the latest edits

Leo was two years older than me and liked to take amyl nitrate so as to make anal sex easier. After one such session, he managed rather skilfully to curl an enormous turd around the seat of one of the toilets. This was a very traditional boarding school and since I was in the bottom year, as a "fag" I was called upon to remove the offending poo. I was able to do so successfully by using a silver trowel that the Queen Mum had used to lay the foundation stone to one of our school buildings. Eight years later my brother was at the same school and told me about the apocryphal "Legend of Leo's Log" little knowing that (a) it was a true story and that (b) I had been the one who'd had to clean up the foul mess.

[picture: waitress.jpg]
This diagram, taken from the Silver Service manual, illustrates three of the most essential elements of waitressing.
1. Give the customer their food immediately upon their arrival.
2. While they are eating their food, show them the menu.
3. Everything is ten pounds.

Listen to this,
Too good to miss,
dum dum de dum dum dum
*trump*

If you're lucky enough to have another trump in the tube, or cunning enough to clench mid-toot, then be sure to sing;

Here comes another,
Must be its brother,
dum dum de dum dum dum
*trump*

Timing is essential if you're to pull this off successfully. You must be on beat.

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This is in E major. Adjust the key to suit the size of your arsehole, and change to a minor key if you think you might shit yourself.

Dance, Dance,
Wherever he may be.
For I am the lord of
My dad's settee,
And I'll lead you now,
Wherever you may be
And I'll lead you all
In my dad's settee.

This never really made much sense, but I never questioned it and sang along with everyone else in assembly. Jesus was in charge of a piece of furniture and he could dance on it or fly around on it as he saw fit. Because that's what Jesus does.

The myth behind Ryan Byrne's testicular imbalance was that he had been involved in a car crash, and rather than bursting, or tearing, the bollock in question had “went up inside him”.

Needless to say, he went by various names. There was the inevitable “Womble” - which sounds like “one-ball”, you see. Yes, you saw. Then there was the less inventive, but much more informative “Ryan, that kid whose ball went up inside him”.

AS YOUTHS IN THE LATE SEVENTIES/EIGHTIES WE WERE ALL IN GANGS. WE WERE PunX N SKINZ BUT THE WAS ONE LAD WHO WAS A SMOOTHY(Scouse for casual dress). HE HAD THE FIRST PAIR OF POLYVELDTS WE'ED EVER SEEN,WE ALL HAD NICKNAMES BACK IN THE DAY. AN CONSEQUENTLY HIS NAME BECAME "Veltz"!!!
FIN@M@N L@

If you're going to insist on having a war about fish with a country as silly as Iceland, then you could be accused of trying to engineer a real-life Monty Python sketch. But the Icelandic Cod Wars were a real thing, not a whimsical Footlights jape. And the dispute over fishing rights had a very real impact in British schools. Namely, primary school boys would grab each others dicks and scream "COD WARS".

Popular yet confusing insult at our West Midlands primary school. Was it based on a huge misunderstanding about what "blow job" meant? Was it some kind of drug reference? Or just an accusation that your dad liked humping machinery? I'm still baffled.

[log]Here, let me help - it's a quote from the movie Short Circuit. Here's the clip, which also features the excellent line "this little fart of a robot is giving me the red-ass". By the way, if any of your friends said "don't get your mum wet after midnight," that wasn't a reference to two of the three rules about keeping a Mogwai. They said that because your mum is a massive slag.[/log]

[video on youtube]

They generally revolved around the indisputable fact that – like almost everyone in India – Ramish was some sort of king there. Unfortunately, his kingdom consisted mostly of ill-described mud huts, coconuts, bananas and little else. Also Tarzan was there sometimes.

Anyway, Ramish’s authority in his Indian kingdom was absolute and he regularly staged mass executions involving the coconuts. And he had exactly one hundred wives. Frankly, I’m not sure why he came back for double French in the afternoons. I probably wouldn’t have bothered.

The one thing we actually did know for certain about India is that all the elephants there have handprints painted on them. Therefore Ramish’s elephant was daubed with graffiti, mostly concerning his dad.

And rightly so, because his dad was a colonel in Ramish’s army and responsible for a genocide against whoever it was that Indians didn’t like. I think it might have been some other Indians.

Come to think about it, the genocide business is probably why Ramish’s dad moved to Darlington in the first place. It all finally makes sense.

Nottingham boasts a number of bands that sound like they were made up by schoolkids. Enjoy the melodic, Half-Biscuitesque strains of "Arse Full Of Chips" comes the wonderfully juvenile "Jesus Of Spazzareth".

