's a word that's frequently leaps into my mouth. I'm painfully politically correct by nature, and I hate that I'm not supposed to say it. It's such a great word. "I'm not racist, but wogbox Wogbox WOGBOX. Wogbox." Thank you.

Popular yet confusing insult at our West Midlands primary school. Was it based on a huge misunderstanding about what "blow job" meant? Was it some kind of drug reference? Or just an accusation that your dad liked humping machinery? I'm still baffled.

[log]Here, let me help - it's a quote from the movie Short Circuit. Here's the clip, which also features the excellent line "this little fart of a robot is giving me the red-ass". By the way, if any of your friends said "don't get your mum wet after midnight," that wasn't a reference to two of the three rules about keeping a Mogwai. They said that because your mum is a massive slag.[/log]