Report for spadge monkey
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SummaryCould Try Harder

Uttered after a fart. Can anyone explain?

(Id imagine it comes from an advertising slogan, Condor being a kind of rolling tobacco. Made of egg and cabbage presumably.)

A plea : did the hard lads in anyone else's school have wanking races in lessons or was it just our school? It mainly happened in maths. Three or four lads would sit at the back with their knobs out and masturbate under the desk - to completion. Sometimes the pikey girls would join them with shatterproof rulers for measuring purposes. This also occurred on the back seat of our school coach. Any chance they got, really. Was this really a unique phenomenon?

Speaking of Wayne, there was a morbidly fat, pigeon-toed boy in my year called Wayne. His older, bespectacled brother, similarly fat, was called Glenn (like the fat kid off Grange Hill). I can't hear those names now without thinking 'fat'. Did anyone else know any lithe, slim, fit Waynes or Glenns?

Disease that is surprisingly easy to diagnose. Tell patient to hold their breath, then informing them they can breathe out "if they have AIDS." If they dont breathe out, theyre in the clear.
I wonder if, in The Olden Days, it worked with TB or Polio?

There was a brief craze in the final year of my primary school for mousetrap-type contraptions disguised as chewing gum. When you went to take a piece, a bit of metal snapped down hard on your unsuspecting finger. Hilarious!
At the age of eleven or twelve, my fingers were still quite wee (still are) and it REALLY BLOODY HURT. By the way.

A particularly successful way to gently persuade your teacher onto a course of Prozac. It doesn't work if everyone does it; and for best effect it needs to either come from a couple of different directions, or from a different source each time. Advantageous in that there is no outward sign of the hummer, rendering them unpunishable. Needless to say they would cease should the teacher approach, at which point the hum would be taken up by another entrepreneurial soul on the other side of the room, head bent studiously over their long division (or whatever it was... sorry, Mr. McNally, but with that name, and at 5'2" you were asking for it. As was your car, to be fair.)

Yes. In a similar "boo sucks" vein, I posted a copy of first book to evil comprehensive-school-pupil-hating English tutor at Oxford who had suggested early on in my academic career that I might be happier at South Bank Poly. The fact that the book was about dance music and drug culture, rather than being called something like 'The sonnet: wherefore? Post-feminist dialectics on a premodern form' did nothing to prove him right, or so I felt at the time.

I did Cascaid - and take serious issue with the 'aid' part of the name. It told me to be a Pet Shop Owner. I am a magazine editor.

Leftover fish fingers between paper-thin white bread, Panda Pop and apple, all served in grubby scratched tupperware...
It's bad, isn't it? I know it's bad.

The two most laddish lads in our year were Alastair and Mark (whose surnames I can't bring myself to reveal as I'm still a bit scared of them - old lynchings die hard). Both, in keeping with the times, wore those heavy lineny shirts, their ties as small as possible and with as much tucked in between their shirt buttons as possible, one gold earring, school trousers generously cut with many a dart at the waistband, and Kickers. You get the picture. Both were (looking back) suspiciously well-coiffed; Alastair with his blonde, rock-hard flat-top la Bros, and Mark with the tight spiral perm he sported for much of the fifth form and lower sixth (perhaps, with hindsight, an indicator of things to come). They were inseperable.
To be clear: they weren't from the pikey/charver/radgie school of bullies - no, those were confined to the B stream and mainly restricted their murderous attacks to unfortunates from own kind. Alastair and Mark were the middle class type of bully, whose style of misery-infliction was made infinitely worse by their middling intelligence, which allowed them to systematically destroy the self-esteem of their chosen victims in a way that others deemed hilariously funny, and even their victims came to believe themselves rightful targets of what was usually a heady and unpredictable combination of evil hilarity and utter disdain.
As is not unusual between the ages of 13 and 17, their favourite targets for vilification were anyone deemed to be a 'hom'. For these unfortunates they reserved their worst and most sustained mental bullying campaigns. There are some, guilty of nothing more than being good at art, whose lives were made an utter misery, and who still live in the shadow of being made to feel like so much shit on this gruesome twosome's shoes.

Which makes their current state of complete gayness all the more startling.
There are those who will say, quite rightly, that the signs were always there - the hair, the earrings, the inseperability, the protesting waaaay too much about suspected gayers. But at the time it was completely inconceivable that they might be secret bum-chums. They went out with half the female population of our year. They were always getting sucked off in French or on the back seat of the coach. They were, in short, horrible, chauvenist, unreconstructed 80s spivs.
News of their subsequent volte-face came about via FriendsReunited, and rarely has an entire ex-school community been so awestruck. There was anger, there were tears, there is laughter still.
But one has to wonder: did they really know all along, in which case their treatment of other woofters, real or imagined, is all the more unforgiveable, or did they discover their prediliction for bum-love only in later years? Will schadenfreude intervene and cause them to be vilified as they vilified others? Will they discover an activist streak and become vocal protestors for gay rights? And when exactly did they first exchange sex wee*?
* Got to be the ski trip. It all makes sense now.

I can claim superiority: I ran a similar operation in the last year of primary school. So not only was I really young, but I am also a girl, and was even then.
I would steal the raw material from under my best friend's brother's bed, cut out the best bits, and staple them together into little booklets, with plain covers onto which the boys could write "The Battle of Agincourt", or something. These little creations would sell for 50p.
(No thanks to the fusty careers adviser, I now get paid for doing something not entirely dissimilar.)