What do Jesus of Spazzareth sound like? It is a noise that cannot be tamed and contained by microphones.

[video on youtube]

In Yorkshire in the 70's, we managed to have awards for the first ten places.

First the worst
Second the best
Third the royal princess
Fourth the King
Fifth the Queen
Sixth the witch of Hallowe'en
Seventh the Executioner
Eighth the Dirty Donkey
Ninth the girl
Tenth the boy

There's such an impressively deflating failure of imagination in the ninth and tenth positions that you kind of feel like you're letting yourself down as you chant them.

"You're a boy."

The first Indian kid at our school once mentioned that he went home for lunch. We naturally assumed that this meant he made the journey back to India during his lunch hour, every day.

The details of his journey (by the elephant, which he kept tied up in the bike shed) became increasingly elaborate and this was made all the more charming (or insulting, depending on whether or not you are Ramish) by the fact that we didn't know a single thing about India, or Indian culture.

[log]I love this, but I get the feeling I'd love it more if you told me about these misinformed fantasies. If you can remember any of the best, please share...[/log]

How are you supposed to know that a word isn't acceptable? If your dad stroked the hair gently around your mother's face, and cooed "gargle my balls in Listerine, you grotesque slag", you'd grow up thinking that it was a loving and romantic thing to say.

So when my grandfather called our battery powered stereo with Dolby and auto-stop cassette functionality a "wogbox", with no hatred or racism in his voice, we didn't bat an eyelid. "Slap some Paul Young on the wogbox," we'd yell out the windows. "Turn up the wogbox, I'm trying to dance over here."

Wogbox. To this day, it's a word that's frequently leaps into my mouth. I'm painfully politically correct by nature, and I hate that I'm not supposed to say it. It's such a great word. "I'm not racist, but wogbox Wogbox WOGBOX. Wogbox." Thank you.

Me and Tony Jenkins were sliding down the old grassy slope known as "Ballas Hill". It was called that because it was made up of the ballast from the ships which had visited Llanelli to take on coal from the local collieries.

[log]That's very interesting but you've called your story Bloodshot Buttocks, and when you've got a title that magnificent it behooves you to get on with it. I'm a busy man and I demand my bloodshot buttocks.[/log]
We were using bits of corrugated iron we had found as sleds, and we were going higher and higher up the hill to gain more speed each time.

On what would turn out to be the last run of the day, I was in the lead - but I fell off my sheet after hitting a bump. Tony came down after me, slid over my sheet, and screamed.

Skimming over my sheet had had an effect on his buttocks not unlike taking a large ham slicer to them. He lost two large round chunks of buttock muscle, and his bum ended up looking like two bloodshot eyes staring out of his shorts.

[log]Is Tony Jenkins reading this? Can we have a look at your buttocks please? We tried looking you up on Facebook but we just got some sex pest from Kentucky[/log]

A non-racist version of Hello Pakistani featuring the inexpensive adventures of Mrs Smith's hole. And a jam roll.

Hello Mrs Smith
Can I have a penny whiff
of your hole
(sniff sniff)
Jam roll
(sniff sniff)
Does it smell
(sniff sniff)
Faaaaaaakinell

To score a point in the Guff Game, you must comply with the following procedure:

Bellow "Witness! Witness!"
This is to let people know that you are on the verge of a potential guff. Witnesses will flock eagerly to your buttocks, crouching to properly appreciate the incoming guff.

Guff
You assembled team of witnesses will provide feedback on whether your guff meets the gruelling standards required for a point. If it's exceptionally noisy, or the smell makes someone gasp "fucking HELL", you're in.

No scores are kept, but success can be measured in the size of a crowd. If you shit yourself in someone's ear, your peers will not attend your anus so readily.

A group of boys sits at a table while a girl goes around under the table giving blow-jobs at random. The object of the game is to keep a straight face.

Nicky was a hulking child of Eastern European lineage who had the physical structure of a 38-year-old dock worker and a thirst for violence that simply could not be quenched. His entire secondary school career was spent in the position of the undisputed tough of our year - a tenure that was peppered heavily with savage beatings and a management style that could be characterised as an iron fist inside a steel glove.
Like all repressed peoples living under a totalitarian regime, a creative outlet for dissent will always be found. Our's was through the underground communications network of scribbles in the back of Auf Deutsch textbooks. 'Nicky is a gay ape' being the most profound entry into the history of people's resistance.
Like all tyrants, Nicky too ended up on the ash-heap of history as shortly after leaving school he promptly stabbed someone. Say what you like about Stalin being hard, but I'm pretty sure he never killed anybody.

