browsing the letter m

Shouted and accompanied by a flexing of a little finger. Denotes the possession of a unimpressive member. An abbreviation of Maggot, which little willies look like.

Variations include, maggee, Mr. Magoo, magga magga magga and magwaaaaah, shouted in a Zippy from Rainbow style voice.

The only reversal is, sadly, lacking in finesse. Simply shout back "No you're the MAG! I'm a MONSTER!" Meaning, obviously, that your penis is huge, and very hairy indeed.

Game played on school trips in dormitories. Consisted of combat between by boys who had to remain at all times on the floor wrapped up in duvets. Were it a cartoon scene, the word "squirm" would appear three times in each frame.

Maggots had no winners - play was its own reward.

An animated wizard, who had special e-mazing powers. Voiced by Derek Griffiths, he would sing;
Fat becomes fate with me!
Rat becomes rate with me!
and of course
Shit becomes shite with me!
I'm magic magic E...
After comically noting that shit becomes shite with him, children would rack their brains, without success, to think of another rude word ending in a removeable "e".

The Magic Potion would be made from a hlaf-empty yoghurt pot, plus added ingredients such as barbeque crisps, bread crusts, apple pips and anything else to hand. The challenge was to make it as big and filthy a mix as possible, and for it to be stirred clockwise with the dinner-lady's pen, otherwise it wouldn't work.
The hapless yogurt owner would then have to eat this mess. If sucessful and was able to keep the mix down for more than ten minutes they were crowned "the Great Sage" for the lunchtime. If they lost the contents of lunch within the ten minutes, they were made to eat grass, because that's what cats do when they have a dodgy stomach.

"What's underneath the Magic Table?" I asked, out of the blue, one lunchtime.

Naturally curious, I bent my head to investigate the source of the witchcraft and wizardry, which proved to be Jane McKeating's eight year old, hairless genitals.

Even if you are wearing trousers and underwear, if you press your fingers hard enough up your buttock cleft and worm them around, a small amount of anus smell will be transferred to your fingers. The process by which this happens is entirely magical. On a really warm day, I managed to get the smell through underpants, trousers, and jumper.

(never, never break friends/if you do/you'll catch the flu/and that will be the end of you.)

So we all know this one, but interestingly enough, the popular comedian Adam Bloom genuinely believes he invented this rhyme, in a playground in Richmond in 1977. No one else knew it before he invented it, and he will accept no argument to the contrary.

James Fidget (real name) had a false roof to his mouth that clipped on in some arcane way. It didn't clean itself very well, so in between his roast dinner and his custard-drenched pudding he would remove the plastic thingummy and clean it manually. The trick here was to distract him in increasingly surreal ways so he forgot to replace it, and then - when he had eaten a fair whack of the custard - make him laugh hysterically. You haven't lived until you've seen custard flood out of a schoolboy's nose.

Gerald Malarkey was devoid of any kind of morality or humanity. Once he was disturbed from slamming a small kids head in a door by a particularly stupid PE teacher. This prompted the line "What's all this Malarky....", at which point he lost momentum, realising how his sentence must end. "....errm.... Malarky..." And we all laughed,except for the guy with his head in the door,who wept.

A male who has yet to grow pubic hair. Or - and this is the tricky bit - anyone who does not know what a mallet is.

Pleasingly close to diarrhoea. Mamma Mia / I've got diarrhoea / Plip-Plop / Can you hear my shit drop? is a fine example of this similarity in action.

Man with Jack-in-the-box, The, noun phrase.
Best known example of a freestyle epic narration (a form of oral storytelling in which profoundly eccentric characters have endless serial adventures in a world that is in various unforeseeable ways hostile to their existence).
A story featuring a man cursed with the possession - which he could never put down - of a large jack-in-the-box whose 'jack' could spring to a height of twenty metres; an optimistic young girl; a monk who had mastered a meditative technique in which one relocated one's own centre of gravity to a point some way in front of oneself (this made walking impossible; he could only fall from place to place), and other minor figures. This trio encounters many trials as they negotiate, for example, perilous roof gardens made of papier mache and corridors which contrary to the laws of perspective, physically narrow to a single point.
The story was developed by the boys who didn't play touch football.

A game loosely based on the Hale & Pace characters of the same name. I can't remember the character names now, but two boys would be the two management guys, and one other (usually me) was "Crusty" or something.
So, the guys would be trying to run a nightclub and any other kids in the area would be made to be the nightclub acts. I'm not sure exactly what was supposed to happen then, because it usually degenerated into a fight around that point.

Inverted reproach for lack of courtesy in yourself. Drop the please from any request, and if the subject complies, you may shout "MANNERS!" at the top of your voice, teachers permitting.

Strangely uninsulting insult for boys with big heads. Almost Shakespearean.

A smack on the back of the head. It's spam backwards, you see. Very clever. And therefore not thuggish.

