browsing the letter p

Morvern went to Mr Taylor to tell him that she couldn't do swimming that day as her period had started. While in the middle of this interview, Jenny also appeared to beg off swimming for the same reason. He spent a few minutes doing a baffled double-take at the both of them, before spluttering "But you can't both have it on the same day!"
Mr "Sumo" Taylor is married, and has produced children.

If you poo yourself during PE, simply run to the toilet and clean yourself. Don't, as Martin Watts did, spend long, visible, seconds trying to somehow push the poo back into your anus, looking agonised, before explaining - out loud - that you have done a poo, and have been trying to push the poo somehow back into your anus.
The inclination not to attack an easy target, remember, does not occur in children.

Having managed to buy a copy of Viz from a newsagent who didn't realise it was rude, I took it to school to impress people.
It was promptly confiscated by a P.E. teacher who, at the end of the day, gave it back with a grin and an angerless "you little scamp" tousle of my hair.
Within a second of him turning around, the other P.E. teacher confiscated it and kept it for an entire week.
How come one P.E. teacher managed to struggle through it in the course of only a single day, whilst the other took a week to mouth-breath his way through it?

Top 5 Reasons it might take a PE teacher a week to read Viz:

1. His fists are so clenched with perpetual rage that he has to turn the pages clumsily with his knuckles.
2. Every time he gets a joke, he has to take it to his girlfriend and say "that naughty cos the man dun poo wen he sed he wuddunt".
3. He spent three days staring at the Vibrating Bum-Faced Goats before deciding it didn't make him want to wank.
4. In a moment of hungry confusion, he ate the Viz, and it took him a week to buy another because "doing things is like riddles".
5. He

stupid.

Run to the wall and back: I can't be arsed. Run to the wall and back.

Catch 22 : Are you a PLP? Say yes, and you're a public leaning post. Say no, and you're denying that you're a perfectly lovely person. Why you would want to do that is beyond me.

Retort for a bully who is told to "pack it in" during his abuse. More phonetically correct would have been "Pakis don't come in tins", but no-one seemed to think of that.

Another version of the retort to 'pack it in' followed the usual line of 'Pakis don't come in tins', and went on to add 'they come in banana boats'. Any adults listening would have been so charmed by the innocent innacuracy of the comment, that the naive bigotry just seemed sweet.

Any chase is demeaned to futile absurdity if observers shout "wacca wacca wacca", a la Pacman. It certainly worked when our Physics teacher was chasing Filthy Scott (so called because he would put his finger up his arse and wipe it on your blazer) around the lab. In the end he gave up and just threw wooden sink covers at him.

During the last storytime of the day, demonic headmistress Mrs. Windsor would pick her favourite children to stroke her legs through her nylons. This was an honour keenly fought over among the children, all under the age of six and unable to discern just how horrifically, grotesquely wrong this was.

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.

Not everyone who works with, or takes an interest in children is a paedophile.
The man from the Werther's Original advert is not a paedophile. Older male children's TV presenters were not paedophiles. PE Teachers who made you take showers were not necessarily paedophiles.
Labelling such people as paedophiles is not only lazy, obvious and weak, it also denigrates the comic potential of the real paedophiles, like Gary Glitter, and your dad.

The forever-to-be-remembered page number in our Biology textbook featuring a photograph of a standing naked child with the world's most extraordinary bow legs. When viewed in the dark recesses of the school library, it never ceased to make a 12-year-old lurch, retch and eventually laugh milk out of their nose.

Seriously, you could fit a beach ball through there.

Not what you want to hear about your English teacher, when she's got a face like a fire-damaged lego brick and a body like The Raggydoll's Sadsack. You'll spend the rest of your English lessons trying desperately not to imagine her naked.
And constantly, constantly, failing.

A gang of five or six kids would surround you, and proceed to scientifically beat the crap out of you, scientifically concentrating on places that were liable to cause the most pain. Just when you approached the threshold of tolerable pain, your shoes were scientifically torn off and thrown away, and five or six vicious teenage bastards would scientifically pummel the soles of your feet, to scientifically test the theory that this cancelled out pain anywhere else in your body. It fucking didn't. Ever.