For those intrigued, Track 21 of Anal Cunt's It Just Gets Worse album should read "Hitler Was A Sensitive Man"

Love, from the people at Earache Records who don't think this should have been censored.

We used to say "you wank cats" as an insult, until someone invented the retort "yeah, but only on Sundays!" Though the details of the case were not reported, it quickly became common law that restricting your cat-wanking to the Sabbath was a reasonable defence.

For a short period in Year 6, a few boys discovered and promoted the practice of making a pile of sherbert in one hand, blowing it in someone's face and saying "black magic, man!" in a Jamacian accent.

If they'd just used a bit more French language and Catholic
imagery, it'd basically have been voodoo.

Hello Mrs Murphy
How's your heart and soul
I tried to ride your daughter
I couldn't find her hole

At last I found her hole
Covered by her frock
For fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
I couldn't find my cock.

At last I found my cock
as straight as a pin
For fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
I couldn't get it in

At last I got it in
And waved it all about
Fot fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
I couldn't get it out.

At last I got it out
All sloppy and sore
For fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
your daughter wanted more.

This is kinder to the daughter than the original, giving her a nice frock instead of a hairy fanny, and enquiring into the "heart and soul" of Mrs Murphy before regaling her with the tale of fumbling, wild-eyed sex with her daughter.

It also enjoys a certain level of exasperation with the voraciousness of Mrs Murphy's daughter, who seems unsatisfied with someone sticking it in, panicking, and pulling it out again.

A child stumbled across a delicious-looking brown slice. Licking his lips, he reaches out for the slice, only to be hindered by a ghost.

"I told you once, I told you twice,
Do not eat that Marmite Slice"

The boy shrugged. A ghost who falsified the number of warnings he had given with such brazen indifference to the intelligence of his audience was hardly to be trusted. He picked up the tasty brown slice and devoured it greedily. The ghost seemed unimpressed.

"I told you once, I told you twice,
I wiped my bum on that Marmite Slice"

The child, noting that the number of warnings now tallied with reality, saw that he had misunderstood - the first rhyme was, in fact, a prophecy: and what he had just eaten was not Marmite Slice at all, but an ethereal stripe of ghoul turd.

"Wait a minute," the child said. "Why did you call it a Marmite Slice, if it was ghost shit? And since when did ghosts expel corporeal waste? And who calls Marmite on toast a Marmite Slice? What the fuck is this, ghost?"

The ghost shrugged. "You ask a lot of questions for a boy with shit in his mouth."

Written on a toilet wall at school was the legend "Dai Cooney hates hard work". It was only some time later did we realise that he'd probably written it himself.

Our teachers’ admin and staffroom corridor was, for some reason, painted a bright pink. Pupils would occasionally be dragged up for various disciplinary matters.

Fortunately, we were sophisticated and mature enough to appreciate and capitalise on the significant double-entendre opportunities. "Sir had to take her up the pink corridor for a punishment." Teachers could be asked if they were "going up the pink corridor for lunch".

Generic name given to those crap, plastic unbranded trainers that were sported by remedials, dirty schemers, and one-parent children in the 1980s. They got their name from the price - about 20p - and the fact that they only seemed to be sold by Pakistani gentlemen in their emporia of miscellany. Also known as Borstal Break-outs.

Fraser Bairstow's arm ended just above his wrist. If you passed a piano, it was therefore an option to thump the keys with the back of your wrist, declaring that you are "Bairstow playing the piano".

For a further verse:

Down at Happy Shopper,
they're on special offer,
but beware,
Trevor is there

I would like to share this lovely homage to the '70s hit "Seasons in the Sun" Courtesy: Southfields Infant School, Peterborough.

We had joy, we had fun
Flicking bogeys at the sun
But the sun was too hot
And the bogeys turned to snot

It's the late 70's, it's going home time, and Darren is well impressed by the hard kids leaving the school gates with "AVFC" written on their foreheads in marker pen. Darren thinks it's the finest thing he's ever seen, and asks the lads to write "AVFC" on his forehead too. OK, say the hard kids.

Darren walked home that day with "FUCK OFF DAD" written on his forehead.

The full story behind how a sixty-nine titted lady became boobless? Allow me:

There once was a woman with 69 boobs
(press 69)
which was too, too, too many.
(press 222)
So she went to 51st Street
(press 51)
to see the mysterious Doctor X.
(press the times symbol)
Eight surgeries later
(press 8)
she was completely
(turn the calculator upside down)
HOLY SHIT

An optional "sniff sniff" sound effect may be added between the third and fourth lines.