Having cornered the marble market in his first year, in his second year Marcus Mellor rapidly established himself as the pornography kingpin of our school.
He dealt his grubby wares from a large, tatty, black briefcase held together with masking tape, and always filled to bursting point with an seemingly unlimited quantity of top-shelf magazines.
His empire came to an abrupt and spectacular end. Running to a lesson, his briefcase burst open, spilling Clubs, Razzles, Fiestas and Mayfairs in a slithering tide down the stairs. Despite his desperate entreaties, they were hoovered up within seconds by a huge crowd of unbelieving boys. I still can't watch aid convoys arrive in famine-stricken towns without being reminded of the event.

Soiling yourself in a moment of unforeseen and explosive diarrhoea. You will not live this down. Your name, if it begins with m and has two syllables, will be used to replace "magic" in the song "magic moments".

marla was never going to find it easy. she was the first black kid at our primary school in the 1970s. we treated her with the usual respect accorded to people of different ethnic and cultural blackgrounds: we would run round shouting "blacky sambo" and claimed that she smelled of poo. which was perhaps a bit harsh for a skinny girl of an already nervous disposition. but what the heck, there were more of us.

marla's bottom was the name given to the "chocolate" pudding that appeared in the school canteen once a week. this brown sugar-laden gunk came on a cardboard base with shaving foam on top. it was marginally better than damson pudding, which was on the same base, was translucent purple and had plastic film in (purporting to be damson skin).

but the canteen wasn't the only place we saw marla's bottom. one break time the whole school gathered round in the top playground while someone (he'll remain nameless - i think he's a bank manager now) de-bagged marla and displayed her bottoms, front and back, to the assembled throng. marla didn't come back to school after that.

personally, i blame the sugar in the dessert.

Here is an old joke that I cannot fathom to this day. Please help me fathom it.
An Englishman, Scotsman and Irishman enter a haunted house which contains a single slice of Marmite-slathered bread. As the Englishman hungrily reaches for the snack, a terrifying voice booms, "I told you once, I told you twice: do not eat that Marmite slice!" The Scotsman, too, is frightened away from the slice; but the foolhardy Irishman consumes it, whereupon the voice sniggers, "I told you once, I told you twice: I wiped my bum on that Marmite slice."
Of course it is funny that the Irish ate a poo, but the joke is not satisfying, in millions of ways.
1. Whose was the mysterious voice? Why did a voice poo on the bread? And - crucially - how did three sane men mistake the poo for Marmite?
1,000,000. For the first two cycles of the joke, he hadn't told us twice, and for the very first, he hadn't even told us once. Changing the words from "told" to "warn" doesn't suddenly reset the counter. Or does it? Frankly I'm drunk.
What this joke proves, conclusively, is that Irishes eating a poo is funnier than common sense.

Yet another joyful urban myth that left children agog, the Mars Bar Party was briefly the talk of every town.
This Roman-esque orgy of an event involved lots of women willing to pop Mars Bars (lower rent Taxi or 5-4-3-2-1 parties were relatively scarce) inside themselves, to be eaten by the lucky boys in attendance. If there were enough women, some boys might even get two Mars Bars - yum!
A well-developed fantasy given our age; very few of us had sticky dreams by this stage. The one function this urban myth briefly served was to cause any girl seen eating a Mars Bar to be instantly labelled an orgy-crazed cock-demon, in so many words.

Do not admit to learning any martial art, unless you are quite prepared, and physically able, to follow it up. The smallest kid in our year, sick of being the victim, screamed "I've learned tae-kwon do" as his ritualised and half-hearted bullying session began.

To astonished looks from his assailants, he proceeded to strike a number of ridiculous Bruce Lee style poses, while going an unhealthy shade of red. His mastery of the ancient Korean martial art was such that the first punch laid him out. Then, everyone beat him up. Only suddenly, it wasn't quite so half-hearted.

(Thanks to be*za*mo* be*za*mo* for pointing out that Tae Kwon Do is Korean, not Japanese. Heaven forfend that there should EVER be an error of fact in this - the most thoroughly researched dictionary of bullshit on the internet)

If Mary Poppins had been released in 1934 instead of 30 years later, the unofficial anthem of the SS would surely have been;
Let's go fry a kike
Let's set them all alight
Let's go fry a kike
And send them roaring
Up to the atmosphere
Until the race is clear
Oh let's go fry a kike
This does nothing for the claims that Walt Disney held anti-semitic views. It doesn't really do me any favours, either.

The slow kid was often asked to do something which he believed would make him popular. The most enjoyable requests were for him to fill his underpants up with mashed potato or baked beans and go and show the teachers.

