Report for Nick Hunt
Approved stories44
Rejected stories (hidden) 34
Deleted stories (hidden) 23
SummaryShows promise

Ah, well my name is Nick Hunt, which, whilst not forming any anally related anagrams, does provide endless hours of entertainment. Prick Cunt, Dick Cunt, Nick Cunt, Cunt Cunt, you name it, I'll have heard them all. All of them. Every. Single. One.

(You missed "Lick Cunt." Susan xx)

Given to the smallest, weakest kid during games lessons. Victim is pinned to the floor and asked if he wants "an accelerator". Regardless of the answer (no-one ever says "yes"), you spread his legs, put your foot on his bollocks, and floor it. The engine realistically rises in pitch as you press harder, just like a real car.

Similarly, any response to a cry of "Oi, you've dropped your lipstick" would be enough to prove your gayness. But not for girls, obviously.

What isn't so funny is the somewhat smarmy reply of "Keep shovelling, Watson" which tends to bring things back down to Earth with a bump.

A small, geeky, unassuming child tries too hard to look good in front of cooler, funnier classmates and writes "Help, I'm a prisoner in a blackboard factory. Call the police and save me." on an unattended blackboard.
The small, geeky, unassuming child then has the shit kicked out of him by the cool kids he was so desperately trying to impress.
In the back of his mind he's sure that lesson applies to this website somehow, as well.

Not quite as effective without the preceding steps.
Make a "gate" with your hands, middle fingers touching. Say to your chosen victim, in a manner similar to that adopted when asking them to smell your cheese, "Open the gate!". Excited to see what will happen, your victim (the fool) will open the gate. Quickly, before they realise their mistake, make gun shapes with your hands, and shoot them down in a hail of "peeeoww"s and "er er er er er er"s. Repeat the rhyme over their twitching, bloody corpse.

Silence in the courtyards,
Silence in the streets.
The biggest gob in England,
Is just about to speak.
Starting from........NOW!
Often used in classrooms as a teacher approaches, or in shared rooms to shut people up and allow sleep. In some versions of this game, however, sound effects are allowed, as long as they don't form words. So those attempting to sleep will be kept awake by cacophonic grunting.

"Hey, Kent, have you found a wormhole?"
Ring any bells, Nick?

Other answers to "What's the time?" include, "Hair past freckle", "Hair past skin", or, of course, the hilarious "Time Big Ben had babies."

Ask your victim to hold out their palm.
"There's your house," you say, pointing at the centre of their palm.
"There's the garden," you continue, pointing slightly to the left/right of centre
"Where do you want the fishpond?" you ask.
Your victim will then point somewhere else on their palm, and you, in response, will cough up a massive great greeny, and, with unnerving accuracy, place the "fishpond" at their chosen location.

Make a fist, hold it up in front of you.
"What's this?" you ask your victim.
"I don't know!" they reply.
"Wanker's cramp!" you respond, continuing with "Do you get it?"
"Haha! Yes!" they gleefully reply.
"Do you get it a lot? You must be a wanker! Wanker, wanker, wanker!" Victory is yours.

Jon Dale was discovered furiously knocking one out over a pencil drawing of an "Elven Cheerleader" in a bedraggled copy of White Dwarf magazine. We never played "Blood Bowl" again.

After successfully getting someone to turn around when you say "Look over there - it's Bobby Davro!" compound their shame by taunting them with the following rhyme:
Made you look,
Dirty duck,
You stuck your head in cow muck

You see? They stuck their head in cow muck. Because they turned around.
Also consider "Made you look, made you stare, made you lose your underwear."

The bullies of Leicestershire appear to be slightly more poetic than their Derbyshire brethren. One child approached me, and said;
"Look into my eyes..."
His eyes, like Kaa the Python from the Jungle Book, whispered Trust In Me... then he slammed his knee into my tender sweetbreads, and said;
"Your balls are paralysed.".
In Derbyshire you'd just get a good kicking. Twice. Fucking Leicester fops.

That's exactly what Jon Dale used to do with Elven Cheerleaders. He'd paint tiny labia on their leotards to make it look like they were wearing crotchless panties. Christ. I mean, hats off to his artistic talent, but the more I think about it the more amazed I am I've not seen him feature on Crimewatch.

He may have been the most powerful man in the universe, but even He Man was the target of abuse, with this, our version of the cartoon theme tune:

"I have the power to pick up a flower
for half an hour or more"

Sometimes he'd pee on the flower, rather than pick it up. I guess it depended on what kind of day he'd had, fighting Skeletor and that.

In 1987, no-one in France shaved their armpits. Or wore deodorant. Especially not girls. My first French exchange was marred by an organised trip to a swimming pool where there were rafts of thick, black underarm hair as far as the eye could see. The girl you'd had a crush on suddenly became the world's hairiest swamp donkey when her pits were exposed. They're catching on now, thank God. At least with the shaving, anyway.

