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.

NOW HEAR THIS. I WILL NOT TOLERATE UNPLEASANTNESS TO THE CONTRIBUTORS. IF IT'S SHIT, IT DOESN'T GO IN. WE DON'T PUT ENTRIES IN, THEN TAKE THE PISS. MUCH. SUSAN. SAY YOU'RE SORRY TO DYFRIG.

What is the height of "sadness"?
Putting an Ethiopian in a round room and telling him his dinner is in the corner.

Does your school have nylon carpets? Do you have shoes? If the answer to both these questions is yes, then you have the basic ingredients for a static attack.

1) Shuffle around on the carpet for a while, keeping both feet on the floor at all times.
2) Approach victim. Preferably someone who hasn't been watching you shuffling around. Keep feet on floor as per stage 1.
3) Touch victim on earlobe or neck. Listen for sharp 'crack' and smell the sound of electricity and burning hair as your victim writhes on the ground in agony with smoke coming out of their ears.

In reality, stage 3 will be a disappointing "Ow!", but it does hurt. A bit.

More advanced static attacks can involve jumping off the ground and touching the victim in mid-air. Tests to determine whether this increases the amount of pain experienced by the victim have so far proved inconclusive.

The electrical capacitance of the average kid has yet to be accurately calculated, leading to the theory that if you shuffle around on your feet for an entire lunchtime, you will store up enough power to cause your victim to explode. Early experiments suggest that this theory could be fundamentally flawed, but further developments are eagerly awaited.

I only know what whetstone, kindling, and trestle tables are because of Erik The Viking. And the fastest thing I can type - to this day - is say to thorin "carry me", thanks to The Hobbit.

The popular assembly hymn in which all the infants wonderfully and as one sang "of kings..." at the end of the chorus, their voices trailing off as they realise there isn't another "of kings" there.

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.

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

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.

Jon Fennell got sent out of history - can't remember why. What I DO remember is that moments later, the classroom door crashed open and Jon burst in 'riding' an industrial floor waxer, 'revving' the handlebars and shouting 'VHRUMMM! VHRUMMM!'.

I don't think I've ever felt more love for another man than at that moment.