A dinner queue offer best riposted with "no, it's just the way my trousers hang".
Also applicable to offers of boiled sprouts, grated carrot, hot plums etc

Meet B. You could describe B as small, shivery, asthmatic, bespectacled. You could also describe him as religious, so he was almost perfect for good natured probing.
One day, we were gently interrogating him about his wanking regime; he replied that it was sinful, then became wincingly tight-lipped on the matter. Eventually, a larger child got whiff of the conversation, and boomed "what, don't you wank, B?"
He finally exploded; "No, I don't, and I wouldn't want to, even if I could!"
There was five seconds of perfect silence, while every child said Grace for the wonderful gift they had been given.

Large Child : Do you know how to make a match burn twice?
Small Child : Gasp - surely that isn't possible?
Large Child : But it is!
Small Child : Then show me! Show me this magical match!
Big child strikes a match, blows it out, then sticks it on the arm of the small child.

Randy 5th former Graham took a strong liking to our French teacher and sent her a card declaring his intentions. He included a packet of three condoms and the punchline "from me and my Mates". What he hoped to achieve by this and what actually happened are events that belong to different sets that intersect at no point.

Legend had it that Gary Everitt got his cock stuck up the bath tap. How or why this happened the legend never stated, but we knew it must be true because, well, he looked the type.

A song was composed to the tune of the Matey bubblebath advert on TV at the time:

Gary Everitt's a bottle of fun
You put him in the bath
He sticks it up the tap
and everyone has a laugh!

He had to endure 5 years of this song, which was passed down to the years below and was particularly enjoyed by his younger brother, who presumably gained a good deal of revenge for older-sibling-based bullying.

The noise that a spastic produces when trying to say the word "spastic". Probably.

School bully and all round fat cunt Rebecca Stubbs was flattened by me applying my maypole ribbon across her overdeveloped chest as we danced around the Maypole. Kudos lasted only until break time when I had to hide.
Sadly, despite the limited opportunity for premeditated assault, Maypole dancing was the only Pagan rite tolerated by our school. My requests for a wicker man went entirely unheeded.
What about Morris dancing? A dried pig's bladder upside da bitch's head wouldda been DOPE - Mansh

MC Hammer sounds a bit like MC Spanner. This was combined with "Wanking Spanners" to make MC Spanner a term for wanker.
Fairly basic, but always a pleasure to see someone interrupt a conversation with - Stop - Spanner Time - then mime wanking for a while.

When your handwriting isn't all that good, as it tends not to be when you are nine, you might write "Merry Christmas" so that it looks a little like "Meany Christmas".
Then, if your teacher is the hysterical sort, who can't abide there to be any hint of unpleasantness in the world and squeals at the merest whiff of Roald Dahl, she might rip up that card, throw it in the bin, and scream "Have a Meany Christmas? What a horrible thing to write! You awful child!"
And when the child tearfully explains that it said "Merry", that same teacher - the one who strives for a perfect world in which children never have to feel pain - looks into that child's baffled and hurt eyes, sees that she has ripped up his innocence, and hopefully spends the rest of her life clawing at her own forearms like a damn maniac.

Sounding uncannily like 'mega hurts', when used in questions, can cause physics-minded kids to unwittingly consent to a solid beating.
What's that, Spod? You want 10,000 Mega Hurts? Well, OK, but it's going to be painful...
or
Simon, can you help me with something that's been bothering me? I was just wondering what you call a thousandth of a mega hurts. [receives answer] He says he wants a killer hurts, Stephen. Would you be so kind?
Before you look them all up, the only other ones that kinda work are "terror hurts", but that's a bit rubbish because you'd have to pull a scary face while you're punching, and "fem two hurts", which is tenuously useful if you're punching two lady's tits.

The name of the substance that drips from the anus after a rigourous session of bumfunnery. Also a girl's name.

Mental Man lived on the Perrysfield estate. He would catch any child who got too near during daily taunting sessions, and would only release them when the police were called. This happened daily, for at least six years. Neither children nor Mental Man ever learned, but Mental Man did at least have an excuse, being mental.

Very well known game, in which combatants link fingers and attempt to get the other person to say 'mercy' by damaging the other person's wrists as painfully as possible. More fun if you use the other person's hands to hit themselves mid-bout, BUT watch out for the one in 2,000 children whose wrists bend back painlessly to meet their arms.
These children can never lose at mercy, and even if they're too weak to get a mercy out of you, there's no dignity to be had from trying to hurt someone who is smiling in that sickening way that shit people have when they're doing the one thing they're good at.
Additionally, if you let go, that constitutes a 'mercy', so you're stuck - effectively holding hands - with this leering feebler, until he gets bored. And he won't get bored, because he's doing the one thing he's good at.
Just be careful, is all.

A rap written and performed by Nick Prendeghast in our festive assembly, about the birth of Jesus. It went: "There-he-lay / In-the-hay / Merry Christmas, Pucky Poo". No-one understood it, and those were the only lyrics. The choir couldn't sing after that for pissing themselves laughing, and Nick was suspended soon after.