The kitchen area of our school had a green lino floor, except for one bit where a 1' x 2' piece had been repaired with brown lino.
This was the Paki Patch. If you successfully negotiated the Eggy Bumps, you then had the Paki Patch to get past. If you stood on it, you would automatically be deemed to be in love with Shetal, who had the uneviable status of being the only child of ethnic origin in a school full of cunts. I can't remember whether she welcomed the daily stream of unwilling suitors, but looking back I strongly suspect that she didn't.
The Eggy Bumps? Did treading on these imply a romantic attraction to chicken foetuses? I think we should be told - Matt

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.

Personal Arse Licker. Never say that you are someone's pal; "best pal" is a bit better, because it implies that there is some competition for the job, and at least that means you're a good arse licker.

Inform your target that new medical research has found a genetic link between the size of your hands, and the probability that you will develop cancer in later life. The details of the research are obviously very complicated, but it boils down to a simple rule of thumb; if your hand is bigger than your face, then you're very likely to develop cancer. The immediate instinct is for your victim to immediately check by placing their hand over their face, allowing you to slap their palm hard into their face. This is actually very painful, and runs the risk of hitting the secret Kung-Fu instant death spot, which shoots the nose backwards into the brain.

Offer to read someone's future from their palm. It all starts seductively promising, with things on the palm resembling aspirational object that the person will one day own.

"You're going to own a mansion shaped like a finger."

After two or three predictions, hawk up a huge greenie into their palm and inform that that it is their swimming pool. Luxurious.

Actually, this trick was seen on The Simpson, episode 9F06, New Kid on the Block, along with Wet Willies. Is it funny if it's been on The Simpsons? Probably not.

A place where your mother lives. If anyone asks you where Panksy Lane is, you must say "where your mum lives". If you do not, then it is where your mum lives.

The teacher who directed our primary school pantomime used to put a lot of effort into after-school rehearsals. Sometimes just for one or two of the cast. At one of these, I (Abanazar the wicked uncle) and Widow Twankey (another boy) were encouraged to lie down on our backs, side by side, in just our PE kit, and let our hands `explore' each other's bodies without making a sound. We were told that this would teach us `proper body control'. The teacher turned the light off and watched us do it in silence for about ten minutes. My parents thought he was a wonderful teacher and refused to listen to any complaint - an emerging pattern in my school career.
I though this would be funny but it appears to have taken me to a dark place. Still, there it is.
PS I don't think I've libelled anyone, have I? That's why I left out all the names. Also the rumours about the hard drive and the pictures and the prison sentence. But I daresay you're awash with those.

Pants checkers will go to the changing room during swimming, while everyone else was in the pool. Then, they would check all pants for "poo stripes." I agree, strange in hindsight. Philip Connors pants generally tested positive and then would be held aloft by the side of the swimming pool accompanied by shouts of "Err Connors got poo stripes".

Should your teacher exhibit such a lack of fashion nous as to dress in trousers with turn-ups, you must spend a significant amount of time "accidentally" dropping your pen, allowing you to get on the floor and flick paperclips at his legs with the aim of landing them in the turn-ups.

Chris Spedding was so adept at this game that Mr Law often walked out of RE lessons to a jangling musical accompaniment.

Verb: to parka
The act of swinging a smaller child by the fur-rimmed hood of their Lord Anthony parka until rippage, flight or boredom ensues.

More fun can be had by tying the parka's cords to the metal bars on the bus home, giving the wearer two choices - a new coat or an unplanned trip to town, missing Grange Hill.

While playing with a frisbee in the National Trust-protected park across from school, we saw one of the evil parkies hoving into view in his little electric cart. It was a warm, early Summer day and we had our blazers and shoes off, and our trousers rolled up. He looked angrily at us for having fun in his park, hooked one thumb over his shoulder and growled at us: "Shoes on, FUCK OFF". I guess this was meant to be authoritative and pithy. It wasn't.

This, of course, became the ONLY way to tell anyone to get out of anywhere.

