Report for Tony Green
Approved stories35
Rejected stories (hidden) 12
Deleted stories (hidden) 16
SummaryShows promise

Fung Chow was a peace-loving Vietnamese village, made out of paper by Nick Ruck. The attention to detail was magnificent - there were little bits of ripped-up paper to represent huts and villagers and everything.
Then the welding-torch helicopters came. Manned by Nick Ruck, who shouted an off-key Ride of the Valkyries, the helicopters left no surviving paper villagers, or huts. Nick Ruck stopped shouting Wagner to scream in a slightly foreign accent.
Mr Ashworth - our metalwork teacher - looked visibly shaken when he arrived at the scene, and may well be the last case of post-traumatic stress disorder caused by the Vietnam war.

The Action Man is a great tool for measuring how loved a child is by his parents. Simply tot up the Action Men owned by the child, and refer to this key.
0-1 Action Men : Child is physically / mentally abused. If he has one Action Man, and it is up his arse, he may also be sexually abused, or gay. Also has headlice.
2-3 Action Men, 1 Vehicle : Child escapes the more serious symptoms of neglect, but the house is devoid of love. Divorce may be on the cards, mostly thanks to the stress caused by the financial burden of raising a child. You.
4-5 Action Men, 2+ Vehicles : Average. The child will grow up contented, and have a string of relationships with Russian spies before settling for an obedient plain girl.
6+ Action Men, All Vehicles : Clearly the parents have just died, and the foster parents want to stop him wetting the bed. Either that or the child knows how to play divorced parents off against each other.

Fiendish plan by two nine year olds who wished to dupe the charitable British public into giving them money to buy Star Wars stuff. The "Anthony and John Figure Fund" involved rattling homemade collection tins made from Panda Pops bottles with attractive labels drawn in felt tip and wandering the estate until we got bored. After two afternoons we had extorted £2.00 each from our parents, who found their children begging for toy money from their neighbours extremely distasteful.

I got Lando Calrissian - result!!

A bullying opportunity which crossed cultural and social barriers.
It was originally based around the rumour that Mr Randall used to be a member of the SAS and that he kept his black embassy storming suit in a small shed behind the art block.
Victims from lower years would be invited to see it, but their excitement upon entering would soon turn to panic as the shed door was closed behind them and wedged shut.
With a variation of the bait used, anyone, no matter how weedy, could terrorize an even weedier pupil from a lower year.
Thus the geek kids in my year were once seen enticing a bespectacled "quiet child" from the first year into the shed. Probably with the promise that the shed contained a very rare D&D figure, an exciting range of chemistry apparatus or a girl with meccano tits.

The combination of my bike lock which I let my friend know so he could borrow my bike to cycle home for a shit at lunchtimes. Such trips were vital to him as he was desparately paranoid about catching aids or gay from the school facilities.
One day, however, I changed my combination and neglected to tell him. The first period after lunch, he stormed up to my desk with his face wet with tears. Slamming his fists down, he screeched "Thanks a fucking lot, Green, I had to shit myself today".
My astonished response was never heard, as it was drowned out by the laughter of some 20 other pupils. A cautionary tale for anyone willing to take responsibility for the toilet habits of others.

Our school's contribution to progressive playground rock were called Bellend And Balloon, and comprised two highly-talented songwriters shouting into a tape recorder.

Their most well-recieved work was entitled 'Phil, How Many Fucking Grans Have You Got?', inspired by the persistent absenteeism of a classmate who seemed to suffer family bereavements far too regularly.
They achieved school-wide notoriety due to the daring artwork of their demo tape cover, which was a collage of pictures of male genitalia from porn mags interspersed with polaroids of their own cocks.

When our Home Counties primary school welcomed its first Chinese pupil, the child was accepted immediately, simply because he came from the same part of the world as Monkey.
There were no “Ching Chong Chinaman” jokes. He was followed by a legion of disciples, in the hope that they would be shown how to fight better or summon a cloud from the sky.

Plastic ‘boomerangs’, in the shape of a T with a robot drawn on them, were popular at my school for a time, and were naively considered by the teachers to be harmless enough for indoor use. This craze went on for some weeks without incident, until one day when I watched Martin Bradshaw, in a manner not dissimilar to the ape who plays with the bones in 2001 – A Space Odyssey, looking first at his boomerang and then at the back of Gareth Gurd's head. A hefty throw and the crack of impact followed, and then the madness affected us all. Before long, the floor was littered with the crying and injured.

The boomerangs were banned that day, and the craze was swiftly replaced by football stickers. Martin tried his best to hurt Gareth with these, but sadly failed.

Perhaps our anonymous Swede would care to enlighten us as to what transpired in the gay-free playgrounds of Sweden when someone suggested a game of "war"? I can only assume they put all their pocket money in a pile on the ground and sat on it with their heads hidden under their parka hoods until it was all over - just like in real life!