The residential home of choice for pupils studying Community Studies between 1980-87. Once weekly visits included pupils interviewing residents, helping the staff and writing a weekly report. This culminated in the pupils coming back to Merry Hill House at the end of the school year to give presentations to the staff and residents.
One girl did a talk on 'lovely old Elspeth and her fondness for peppermint creams' Barry Rush did a song written for the residents which warmed the hearts of everyone. Then Roy Bird presented us with his highly complicated, mathematical graph of the most common causes of death amongst residents and even predicted at what age the remaining residents would die and of what cause.
Our school was subsequently banned from sending pupils to the MMH.

MERVYN : "I've got a Mervyn" - my knickers are wedged somewhere between my buttocks and are, therefore, causing me discomfort. In order to yank them out discreetly, one must confide in a friend, "I've got a Mervyn", so that they can walk behind you, forming a shield.
MELVYN : "I've got a Melvyn" - for some reason I have been running about in a pair of ill-fitting tights. The motion of my legs and arse has caused the tights to slowly wend their way down my thighs. The crotch is now suspended between my knees, allowing me to part my feet by no more than six inches, and meaning that the cold air is now circulating around my knickers, buttocks and upper thighs. Don't run in ill-fitting pairs of tights, you will only end up with a Melvyn.
MAUSTYN : "I've got a Maustyn" (pronounced "Moss-tin"). My sleeping bag zip is very stiff, and while I was fiercely yanking it up, I somehow managed to wedge the end up my arse. This is most painful, but results in much mirth at sleepovers. Whoever looks most uncomfortable has definitely got a Maustyn.

The only lesson in which it is possible to make death stars, and burn the ceiling with welding equipment.

You know when you sharpen a pencil, right? And you're excited, because you're going to draw a picture of your family outside your house, and you've learned how to draw bricks and what're probably seagulls.
But when you apply pencil to paper, the nib of your brilliant new sharp pencil gives, and flakes out to one side.
Pulling out the nubbin of graphite, you start to sharpen the pencil again. But now, you have about an eighth of an inch of futile non-sharpening, in which there is no "lead", just a broken collar of wood. While you do this, the mental image of your family outside your house is fading, like the photo of Marty McFly in Back to the Future.
After seconds seeming like minutes, you will have sharpened the pencil again, and paid no heed to the clicking sound that didn't feel like a natural part of the pencil-sharpening process. This recklessness will come back to haunt you, sooner than you think.
With your tongue hooked over your top lip, you start to draw the outline of your father's head. After a quarter of the circle is completed, your fingertips sense something awry, and it feels like a premonition when the pencil lead snaps once again.
That feeling of foresight leads to an overwhelmingly frustrating sense of I could have done something to stop it. This, heaped on top of the injustice of a twice-snapping pencil, can bring tears of impotence to the child who just wants to draw his mummy and daddy holding hands.
The explanation given by mothers and scientists in this situation is that "it's probably snapped in the middle".

Extended Play
In order to extend a playtime, the entire school would throw their bags into a massive teetering pile toward the end of break. Obviously the teachers couldn't allow us back into class without our bags, so they all had to be sorted.
Midland Extended Play
Extended play became even more extended when the Midland (the only local bank) offered every child a free low-rent black nylon holdall, if they opened an account. By the time we'd sorted over a hundred identical black bags to their proper owners, it was dinner time.
Except for the flash cunt with the Head bag, who went in on time and had to do some hard sums.

Myself and two freaks used to sing this inspired "non-scanning" version of the theme tune. "Mighty Mouse is on the way. Here he comes to make your day even greener." After which we would make massive bringing-up-snot noises. We were nine.

In the days before Thatcher stole our breaktime school milk, the bottles were delivered to my Primary school in two differently-coloured crates.
It was crucial that you got your bottle from the green crate because, of course, "Green green, the football team". Taking one from the red crate was social death, because, naturally, "red red, you wet your bed".
Milk from the red crate definitely tasted worse as well.

Rather than play such mainstream games at lunch such as football, my friends and I used to save our cash for the lunchtime game of Milkshake Fights. Standing at either end of the playground, teams would lob strawberry and chocolate milkshake cartons at each other with the hope of getting someone else's shoes messy.

I once hit a hard kid by accident, but escaped a beating by saying that my brother was as hard as nails. I suspect that the fact this ploy worked says more about Ryan Peters pussydom than it does about my brother.

Mr Travers was a very old supply teacher who had hair the creamy-yellowish colour of a Milky Bar. It was therefore traditional to greet his entry into the classroom with a rousing chorus of the Milky Bar song. We enjoyed a love-hate relationship with him until the day Rachel Dawes put a drawing pin on his chair and he sat on it and morphed into the fire-breathing detention-giver of doom.

The only legitimate nickname for the class albino.

Apart from Superhonky of course. And the slightly less popular Senor Blinky.