The lyrics from Inner City's hit single "Big Fun" could be redirected towards a child as they sit on their own, to throw a spotlight onto how popular they aren't.

"We don't really need a crowd to have a party," you'd reassure them. "Just a funky beat and you to get it started."

The onus would then be on them to get the party started. You can encourage them with other lyrics, including "It won't take a lot of thought for you to do it" and "I think you're ready, Freddie".

A second option is to tell them "you're having big fun" until a bubble of stifled emotion plops out of their nose.

Just a fairly shit – if charming - insult song; sung to the tune from the Pet Shop Boy's hit single 'Go West'.
Pascal, wrestles grizzly bears.
Pascal, in the open air.
Pascal, in his underwear.
Pascal, that's why we don't care.
If we were really so indifferent to Pascal’s habits, however, it’s odd that we spent so much time singing about how much we didn’t care.

Variation on the more commonly accepted and widely practiced self gratification pastime, masturbation. Could be Italian in origin.

According to Ste Roberts, the method involved boiling an amount of pasta (pasta type was not specified so presumably most shapes will suffice)until 'al dente', then transferring pasta to an empty jam jar, leaving the lid off but covering the top with a double layer of cling film into which a small slit is made.

Once pasta cools from very hot to quite warm, the pastabater's penis can be inserted into the jar of pasta, at which point the pastabating can begin in earnest.

Never actually tried this, however having actually written the process up, it sounds more plausible than it did 20 years ago.

Mr Boyd was banned from driving a car, after one too many tipsy-tours. This confined him to a scooter, and freed up the whole day for guilt-free drinking from a bottle he kept on his desk. This came to an end on the day that Nick Reid had a drink from his bottle.
Mr Boyd whipped around from the blackboard and yelled "Excuse me, I've already had my breakfast!"
We all sat there in silence, wondering what he was talking about. He then explained with the following: "If you're going to drink in my class, drink from a glass".
So, Nick asked if he could go and get a glass. "NO!" shouted Mr Boyd.
Cue five minutes of stunned silence. Mr Boyd just stood there, obviously livid by this point, and asked "What are you all looking at me for?"
"Because you're the teacher?" came the mousy reply from Joe Boyer. Pat then stormed out, allowing us a replacement teacher for the rest of the year.

Our English teacher's attempts to remonstrate with Edward were met with a long, protracted 'tut', followed by an exclamation that she was a 'blodclart'. When ask to repeat what he had said, she was also told that she was a 'bumbaclart', and told 'not to distress' him any longer.
The teacher then informed the young man that she was fully conversant with Jamaican patois, due to the fact that she had lived with a black guy for several years, and had him suspended for a week.
For those that don't know, my extensive research has revealed that a 'blodclart' is a 'used tampon', and that a 'bumbaclart' translates literally as an 'anal tampon'.
God, I feel SO babylon. - Mansh

Announced in 5th year that he was the dirtiest kid in the class because his name could be loosely rendered as follows: Fat Prick Screw Sac. At a time when such terms were hot currency, this lent him definite cachet. Patrick Cusack also told me leeringly one day that if you pulled your dick for long enough, white stuff would come out the end of it. Such a practice, he revealed, was called "mestempation", and furthermore he had done it himself. I thought this was the biggest load of bullshit I had ever heard in all my life. White stuff coming out the end of your dick? Chinny on, Patrick.

How could one person manage to be so feeble, yet so resilient? Patrick Seers is a paradox. The school's most prominent geek, he was the person that the regular geeks used as a cushion to reduce their own noise on the bully radar.

It was as heartbreaking as it was unstoppable. Patrick Seers. Bullied 8 hours a day, five days a week, for 5 years. Patrick Seers. Even the usual sympathetic types kind of gave in after two minutes of civil conversation, coming away with the sense that he did, somehow, deserve it. He played the euphonium.

He has also survived to become someone that exists, seems successful, and has - from limited Facebook snooping - developed a good circle of friends.

Just goes to show. It really does get better. And not just for the gay ones. For Patrick Seers.