Très drôle, Tony. Très drôle. - Phil

While playing 'Where Eagles Dare' (a film where the goodies dress as Nazis), myself and a friend proudly ran around the estate in hastily improvised Jerry clobber. Wellingtons made ideal jackboots and paper eagles taped to our 'uniforms' gave extra authenticity.
However, drawing a massive black swastika on the front of my 'London Zoo' cap was deemed going too far and led to the inevitable parental lecture on why swastikas are very bad.

We were never sure if there really was a chemical in the water which would reveal if you had pissed in the swimming pool. However, throwing opened ink cartridges into the water behind Neil Jervis as he swam was enough to have him hauled out of the pool and sent to change. The reputation which stuck to him afterwards may have deprived him of female company well into his teens.

Lipase in an enzyme which is used in digestion to break down fat. It was whilst trying to help Stephanie lose weight by dousing her in lipase, that I found out that such behaviour was dangerous, childish, and a form of bullying. By this uncharitable interpretation, my teacher would have said that Gandhi was "just showing off".
I pointed out to the teacher the unfairness of saying "you shouldn't spray Stephanie with lipase", then applying that rule with retrospective effect to punish me. But again, this apparently wasn't arguing for the rule of law in a democracy, it was "being gobby", and "landing myself in more hot water".

Dennis was told to leave Chemistry by Mrs Tench. For some minutes, he continued to pull faces and flip v-signs at the window. Mrs Tench announced, rightly, that he would get bored of his juvenile behaviour if we just ignored him.
Sure enough, he disappeared. Minutes later, he roared past the windows of the classroom in Mrs Tench's crash helmet, riding Mrs Tench's moped.
Mrs Tench remained admirably stoic throughout the incident, ignoring Dennis' antics until other teachers dismounted him mid-donut and led him away.

A helpful parent made a number of wooden swords for the kids who were cast as Roman soldiers. These proved so popular that it became impossible to persuade any boys to take non-soldier roles. After cajoling, pleading and finally threatening had failed to engender any interest in the other roles, the teachers took the unprecedented step of arming all the boy characters.
And Lo! Shepherds, innkeepers, wise men and even the bloody donkey all celebrated the birth of Christ armed to the fucking teeth with murderous excitement in their eyes.

Clint brought a dead dog he found in the road into our form room and proceeded to make the corpse dance on his desk. After taking a moment or two to absorb the true horror of Clint's actions, our form tutor merely asked him to "put that away until break". This suggested that playing with dead animals at school was acceptable provided that it didn't distract us from answering the register.

In response to the ruling of the cool kids that all boys had to support a football team, Gareth Gurd, a spoddy kid who knew nothing of cool or football, panicked. Thinking on his feet, he announced that he supported "Junkmey Rovers".
This ruse may have worked had he not attempted to converse with the cool kids about Junkmey's results. He finally came undone when he stated to Martin Bradshaw that they had recently thrashed Martin's team 15-nil.
And thus Junkmey Rovers, in spite of having no ground, players, kit or in fact existence of any kind, still had a fan who got his head kicked in on their behalf.

During assembly our headmaster announced that our former German teacher who had an (unfounded)reputation for being gay was enjoying his new position at a boys school in Birmingham. The entire fourth year erupted in laughter and detentions whizzed through the year like bullets on the Somme. The casualty rate was high in those terrible minutes. Smirking and giggling with hand in front of face were vigorously dealt with while the two boys who began to simulate buggery while shouting "ich bin Herr Gay" were removed by Teacher snatch-squads and only returned some hours later after parental phone calls.

Many years before children became properly aware of childhood illness issues we were sat down by our teacher and told we 'have to be nice to Craig as he has something wrong with him'. This, naturally, led to much speculation as to what it actually was, until the conclusion was reached that he had been born without a cock. This established, following craig into the toilets to see what he pissed with became something of a group activity. In retrospect possibly the only thing wrong with Craig was the fact that he didn't lash out at the oggling cock-staring pervos in his class. We never did find out as he didn't come back to school after the summer holidays. Maybe he just filled up with piss and burst.

Really unkind nickname given by the gentlemen of the 4th year to a classmate whose only misfortune was that his gran had just died.

During a Humanities lesson, our teacher was astonished (and completely terrified) by the sight of Dennis bursting into the room with a hammer from woodwork and wearing a crudely fashioned paper beard. He announced: "I am Sutcliffe!", did a twisty dance, and ran from the room. Where Dennis had come up with this piece of theatre is anybody's guess but he had many a detention to mull over his behaviour. But, try as they might, they couldn't break the would-be serial killer, and he signed my shirt "the youkshire ripper fan-club" on the last day of school. I hope he doesn't drive a lorry now!

Like cellar door, jism or flange: one of those words that rolls so sweetly off the tongue that you say it again and again and again, up until the moment when you introduce yourself as "Mr David Hysterectomy" to the drama teacher, and she runs out of the room.
Girls cry at anything!