The cheeky little cheeses were a source of endless fun for tykes like myself. A 'hotpipe' area where coats would hang from heated piping was the prime opportunity to balance the red wax casing, and let it drip down people's coats.
We became known as - well, we called ourselves - The Stabbers because of the horrific Ripper-esque bloodstains from the red patches of molten wax. It may not have been as dramatic as I'm making it sound.

Hands-on parody of the popular TV advert in which a mother would shout "mini kievs" and her family would drop everything and rush to the dining table. Quite simply, a classmate would poke his head round the door just as a lesson was about to start. He or she would shout "mini kievs", and the entire class would run cheerfully out of the lesson. Never to return.

A child with an exceptionally small penis. i.e. a penis so small, it could fit in the hole of a Polo Mint.
Accusations of minterdom are rarely backed up with any form of medical or photographic evidence.

The only foolproof get-out clause for any given insult. This retort is to be delivered quickly and breathlessly, and for extra kick, suffixed with "no returns!"

"If you're Miss Holland, there must be some bloody ugly people in Holland." Cue hilarity.

Miss Lee was our hippy Deputy Head who ran meditation sessions some lunchtimes. It proved quite popular, but you had to make sure you wore your gym shorts, because everyone knew that Miss Lee lifted up your skirt when you were 'hypnotised'.
No thought was given to how someone COULD hypnotise a whole room of girls or why she would WANT to look up girls' skirts.

Miss Pugh was originally renamed Miss Spew, until we realised that Pugh rhymes with nearly everything. We got this far before our young vocabularies ran out;

I saw you, and Scooby Doo, in the loo at half past two, in london Zoo shagging Miss Pugh while doing a poo in your shoe.

Nowadays, of course, we'd have had lines like "you eschew my poos of reddish hue to guzzle the goo of a kangaroo". But back then, it was all about foot-scat cottaging threesomes with dogs.

When playing Battleships in study period, under the tolerant eye of a female teacher, be sure to report unlucky guesses with a plaintive "Miss...", thus ensuring that she constantly has to look up from her work.

Our English teacher, Miss Richardson, was notable for her complete inability to maintain order in the classroom. Then she became pregnant. Get in.
Someone would shout out "Miss!" to get her attention. Someone else would follow this up by shouting "carriage!". She loved us for that.

Mr Jenkins (cross between Sylvester McCoy and Windsor Davies) sputtered with rage every assembly about the danger of Swizzle Lollys. Apperently if dropped from the tower block windows, they would ACT AS A MISSILE, and if a child looked up and was hit by such a lolly, THE CONTENTS OF THEIR EYE WOULD LITERALLY SPILL OUT! Naturally, our young imaginations were set alight, and many experiments ensued with kids being forced to look up with open eyes at the windows while lollies were aimed at their face. With disappointing, spill-free results.

Mo: Abbreviation of ‘Homo’. Also a verb, "he moes/he mo-ed/they are mowing." To gay up.

(Lengthy entry ruthlessly trimmed to size by Susan)

The method by which you got rid of a person you no longer wished to associated yourself with. The least popular person of the group, you sent them to the nearest chip shop for the mockjop supper, and when they returned you had all buggered off.
This left the poor supper-ee bewildered, confused, and thoroughly rejected. But with a nice bit of fish.

Word owing its origin to a fusion of the two words molecule and models. These brightly coloured kits of plastic balls and flexible grey sticks were routinely handed out in organic chemistry classes to allow pupils to visualize complex hydrocarbons by building them themselves.
The perennial teacher cry of "don't just make a man and a dog" was traditionally met by a bunch of children waving a man and his little dog.

Say this while holding your hand out requesting a charitable donation. Best said as 'Money for the creeple, cream for my neeple' as it sounds desperate and convincing.
No-one ever asked about the whereabouts of the 'creeple', or to see the affected 'neeple', nor did they technically actually donate any money. Still, it's better than bloody Children in Need, isn't it?

The name given to those high-topped American trucker caps with mesh at the back. Became all the rage for a while. Name derives from the fact that all Mongs wear these caps. All the time. (As indeed do cancer patients).

The classic "Damn seagulls" mong cap, replete with hilarious fake bird poo, would be worn for mong-acting sessions, moaning "Damn seagulls" in a retarded voice and swiping at imaginary seagulls.

A toy that - if you weren't educationally subnormal - would be snatched from you and confiscated, with an unsympathetic order to "grow up".
You are only allowed a mong dolly if a) you are a mong, and b) you're willing to cry for six hours if anyone so much as touches it.

Tom Williams had a retarded sister. One day I went to visit him, she answered the door, took us into the kitchen and made us coffee. We brought it to our lips and discovered she'd put lumps of cheese into it. To celebrate this, we wrote her The Mong Stuff, to the tune of NKOTB's The Right Stuff.
Your first wheelchair was a good one
your second one was shit
The third one's got BMX wheels
Can I have a ride in it?
You've got the mong stuff
Sarah
That's why you chew toffee
You've got the mong stuff
Sarah
Why'd you put cheese in the coffee?