To create the impression that you are actually getting an intimate faceful of your victim's mother's vagina, lean forwards as you sniff. Otherwise, it's just a basic "phwoo, I can smell it from here".

Erato, The Creature From The Pit, is the Dr Who Penis Monster par excellence - just penis-like enough so that it's unmistakably a massive penis, and just green horror-blob enough so that children could say "why are you laughing, mummy? And why have your fingertips risen to your nipples?"

Here, see for yourself - to the tune of The Spanish Flea.

[video on youtube]

After listening to a fantasist regale us with tall tales, we would sing the theme tune to Storybook International. This was an ITV programme with animated opening titles of a suspiciously elegant bard. His beautiful singing would attract the attention of a fox, until he transformed without warning into a naked black man, scaring the shit out of his vulpine chum. Look, I'm not making this up.
[video on youtube]
Anyway, when he sings about his name in many countries, that's your opportunity to work in the insult. For example: if Roly claimed that his brother had a fight with Wolf from The Gladiators, you would sing:

I'm the Storyteller and my story must be told,
In Germany I'm Johannes, in England I am John,
In Cheltenham I'm Roly, and I'm a lying cunt.

If the liar was actually called John or, God forbid, Johannes, the last line could simply be repaced by a mongoloid impression, and a celebratory flid flippers dance.

Robert Birrell was an excitable child of short stature with twiglet legs and a tendency to cry easily under pressure. His wholesale lameness worked in his favour, in that it placed him outside the radar of even the most desperate bullies.

Until the day that teacher Miss Belcastro decided to make a big thing of his birthday. She called him out to the front of the class, stood him in front of the blackboard and said "Now everybody, today is a very special day. Today... is... Robert's... birthday!!!"

It was all too much for Robert Birrell. Overcome by the emotion of the moment, on the word "birthday" he leaned forward and projectile vomited.

This of course catapulted him instantly to playground stardom, especially when Alan Blackwood started calling him "Gobbert" in reference to the chunky, spattering sound he'd made during the spew. Within a short time it became customary, upon seeing Gobbert, to yell GOBBERT!!! and punch him hard in the stomach.

No-one said playground stardom was easy or painless.

Lessebo is a locality and the seat of Lessebo Municipality, Kronoberg County, Sweden. It had 2,623 inhabitants in 2005.
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It's also the name of the IKEA sofa that your mum likes to sit on when she's making out with Sandy Toksvig.

School magazine time! It's almost the end of term of Year 12, so this self-published effort needs to be an absolute cracker.

Step 1.
Gather your material, making sure that every single satirical article, poem and/or cruel caricature targets the pathetic maths teacher Mr Wills. Don't forget to poke fun at him specifically for his shitty breath, his weight, his psoriasis-afflicted scalp, his alcohol problem, his cheap clothes, his overactive sweat glands, his effeminate girly voice and the open secret that his wife left him for a hotel manager. Don't hold back! Really go to town.

Be bloody, bold and resolute, ruthlessly suppressing any qualms you might have about the ethics of kicking this fragile shell of a man to death.

Step 2.
Print magazine, distribute on the second-last day of school, enjoy minor sensation caused. Get called up with your fellow Oscar Wildes to the headmaster's office for a half-hearted bollocking in which the headmaster more or less agrees that Mr Wills is a complete fucking loser, and why did you have to go after the poor man like that?

Step 3.
Find out the following year that Mr Wills took early retirement. See him a year or so after that in your local shopping centre, three times his previous size, barely able to walk, face covered in blotchy scabs, wearing stained tracksuit pants, pushing a slab of Diet Coke along in a trolley and looking forlorn, abandoned, and utterly, utterly collapsed.

Step 4.
Feel guilty for the rest of your life.

The victim (let's call him Ian, for argument's sake, it was always an Ian) would be asked "Do you have a BHI?"

A positive reply would be met with the ear-splitting declaration "Ian has a baldy half-incher!"

Negative replies would be met with the slightly less offensive "What, so you don't have a big hairy invader?" On the whole, we preferred the positive response.

John Whirley had some sort of epilepsy. We discovered that it could be triggered in several ways: shining bright light into his eyes, sneaking up on him and yelling in his ear, and - once - a satchel full of books thrown into his head triggered it. That's serendipity, is that.

During his fits his eyes would roll up into his head, a soft moan would come from inside like he was haunted, then his hands would flutter and rise above his head. Ideally, he'd then pass out and collapse.

