In the now well-established "skill = african bum disease" way, if you admitted to coming hard, then you fancied men. I was worried for a good year that when I finally started having sex, then a futuristic spunk cube would plop out of the end of my penis, that my partner would then have to eat.

Helen, 11, flung the door of the girls' toilets open and leaned on the door frame dramatically, like a snot-nosed Blanche Dubois. "I've started..." she breathed, as we flocked around her, evincing awe and concern. In first year secondary, it is de rigeur to falsely announce the commencement of one's menstrual cycle in such a fashion. The tampons handed out by the school nurse, however, will mainly be used as missiles, or eyed doubtfully and thrown in the bin.

A friend and I invented "Willy Pads", which we created from some Sellotape, unravelled cotton wool and a Kleenex. We then took the boys in our class aside one by one, explained to them that blood would soon be coming out of the end of their penis once a month, and offered them "Willy Pads" at 2p a throw. It was difficult enough for the girls to comprehend the glamorous affliction of red weewee, and the boys showed no interest at all. One boy had found tampons in his mum's cupboard and cried bitterly because he thought it meant he was going to get a new baby brother.

Everybody in my year (and I do mean everybody) got "Marine Biologist" and "Funeral Director" as two of their choices. There was obviously something wrong with the program, but I can't talk about it now. I've got funerals to direct and deep sea divers to cremate.

Hey Kids! Sometimes here at PGL we get sent submissions so disturbing it makes our flesh creep. We'd like to share that sensation with you now. Here's our most recent submission for the "bullying" thread. Note the lack of remorse. *Shudder*

Although I never got anyone to actually kill themselves, I still consider myself to have been the best bully I have known.

I was suspended once for telling the diabetic kid in our school that he was "a bit a of a freak". This was the official reason given to my parents on the letter of suspension. But the truth was that, through two and a half years of relentless bullying, the stress had actually caused him to DEVELOP diabetes, and move to a new school. It wasn't very clever stuff ('You're gay', 'You look like a cat, Catman', 'your mother is a hermaphrodite who tried to seduce me', 'your (8-year-old) sister is actually your father's 34-year-old gay lover' etc. etc.) but it was never-ending. I remember the head of middle school telling me as he sent me home that the poor boy would "have to inject himself with insulin every day for the rest of his life."

Well, I met him not six months later and it turned out that the diabetes had completely disappeared after the bullying stopped, so he didn't have to inject himself anymore. Someone owes me an apology.

I think I'm owed an apology.

Supply teacher filling in for a history class picks on Leroy, the only black pupil in the room and asks "why was Winston Churchill famous?"
I can imagine she was expecting a response along the lines of "Prime Minister during WW2", but Leroy's actual response "he was the only white guy ever to be called Winston" left her genuinely impressed.

From the phrase 'about as much use as a one-legged man at an arse-kicking party' which still makes me laugh.
The concept of an arse-kicking party thus established, the cry of "arse kicking party" was made as a announcement of - and justification for - an assault on Matthew Moore.

The application of a ?nipple-gripple? and dead arm on the first day of the month to the chant of "Pinch-Punch, First of the Month!".
There was also the quasi-sophisticated retort "A punch and a kick for being so quick." This implied that the pinch-puncher didn?t even know the appropriate time for such tomfoolery, and had gone blustering in like an overexcited toddler.

I had the same misinterpretation for several years. The source: my older sister's 70's "horror" book "Flowers in the Attic". On the mostly-black front cover there was the cheery tag-line: "Kidnapped, Raped, Murdered". Beneath this there was a picture of some bloody scissors which, I presumed at the time, were used for raping.

Matthew was the only child in our school lucky enough to have a colostomy bag, the school in their wisdom decided that an assembly would be the best way to promote understanding.
Imagine trying to explain to a group of five-year-olds why someone has to shit in a bag and carry it around all day.
Maybe now you can imagine Matthew's predicament, from now on he was the poo collector, and it became apparent to us that if he collects his own poo, he should want to collect ours, and was therefore to be avoided at all costs. So we managed to make the chronically ill kid in our year a chronically ill outcast.
As far as I know he's still alive somewhere, filthy cunt.

Pinch a flap of skin on your cheek between thumb and middle finger, then use the index to make a fold in the resulting bulge. Hey presto, you have something vaguely resembling a bald vagina on your face.
This was demonstrated to me aged 8, when I had never seen a cunt, didn't know what the word meant, and had no idea whether a bald cunt was funnier than a hairy one. It was on the guy's cheek though, so I laughed anyway.