Nick Hunt
Zoe Reynolds
1 2 0 2 1
3 2 2 3
5 4 5

If there's a Zoe Reynolds reading this, I'm yours, and I promise to devote as much time to you as I did to working out your fucking name. If you even exist outside my tortured imagination.

My "Public Image Limited" logo became "pillock" thanks to someone's black biro, but it was such a shit insult, I didn't bother to scribble it out. Get me!

Following his unsuccessful foray in farming, CCC moved into retail management.
Ching chong chinaman bought a little shop,
and all he sold was peppermint rock.
He pissed in a bottle and he called it pop,
Ching chong chinaman bought a little shop.

There's also Auntie Sue doing a poo whilst Uncle Jim kisses her quim.

Presumably Sue and Jim are German.

Nnnneurrrgh. I like mood rings.
Here's an online one that will tell you you're grumpy every eighth time you click in it.

A small village in Nottinghamshire, which has the same initials as "Blow Job", and thus allows Nottingham High School for Girls students to tell each other what they got up to with their boyfriends last night without actually having to mention the dirty deed.
As in "I went to Burton Joyce with Nick last night". Can be reversed - Joyce Burton - to describe cunnilingus, for the experimenting lezzers there.

Well, I've just googled "banana boat shoes" and got 4 references. Sure, there're no pictures but that's got to be worth a hand job, at least...

Oh, Richard Irons. People like you deserved all the abuse they suffered at school. *All* of it.

It might very well be true:
And I quote, "Dungeoneer Dickon from Team 6 unlocks Motley from the stocks, then an Ogre appears."
You can even listen to it here:

Thanks Nick! And thanks Dickon!

Some healthy scepticism here from Nick concerning the veracity of Andrew Freeman's poo story.

Christ's cock and balls, Freeman. "A large, firm dog turd"? The Hound of the fucking Baskervilles itself must have laid that cable if we're to believe there was enough of it to spell out "EAT ME".
Next you'll be posting an entry to say that the following night, an artfully arranged "LICK ME" appeared written in piss up the side of a lamppost.

Hello again. King of Google here.
According to Luke 23:46, the last words of Christ were, in fact, "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit." Which is a bit rude, if you try hard.
Here be links.
Note: don't Google "I come too quickly" when you're at work and have a draconian information security team.

To play Airwolf you will need a willing accomplice, and a park with a set of swings, ideally three seats next to each other.
Tie the outside seats to the posts, leaving only the one in the middle. This gives you loads of room in which to have your Airwolf adventure.
You, as Stringfellow Hawke, mount the middle swing, and your business associate, Dominic Santini, has to give you a push whilst you sing the Airwolf theme tune (your theme tune) and make whoosh, neeeow, er-er-er-er-er, peeow noises.
In practice, this was ace. Written down, it sounds shit. Sorry.

A more cumbersome variant common to Derbyshire was the 'fart n blow'. You would have to get up, fart, bend down, and blow the fart upwards, and this would look pretty much like you were bending down to sniff your own fart, you scabby tramp.
The 'fart n blow' was largely eschewed in favour of the fart n waft.

Put your fingers to the corners of your eyes and pull as directed whilst singing;
"My mum's Chinese" (pull both fingers up)
"My dad's Japanese" (pull both fingers down)
"Look what happened to me!" (pull one finger up and one finger down).
If this visual gag wasn't hilarious enough, imagine a pubescant girl singing "Chinese, Japanese, Mummy please, what are these?" whilst gesturing to her new, pert bahongas!
Boys can gesture to their dirty knees instead, but that's not as funny as TITS.

Similar to this, but called "Black Man's Willy":
Take two matches and push them into the end of a matchbox (one either side) so that their heads stick out. Wedge another match between them so that its head is touching one of the others. Like so.

Light it, and stand well back! No, further back than that! This is dangerous!
The wedged match will magically stand up, and blacken like a funny-faced brown's engorged member. Black Man's Willy - see?
Click here for a wee video clip of the Black Man's Willy in action.(.wmv, 300k)

Consider also:
In days of old
When knights were bold
And Durex weren't invented
They just put socks
Around their cocks
And babies were prevented
Authors note: Possibly the oldest allusion to a "wanking sock" on record, this rhyme appeared in the appendix of the Domesday Book, under "In this village Harold Rex had a Poshe Wanke".

Gavin Jones' Dad was a handicapped. His eyes didn't work and he had to be led everywhere by Guide Dog. Some of the more gossipy 3rd years had already started rumours about Gavin's dad's relationship with his four-legged friend, when, one Parents Evening, those rumours were given a massive boost of credibility.
Being next to each other in the register meant Gavin and I had adjacent time slots that fateful evening. Nervous with anticipation about my forthcoming report I'd headed off to the toilet. Pissing roughly in the direction of the urinal was Gavin's dad. Sitting faithfully by his side, lapping gently at the golden stream and the contents of the ceramic bowl was his dog. Gavin's Dad's dog was drinking his piss.
Looking back at the incident now, I think I'm fully justified in my telling everyone I could that not only did Gavin's Dad's dog drink Gavin's Dad's piss, he was actually sucking him off in the toilets.
I was justified, wasn't I? The filthy, dog-bothering pervert.