Obviously, these were pretty entertaining, and we got to the stage where the demands on Whirley for an eppy were so constant that he'd try to fake them. But he was the only person who'd never seen them, so he was shite at it. Not blowing my own trumpet, but I was much better.

I was the only one with all my stationery, so I was often subject to lending things to people. I'm only human, so the resentment at being considered the class resource for pencils and protractors slowly built up.

One day in maths, my friend leaned over and asked me for a pencil. I replied "Okay, but I sucked on it." This seemed fair - by all means use my equipment, but they shall be marked by spittle.

To make myself heard over the drone of the class, I stated this loudly and firmly; certainly, my voice was loud and firm enough to silence the rest of the class, who immediately set about imagining the scenarios that might culminate in such an outburst.

Can YOU script a scene which makes dramatic sense, and culminates in the phrase "OK, but I sucked on it"? Send them in!

Paedophile teachers, when they do happen, can be quite charming. Most of the kids thought Mr Holdrick was pretty cool, and a good teacher.

It was only when the newspaper reported that he had been caught with a computer full of child porn that we realised that we didn't like him at all.

It didn't take us much longer to remember that we never learned anything in his classes because he was constantly running at our bums with his hands out.

In fairness to ourselves, it's quite a weak justification of the k-fiddlez to say but he could put across difficult throries well.

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.

Back when I was at school - and right up to this very day - there is a rule of begging forgiveness for a flatulent outburst.

Trump - excuse me
Burp - pardon me

I still look at people askance if they get this wrong. Come on - its not fucking difficult.

[log]If you do find it difficult to remember, simply follow this rhyme. "Excuse me poos" (because farts and poos are the solid and gaseous states of faecal matter)and "Pardon your hard-on". For this second phrase, you need to imagine that you have just burped onto a man's erection. If you don't want to imagine burping onto a man's nice erection, try "pardon my lardon", and imagine that you have burped up a bit of bacon into a priest's beard. Actually, this one makes more sense. Forget about the dicks.[/log]

Our school pool became a repository for footballs, tennis balls, blazers and the odd first year sometime in the seventies. By the time my generation got to it, Prefects were required to gaurd it at lunch times, presumably from thirsty first years. During this time, the school was subjected to an assembly on how due to "inconsideration stemming back some years" the population of the school pool now extended to several breeds of fish, some of which could not be legally removed. Making the building of the new staff room quite difficult.

I had a similar experience. And I still maintain that 'asswife' is far superior to 'asswipe' as an insult.

An asswife, of course, is like a fishwife, only assier.

Graham Barnes was a very special boy. He had to have an orange for dessert at lunch because normal puddings like angel delight or jelly would DO things to him. He was pale, thin and quiet.

One day he got up from his chair and walked out of class. A few intrigued souls stuck their heads round the door to be treated to the sight of him shuffling down the corridor with his trousers down, leaving a breadcrumb-esque trail of little poos behind him.

Graham moved to a different school. Many years later I boarded the bus to college and sat down, to be greeted by his smiling face and a jolly "Y'alright?"

I, naturally, could only respond with "don't talk to me, poo-boy!"

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The Chocolate Cock (paraphrased)
from "The Talking Teapot and Other Tales" by Enid Blyton

Once there was a piece of chocolate in the shape of a cock. The chocolate cock stood right in the very middle of a sweet-shop window, and all the children came to look at him. He was very proud of himself indeed - as would you be, if you were a huge delicious brown cock.

"I am the Chocolate Cock!" he crowed. "I am the Chocolate Cock! I am the handsomest bird in the world, for I am the Chocolate Cock!"

He was marked a shilling, and none of the children that came to look at the cock could afford to buy him. They just stood and looked at him, to drink in the staggering beauty of the massive over-priced chocolate cock they all wanted so badly to stick in their mouths and drag across their bodies, stencilling the edge of their bot-bots.

Sometimes the feelings in their tummies, a hunger that could not be sated by any other food, led the children to experiment with each other in front of the cock, while it looked at them with its imperious, milky eye. But one day the wife of the Duke of Edinburgh visited the shop, and said she didn't like all the little boys fucking each other outside his shop, so he got a farmer to kill them.

"My name is Mr. Reese. Don't call me grease!", snapped Mr Reese one day. To be honest, the thought had never occurred to us, so it was good of him to make us aware of the possibilities.

More than earning himself a new nickname, Mr Reese's outburst had such a satisfying rhythm to it that it quickly became a popular playground chant.

The accepted linguistic term for fart so perfectly-timed that it lends emphasis or meaning to the surrounding context is pumptuation.