as i never had a watch, saying "it's just gone so's me watch" always kept me top of my comedic game, assuring me popularity and sex from any bird I wanted.

A game devised in Year 11, and something of the antithesis of the more subtle game, "fuck". It basically involved going up to Mr. Stove, our Science teacher, and saying the word "fuck" to him.
e.g: "Sir, I'm not sure I understand this equation for measuring acceleration. Fuck."
or "Mr. Stove, can you tell Andrew to leave me alone? Fuck."
"Fuck" had to be said clearly, and could not be disguised in the middle of a sentence, or as part of another word. Not saying "fuck" once you had made your approach resulted in a beating. Mr Stove never reacted in anger. In fact, he hever gave any signs of giving the tiniest shit.

The highest possible accolade a teacher can bestow upon one of their pupils. The only possible answer is of course "yes", which may result in the reward of expulsion from the class. Sometimes, braver teachers will offer an invitation to 'entertain the class then'. Of course if you are truly successful in entertaining the class this to will result in being expelled from the classroom.

A less macho name for multi-million selling album "Appetite For Destruction".

An alternative activity to looking at me, but one which unfortunately has the same outcome, to wit, losing your fucking teeth.

The name for a child, most likely of special educational needs, who is found masturbating in the school room by a girl, but resolutely completes the deed while she dithers between running off to tell and watching in slack-jawed paralysis.

Entertainment while waiting for fat kids to get dressed after games. Ties would be wrapped around the hand and cracked, sometimes very loudly, like whips. This was widely believed to be because the tip was travelling faster than the speed of sound.

We had a craze for broken stubs of pencil lead, which we hoarded in those oblong metal pencil cases. One day, after inspecting our jealously guarded treasure troves, it finally dawned on us just how far we had descended to a sub-stamp-collecting level of rubbishness, and decided to just flick them at the girls.

Amusing extension of the nipple gripple that often got out of hand. On a quiet and rainy lunchtime one boy (usually school delinquant Oliver) would nipple cripple another boy until they gave up and agreed to join the patrol. They would then go and find another boy and nipple gripple him until he also "joined the patrol". This would go on until there was a stupidly large group of boys (often more than thirty) and new boys were becoming increasingly difficult to find. Girls were obviously taboo, because we thought their nipples might come off, and bottles of milk would fall out. We usually stopped when the group was so large that we actually made some poor youth's nipples bleed. Which invariably happened.

At Great Portland Street, which was a school for the blind, which is where I went because my eyes are shit, I discovered that you could press down some of the Braille dots on the hymn books.

The name of the school was written on the front cover of the books, and by removing the lower left dot of the P, and the two lower dots on the O of Portland, hundreds of blind children looked aghast as they fingers told them they were attending Great Fartland Street.

Not the rudest thing in the world, but just thought you'd like to know there's a lighter side to perpetual darkness.