There were a few kids in our school unfortunate to be born with Down's Syndrome. One of these was particulally violent when provoked by somewhat unusual things. For example, fire alarms and pencils. When on one of his funny turns, he was granted tremendous Mong Power by the Lord, and would deal out tremendous, often uncalled for beatings to anyone who got too close. We didn't see much of Mong the Merciless after this had happened a few times, as he was forced to leave our school to be moved to a special unit. God knows where he is now, but I wouldn't be suprised if it was fairly secure and had plenty of sedatives near by. Poor Bastard.

I was told that monks in France used to suck mercury off the floor using their anuses, hold it in their rectums for short amounts of time, then let it back out again. Apparently doing this aided relaxation and provided relief from stress. I did believe his story until I realised that sucking things up with your arse isn't really feasible.

An unfortunate girl with severe learning disabilities who shat herself. She ran from the classroom and came back in saying "I was halfway down the stairs when it just slipped out". She had to wear the secretarys pants for the rest of the day. I also flicked a mackerel's eye into her hair, but not on the same day.

A particularly spotty individual who was deemed to have more than just a crater-face amount of acne.

Looking at "fuck fuck willy willy wank wank piss" reminded me of a phrase I concocted in those 'fuck the system' times everyone has in the fifth form. The phrase, scribbled in red felt-tip pen in my history exercise book, was MOOQUACKAPOOTOOWEEWILLYPLOP* which is as rousing a cry to revolution as the masses have ever heard. Shortly afterwards many of my friends found God and stopped indulging in such puerile behaviour. Remaining heathen and filled with revolutionary fervour, I soon abandoned all pretence of doing history homework, instead decorating the pages of my exercise book with such masterpieces as "ah am de weel tar-zan" and "ziggyziggyzoo". These manifestoes, though beautifully illustrated, did not endear me to the history teacher. * pronounced, naturally enough, as 'moo-quacka-poo-too-wee-willy-plop'

This should be bellowed at volume in a packed corridor, giving all present license to start shoving and punching those in close proximity.

We had developed a habit of riding invisible motorcycles around the corridors of our secondary school, accompanied by sound effects. As this was done without regard for the health & safety of non-participants, the headmaster saw fit to ban the practice.

One day he had caught Kenneth Keene and James Spencer joyriding in the corridor, and was in the middle of giving them a ticking off when another 'biker' came tearing past them. The furious head shouted at Ken to go after the boy and bring him back, so Ken climbed on his imaginary bike, kickstarted it and roared off in hot pursuit.

Michael Michael Motorcycle,
Turn the key and watch him pee.
The stock schoolyard chant for when you wanted to torment someone by the name of Michael for no other reason than the fact that his name was Michael.
Other popular variants include "John John Leprechaun", who also did a pee when you turned a key.

The title of a popular cartoon of mine, starring a weeping bear lying in a bed, a large puddle of piss spreading beneath him.
The phrase "Mr Bear has wet himself" was inexpicably funny.
The original "Mr Bear" drawing has long since disappeared, although rumours of a copy on E-bay selling for £6 remain unsubstantiated.

Mr Jennar had to wear glasses with lenses like icecubes. To help him out I would do my homework in impossibly small writing using a 0.015 Rotring art pen and a magnifying glass; I found that by doing this I generally got improved marks. I can only assume that he didn't want to let on that he was technically blind, and simply gave my shoddy offerings the benefit of the doubt.

A huge and ferocious spider kept in a jar by David Margetts and Robert Clarke during a nature project at primary school.

Other boys caught their own spiders who were brought in to challenge Mr Jolly's arachnid supremacy. Mr Jolly tore the legs off and subsequently ate any spider foolish enough to enter his battle-jar. He was HARD!

The girls' spider was called Fred and they wouldn't let him fight Mr Jolly. My God, girls are shit.

A bullying opportunity which crossed cultural and social barriers.
It was originally based around the rumour that Mr Randall used to be a member of the SAS and that he kept his black embassy storming suit in a small shed behind the art block.
Victims from lower years would be invited to see it, but their excitement upon entering would soon turn to panic as the shed door was closed behind them and wedged shut.
With a variation of the bait used, anyone, no matter how weedy, could terrorize an even weedier pupil from a lower year.
Thus the geek kids in my year were once seen enticing a bespectacled "quiet child" from the first year into the shed. Probably with the promise that the shed contained a very rare D&D figure, an exciting range of chemistry apparatus or a girl with meccano tits.

Music teacher. Quotes included;

• "Tell me, exactly what is funk?" - after Jack said that his composition was based on funk.
• "Tell me, exactly what is soul?" - after Jack said that funk derives from soul.
  
