An esteemed colleague of mine developed an aptitude for graphic design at an early age. He spent the entirety of the second year drawing dildos with wings in French text books, which we had to find. These were known as Flying Talbots. I believe "Where's Wally" owes substantial royalties.

An intense and moving game for two people. One to stand with their back towards the other, who would recite the following whilst rythmically punching him in the back:

'Mummy's dying, Baby crying
Concentration!
Concentration!
Feel the knife (punch) in your back, feel the blood dripping down (mimicked with fingers)
Concentration!
Concentration!'

This could carry on for up to about half an hour with varying additional verses. By the end your back would be numb and covered in bruises, but more significantly, your soul would be damaged beyond repair.

You may be approached by a peer who informs you they're telling on you. If this news is imparted with a musical lilt, the game is afoot. You are obliged to ask why. The other party will respond with a reason, which must rhyme. Reasons I can recall include: * Because you jumped on a lorry and you didn't say sorry * Because you walked in the garden and you didn't say 'pardon' * Because you went to the toilet, and you pulled the chain, and out came a great big chuffer train Particularly ingenious rhymes will spread throughout the playground rapidly, but no-one will ever believe that you made it up.

Setting Up : The two combatants would sit beside each other. Behind them would sit the Referee and his assistant.
Duration : A match lasted for a whole lesson. On good days, this can lead to some impressive scorelines and the opening of all windows. Scoring : One goal was awarded for each fart (farts had to be reasonably spaced - a quick follow up was regarded as a celebratory boot into the back of the net).
Fouls : Any 'fake' fart, whether intended or not, resulted in a penalty. A fake fart could be the players chair squeaking on the floor, usually followed by the player dramatically protesting his innocence to the ref, or a sinister 'professional foul' kind of fart, executed by the mouth. Or sometimes, while a striker was 'lining up for a shot' but having difficulty 'choosing his spot', he might unintentionally let out a groan or some other verbal effort. These would all result in a penalty.
Penalties : A penalty was taken by impersonating a fart. Easy, either by cupping the hand under the armpit, which resulted in a bit of a top corner net buster, or issuing a simple verbal 'prrrp' through a rattling, curled top lip, which was more of a simple tap-in, with the keeper going the wrong way.
Coaching : As the final approached unscrupulous 'agents' would try to sell their coaching services, which usually involved little more than them forcing you to get mushy peas with your bag of chips at lunchtime.
Rab Sutherland went on to win this in a tense and pungent final in geography, during which the teacher threatened to abandon the match at several points.

Regular doubles, except with balls/racquets clutched between elbows in order to simulate stumpy deformities of unfortunate thalidomide victims.

We had all been told that we had to be careful around Nigel. He wasn't allowed to eat chocolate, or drink delicious fizzy pops. Earwax was OK - he'd shovel that stuff straight in. He didn't eat bogeys, though - he stored those in his pencil case.

One morning our teacher walked in ashen faced and quietly explained that Nigel would not be coming to school any more. He had moved a long way away.

Our bewildered but trauma-free response clearly wasn't enough for her, as she let out the cry "Nigel is DEAD!".

Unable to process this early brush with mortality as a tragedy, we'd simply echo her heartfelt outburst in the playground, to punctuate a wide range of antics. In some cases, this would continue well into our twenties.

Nigel is still dead.

At school in the 60s, it was deeply uncool if you hadn't snogged anyone. Snogging people kept your lips moist and delicious, so if you developed chapped lips, it meant you'd never snogged anyone, and were also a virgin.
If you developed a cold, you would be a snotty, bunged-up virgin who'd never been snogged, until you got better. Then you would have snogged and had sex again, until the next chapped lip, when you would, once again, become a virgin.

ayatollah, ayatollah! : after winning an agument, you have "sussed" your opponent, and may run around combing your imaginary ayatollah's beard. Should a friend be at hand, they may grab at your chin, then run off, extending your invisible beard to unimaginable lengths before somebody cuts it off.

Kudos is still in circulation. It said I would make a good floor manager or wigmaker. So many people would seem to make good wigmakers; I'm surprised there aren't more wigs in the world. Perhaps there are... I mean, if everyone turned out to be really good wigmakers, I suppose I wouldn't realise everyone was bald. God, is everyone bald?

Interesting how an assembly can be held on the issue of someone (me) shitting in a urinal without mentioning anything at all. For example...
"The cleaning ladies have complained about someone inappropriately using the facilities... and that the person responsible knows what we are talking about mean by that and I hopes it will not ever happen again, because measures will have to be taken if such an occurrence should repeat itself."