Just as an aside, and for those that haven't experienced the joys of fat teacher loving, google "fat teacher". Go on. And then click on one of the links. Maybe the "Student fuck his fat teacher" one. Even better - "FREE Fat teacher fucking and New York black porn!" one.
Whoo! That kicks off November's round of fat-teachers with a global flavour! I wonder what a fat geography teacher tastes of? Does he taste more like Geography, or a messy pile of bacon? Let's find out!

A similarly horrifying experience was if the snapped-off pencil lead stayed stuck in the end of the sharpener, causing the blade to slide impotently over the wood, no matter how hard you turned the pencil. Brown pencil crayons were particularly prone to this snapping-off phenomenon, and were guaranteed to provoke tears of hot frustration when you were in the middle of colouring in a picture of a big, fat poo.

Listen to this,
Too good to miss,
dum dum de dum dum dum


If you're lucky enough to have another trump in the tube, or cunning enough to clench mid-toot, then be sure to sing;

Here comes another,
Must be its brother,
dum dum de dum dum dum


Timing is essential if you're to pull this off successfully. You must be on beat.

This is in E major. Adjust the key to suit the size of your arsehole, and change to a minor key if you think you might shit yourself.

Our Home Economics teacher, Miss Munroe, would get the class to chant "salts and sugars are not nutritious" before the start of every lesson.
After school one evening, Miss Munroe was spied by Martin Jenkins gobbling off our sports teacher in the car-park of the local pub.
When she intoned her mantra in class the following day, Martin's reply of "what about the ones in Mr. Johnson's spunk, miss?" was enough to see her scream and run crying from the room. She didn't return to school.
A shame really, as we wanted to know if she'd gone against her own teachings by swallowing.

Standard male reply to the age-old question "How's it hanging?".
A suitable girls' reply was never established. "Fine, thanks" seemed to suffice.

In Autumn, the hedgerows are full of fat, red rosehips, which can be split open to reveal small, hairy seeds. These seeds can then be shoved down someone's shirt where they will itch like buggery, and cause bright scarlet rashes.
Precociously recounting this fact in a second-year biology class earned me the moniker "Nature Boy" from the indulgent teacher.
This was to be a short-lived glory however, as at the start of the every new school year, I'd be pinned to the ground and covered with rosehip seeds by a snarling mob chanting "NAY-CHUR BUH-MER" at me. When the rosehips ran out, they moved on to conkers.
Autumn is not my favourite season.

Rosie and her brother, James, lived on a farm on the outskirts of a village near Derby. The school bus took us past their farm each day, a collection of ramshackle, rusting, corrugated iron sheds, some of which fell over if the weather was bad.
Because of their ethnic origin, it was widely acknowledged that the sheds were in this state because Rosie, James and their parents ate too much curry; first year R.E. dictating anyone from India ate curry and first year biology dictating that eating curry led to guffs-a-plenty.
To keep Anglo/Indian diplomatic relations healthy, an enterprising group of us took to throwing our sandwiches out of the bus window as we passed the farm, figuring that Rosie and James' bowels needed all the normal food they could get. When Rosie, who at the time was too young to attend senior school, began to wait at the bottom of the drive when the bus went past, the rain of uneaten lunches turned into a downpour.
The sheds were still ramshackle, though, and when it was eventually pointed out that Rosie was actually waiting for her brother to get off the bus, the sandwich throwing stopped. Our generosity turned to anger and we just threw whatever came to hand - text books, eggs, and even water balloons were popular for a while, but no-one managed to top Kevin's inspired "Do-it-all Painting and Decorating Guide".
Looking back now, the most tear-jerking thing about the whole sorry story is that *everything* we threw from the bus would be gone the next day. Their farm might have been a shithole but those Indians certainly kept their drive clean.

See! You can't deny it, CAN you?

Right. Claire Rosemond, prepare to be stalked.
And I know you exist because I've googled you.

Julie Greaves suffered from a terrible skin complaint. This wasn't just a few patches of mild eczema; this was full-on, Singing Detective-esque, weeping psoriasis.
No-one would go near her as a result. If it snowed, it was attributed to Julie sneezing, and blowing off another layer of skin.
Girls in her netball class would drop the ball if she threw it to them, screaming "Greaves Disease", like some extreme form of "fleas". Cornflake cakes were avoided in the canteen - the cooks had obviously used the flakes piling up around Julie's chair. Rumour had it girls wouldn't use the toilet if they knew she'd been in there first, lest they caught her sickening condition from the toilet seat.
In short, instead of the compassion she so desperately craved, she was shunned as the leper she so evidently was.
I last saw Julie working as a barmaid in a local pub. 15 years had passed and still I could only just bring myself to pick up the pint she served me, and drank it only after rigorously checking the glass and contents for "bits". Judging by the looks of disgust on the faces of the other punters she served, they spent their evenings doing much the same.