• On Elvis Costello - "I thought Jailhouse Rock was excellent"
• "Of course, you can only get electric bass guitars"

And, outside of music:

• "You know, when we went over to sort out Afghanistan, I think we all expected to see them all living in tents and mud huts and things, but it was clear they'd derived some of the building ideas from the west"
• After laughing raucously for about two minutes - "What am I laughing about?"

He also reckoned that I listened to "outrageous music" after performing a Beatles song and a Red Hot Chili Peppers song for performance. Outrageous indeed...

Mr Winklemann, our German teacher, loves ducks.
Sensing mickey-taking, he once put a student into detention when he went up to him and told him (in German, mind) that he too 'liked ducks'.
He has a pet duck, and once said that the TV show, Inspector Rex, would be better, and worth watching, if his duck was in it.

Mr. Marsden's classroom was right next to one of the boy's toilets. One day we caught Marsden's son Owen in the cubicle with his ear pressed against the wall, listening to his Dad teach whilst having a big fat wank.

If you are a teacher named Mr. O'Brian, it's not a good idea to introduce yourself to a class by telling them that the name 'Mr. No Brain' is not funny as you write 'Mr. No Brain' on the blackboard.

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

Despite her heroic name, Mrs Power had a gammy arm and a bonky leg, and fell over on her first day. We used to make her cry.

In the time pre-post-feminism, this was the title of choice for some female teachers who refused to be identified on the basis of their marital status.
Roughly translates as too old to be single, too dowdy to be married. Whispered accusations of lesbianism would follow.

The mistaken belief (aged 7-8) that making babies involved nothing more than urinating into a girls vagina. In our school, vaginas were referred to only as 'muffs', as referring to a muff as a 'vagina' meant you were probably a girl yourself, or gay.

What not to call ones chemistry teacher in class, or any other time for that matter. Unless, by some strange quirk of fate she is your mum, but that would make you her uncle or something.

The similarity between his roar in the opening credits of thundercats and the cry of an enraged window-licker was uncanny. He even looked a bit like a mong with that wild look in his eyes.

My (technically correct, you'll note) answer to the question "Where do hamsters come from?" in a Primary School Geography lesson. Had I not been watching a dog running outside, I'd have known the answer she was looking for was 'The Sahara Desert'. Hilarity, as you can well imagine, ensued.

The not-common-enough practice of going into a graveyard and digging up a freshly decomposing corpse. It is essential that the corpse is in a certain stage of decay, were the organs have liquified and mixed with bodily fluids to form a fleshy soup. This "soup" ferments to produce gases that inflate the stomach of the corpse. Once such a corpse is found the munging can begin. A coin toss determines who does what. The loser of the toss places his mouth over the genitals or anus of the corpse (personal preference), while the winner proceeds to jump on the gas inflated stomach. The pressure should cause a fleshy explosion in the mouth of the loser and any deposits should be consumed (simple etiquette).
(Real, or hardly? You decide, dear reader – Ed (Log))
(Jesus suffering fuck, Log, are "Slave Boy" and I the only people to watch South Park? *cough*ripoff*cough -Susan)

This was a kind of 'Tag' game, played by hurling a tennis ball at someone's head from shockingly short range to make them 'it'.
As throws from behind were perfectly legal, it was quite possible not to realise you were playing until you felt a stunning blow to your occipital.
It was soon decided that tennis balls simply weren't murderous enough, and so they were replaced firstly by cricket balls, which themselves were succeded (on account of not having 'enough corners') by large cubes of solid pine stolen from the woodwork room.
Luckily, the game was outlawed before someone took the decision that lumps of timber simply weren't 'Ninja throwing star-y enough'.

(high pavement, 1990-1992) An unusual figure of fun. The mockery was based around the fact that he was getting driving lessons from his mum's boyfriend, but had to pay for them himself. More than that, when we asked him how many lessons he had taken, the number was nearly 100. To us, this was a clear indication that Murray's mother was using her son as a source of income to keep her in sex and drugs. This fuelled a fantasy world based around their abuse of Murray, in which he was made to stand outside their bedroom door while they had sex, because he was hungry and all the food was in there with them. Occasionally they would slip him out a sandwich, but never enough to stop the hunger. The culmination of this mockery was the "Aspects of Murray" collection, which was cut up bits of paper with doodles which made every facet of his life plainly sad and revolting. He never saw the Aspects of Himself - we made sure of that. We may have been pointlessly malicious, but we didn't want to destroy the poor bastard. Well, not until he searches for his own name on the internet, maybe.

In the days before multimedia, there was BBC schools radio. "Music And Movement" was their public service to avoid P.E. teachers going into meltdown under the strain of ever having to have a single fucking idea, ever. Jonathan Cohen-type piano music and, for P.E., strangely soothingly-voiced routines of the "I'm a tree, I'm a tree, be a tree with me" kidney. The sort of things you could do without needing special P.E. kit, which is why to this day Debussy-type plinky-plonking takes me to the scary visual place of Paula Marshall in her tights the colour of diarrhoea. Manufactured in that colour, I mean. But even so.