A piece of graffiti which was scrawled on almost every wall, lampost, garage and fence between our school and Phil's front door. The perpetrator simply found the name Phil funny and its genius lay in the fact that it never specified what Phil would actually do if you dialed his number.
In spite of this ambiguity, it didn't stop Phil's parents sending him out into the dark and rainy night to scrub it all off.

A flippant remark, used to embellish the humour of someone falling or tripping over. Except by Martin Bradshaw, who used it as a war cry as he bayoneted Gareth Gurd's left roller-skate with a javelin pole.

If you are of the lower castes, and a higher ranking child says this to you with his hand outstretched and welcoming, run. Run away.
The best you can expect is a crushing handshake.
But it's rarely a lone wolf attack - to risk approaching someone as unpopular as you, there's usually going to be a bigger payoff. Chances are you'll be held in place while others come to laugh at the fact you dared to want or expect friendship. Often, there is violence.
Finally, the crowd will be overjoyed if the injustice causes you to howl "you liiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeed" before losing conscousness. They know they lied. That was the whole point. No wonder you get picked on.

I humbly nominate the number 10 as a gay number.

There are two reasons for this.

Firstly, when Adam Blanchard announced his tenth birthday, it went like this;
Adam Blanchard : I am ten today.
Martin Bradshaw : And you're a puff.
Secondly, it was the house number of my quiet, thin, and well-dressed friend Chris. Although he wasn't actually a botter himself, the air around him was thick with the smell of gay promise.
That's good enough for me, Tony. 10 joins 23 and 42, and is officially as gay as Michael Elphick's pony. Does anyone else have a gay number they'd like to share? I want every number from 1 to 100 gayed up before sundown.

Apparatus: Chlorine gas, a 'Griffin Savers' school bag and Richard Savage's head.
Method: Combine.
Conclusion: With his head bagged, Richard is both dead and alive according to quantum law; in a superposition of states. It is only when Creedy removes the bag and sees that although Richard WANTED to die during the experiment, he is in fact alive - that the superposition is lost.

Whistful Carribean folk song that we were forced to sing in tuesday morning singing group. Such was the gusto which myself and my friend Philip sang (in thick and poor quality Jamaican accents)that we were asked to come up onto the stage to demonstrate our vocal talents to the rest of the class. While our enthusiasm had got us picked out for special praise, our inclusion of "Oooohkeeey mon!" between each verse only led to the head's office by a "deeply disappointed" music teacher.

An elderly referee's desperate appeal for calm after a game of inter-school football amongst nine year olds became a no-holds-barred violence extravaganza.
Players PLEASE! subsequently became the standard response made by anyone kicked in the bollocks, always resulting in both kicker and kickee laughing together mannishly.

I found that if you deviously manipulate your answers in an attempt to get it to say, perhaps, "vet" or "nurse", thus making you appear the "sensitive type", you are still highly unlikely to shag Sally Francis.

An ever-evolving gentlemen's society which began by setting up a club where three of us would all cram ourselves into a big drawer under a friend's bed and pull it closed.
When the (clearly) limited point of such a club was realised, it evolved its practices thusly:
Reading comics in the drawer.
Reading comics next to the drawer.
Putting George in the drawer.
Putting George in the drawer until he begged for release.
Hitting George.
Stealing from George.
The society was forced to disband with the arrival of homemade ninja weapons and a trip to hospital for George and his newly grounded friends.

Andrew came to school, every single day, with a packet of digestive biscuits. What a fat cunt was the general feeling until his biscuits were stolen, Andrew became extremely ill, and the children of Charlton Primary had something called 'diabetes' explained to them by spittingly-furious headmaster.

By contrast, my poorly funded state school experience of a similar incident occurred on a trip to France. It wasn't the hum of cack and puke that attracted us to Stephen Bell's unconscous, drunken body. It was the smell of Johnny Buchannon setting fire to his hair.
Poor kids eh? we should feel sorry for them, really.

Tony took time out of his busy schedule torturing small mammals to share this pearl of two-wheeled wisdom.

My bike made pain. The spinning, lumpy motor cross tyres when spinning at full revs created such a lethal weapon that its victims eyes were a sight to behold as henchmen forced their tear stained faces towards it. All the time I cranked the pedals faster like the winding of a Spanish Inquisition musical box. The whole torture was made all the more pleasurable by the dynamo attached to my rear tyre which would make the bike lights glow brightly when the revolutions were high enough to remove skin!

When told to "just grow up" after an act of particularly childish misbehaviour a 13 year old Dennis stood on his chair and whilst making a kind of whooooosh - noise used hand gestures and miming to simulate pubic hair growing at a superhuman rate. He then began frowning and speaking in a comedic deep voice about 'Gardening, gardening gardening' and 'Overdraft, overdrafe, overdraft'. A fascinating take on the perception of adults by children which was completely lost on our teacher who marched him from the room while Dennis was in the middle of grumbling about interest rates.

The phrase poofs like bum love all afternoon allows school-children - or, if I'm being honest, army medics - to remember the parts of the left side of the heart. It also reminds you to be extra-diligent at lunchtime, when gay men are like Gremlins in a swimming pool.