The Glockenspiel Beater : This weapon can be thrown with pin point accuracy to contact with a desired part of a victim's anatomy with almost no effort. It is one of the subtler weapons as it can easily be launched by a nonchalant flick of the wrist whilst the assailant casually stares in the other direction. Beater throwing is optimal good fun if the head of the beater can be removed and thrown independently from the stick thus giving a two-fold attack strategy.
The Coconut Shells : These are for your more tactical assailant. They can either be used for the basic 'trap someone's fingers in them as they slap shut at 47 mph' gag. OR, for the slightly more adventurous attacker, put one coconut shell over some unsuspecting victim's ear and hit with a beater (see above) until victim has perforated ear-drum.
The Xylophone Keys : Hard, metal, heavy, sharp. So many possibilities, so little time.
The Snare Drum Brush : Most popular of all. This tightly bound weapon consisting of half horse-hair and half wire is most effective when drawn agonisingly slowly over naked flesh - popular with the 'fat kid' bully network.

We used to have a music teacher called Mr. Hewit who looked like a ginger Art Garfunkle and pointed at the hymn line on the overhead projector with his middle finger. How wude!

During assembly we were ordered to sing hymns, but since everyone hates singing, especially hymns, Mr Duckworth walked up and down the aisle that separated two blocks of chairs to ensure that everyone was singingk, and enjoying themselves.
We were later told by the physics teacher that people only sang when Mr Duckworh passed them, thereby creating a "musical sine wave" as he walked up and down the aisle, growing increasingly angry at the fact no-one was enjoying singing hymns.

A proper response to a stupid comment. Tongue pressed into the bottom lip in front of the teeth and the phrase 'muu, by dabe's .....'. If the need is great, you may finish with 'and I'm a spack', said in the same manner. Darren: What does 'wank' mean? Me: Muu, my names Darren, and I'm a spack. See also ehhrruuuuu, gay.

A game to play when you're bored. It looks like you're really interested in what the teacher has to say. But in reality, you're just waiting for him to say "put your hands up" so that you can all mutter "my arse" afterwards.

With a good enough mental library of double entendres, just about anything the teacher says can be followed with "my arse", with hilarity inevitably ensuing.

Oh, and Mr Jones, once you've realised just how immature your class really is, moaning 'oh come on...' isn't really going to help matters.

My Aunt Nellie had a hole in her belly
And a hole in the biscuit tin
She was sitting on the grass
With her finger up her arse
And her tits going ding-a-ling-a-ling.

If anybody has any theories as to where the biscuit tin fits in to all this, I'd love to know.

Maths teacher Mr Rawlinson used to throw the board duster at us with unerring accuracy if we were misbehaving.

However, for particularly unruly acts, he kept a huge book called "My Catholic Faith" which he dragged out and whacked us on the arse with.

The definitive version of this hardy perennial primary school classic follows:

My friend Billy had a ten-foot willy
And he showed it to the girl next door.
She thought it was a snake
So she hit it with a rake
And now it's only 2 foot 4.

In some areas, the willy was left at a rather more impressive 5'4", which would have been of little consolation to Billy, who would have suffered considerable rake trauma and the loss of his helmet.

My little pony,
skinny and bony,
went to the circus,
and done it on purpose.
(it being a crap)
Alternative ending to the well-accepted first two lines is "made out of plastic, looks like a spastic".

In the first tutorial together, pupils are forced to do introduction exercises, teling the class their name, and telling them a bit about themselves. "My name is Jacob and I like eggs" was the appalling example offered by the form tutor to get the ball rolling.
It did prove to be a bonding experience for the class, in that we bonded by saying "Hello, my name is Jacob and I like eggs" for half an hour.

A type of washing up liquid that isn't actually Fairy Liquid, but shares an advertising agency.

On hearing Martin Newman singing "hands that do dishes feel as soft as your face, with my queen's Fairy Liquid", I informed him that the correct line was "mild green Fairy Liquid".

Rather than admit this simple mistake, he told me that actually he had been singing the advert for the other Fairy Liquid, whose full name was "My Queen's Fairy Liquid". Apparently they had used exactly the same tune and almost identical lyrics. Even Martin was surprised by this; the conversation ended with him saying "god knows why they used the same tune..." and giving a nervous laugh.

[phil]As joyous a tale of hole-diggery as this is, the fact remains that you were both singing along with washing up liquid adverts. The pair of you must be considered quite the double act at dinner parties.[/phil]

Myers was a kid in my games class who was made entirely of spheres. He wasn't really picked on that much, but after and before every games class, in the changing rooms EVERYONE would shout Myers in a drawn-out fashion (emphasis on the 'yer' part). We even changed pitch like a motorbike changing gears. It was odd, someone would just start it and you had to join in. He always cried.