Forgetting your kit would result in PE in your pants. If many forgot, then the hall would resemble a Blue Peter Romanian orphanage crossed with one of Jonathan King's less extreme fantasies.

This is a post-shower game invented by me and my brother. Straight after our shower, we would do a 'peacock parade' to our parents (and sometimes other adult guests) who were sitting in the living room next door. The 'peacock' effect comes from taking your towel and sticking one corner firmly between your bum cheeks and squeezing tight. Then you walk around on your tippie-toes with your head held proudly back. After a couple of laps, you go back in your room and everyone is going 'ooh isn't that funny'.
Occasionally however, in an effort to avoid the towel slipping out (from the friction of the carpet), which it sometimes did, I would stick the towel up my bum a bit too far, so that the corner went a bit brown. Then my brother would go and tell Mum and it would ruin the whole game.

A game for peanut allergy sufferers. The boy with the allergy puts his mouth at the end of the table. Other boys try to flick peanuts into his mouth. He is allowed to use a Coke bottle as a goalkeeper.

The pulling of a tie so that the knot is so small that it can only be undone with microscopic needles. A defence is to tie a two pence coin into the knot - although you may be called a jew or a gyppo if it is discovered that you keep two pees in secret hiding places.

A simple trick, and something of a once only event, the Pen Fifteen Club was used on every new kid at my school. Ask them if they want to join your club. Tell the new kid that all the cool kids are in the club. They will always want to join. At which time you take the industrial size permanent black marker and ask the victim to hold out their right hand. Then, very slowly, deliberately and neatly, write a huge PEN15. Because you did it on their right hand, the teacher will always see the PEN15. And the victim will not squeal.

If a boy asks to borrow your pencil sharpener, on no account give it to him, it means you want to have sex with him.
Conversely, never borrow a pencil off a boy, as this also means you want to have sex with him. A rubber is alright, as long as it is scented. But scented rubbers are gay, so it's not alright, because that means you want to have sex with him.

Urban Myth. Young man, overcome with stress, puts a pencil up either nostril during an exam and brings his head down on the desk. The pencils go into his brain, killing him instantly.

The rumour that everyone in the room gets compensated for their mental trauma by getting a free A* means that most people have the vague, unspoken idea that witnessing a suicide would be fucking brilliant.

A more controlled version of "pencil fencing" (qv). At primary school, someone said that if you poked your skin with a sharp pencil, a bit of the lead (ie. graphite) would be left behind under your skin, which (as far as we knew) was a real tattoo. We all tried it, but, speaking personally, any marks that were made just washed off. Easily.

In the second year of my primary school, we were all given standard edition chunky pencils, which came in red, yellow, green or blue.

Although the teacher thought she was assigning pencils at random, little did she know that she was actually defining our social status for the rest of the term.

Red, red, wet the bed
Blue, blue, smells of poo
Green, green, parasheen (a totally made up word which sounded like it should mean something cool)
Yellow was casually skirted around cos no-one could think of anything that rhymed with it.

The special 'parasheen' status was a blessing, but the glory could be short lived. An owner of a green pencil could be given a red or blue pencil in the next school term, bringing them back down to earth to join the common folk.

Those on the bottom of the social pile were known to try and colour their pencils in with felt tips, but this only resulted in green palms and being called David Bellamy.

A more elaborate and good-natured version of simply scrawling a cock on your neighbour's work. Cut a corner segment of blank paper and add your crudely-drawn phallus. When your classmate's back is turned, place your corner of paper over the corner of his work, with a carefully-placed ruler hiding the join. After your friend has noticed the ruination of his work and let fly with a suitable outraged outburst, you can slide the paper away and reveal that it was all a joke. Relief generally diffuses anger, and a jolly good laugh is had by all.

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]

Something the hard lads at school devoted much time and effort to achieve. By vigorously rubbing the skin on the back of your hand with a two pence piece (tails down was best) you could friction-burn away the top few layers of skin. When repeated enough times this would lead to a much-admired thick brown scab about a cm wide and up to an inch long. One of the more unhinged hard knocks at my school had perfected this art to such a degree that both his lower forearms came to resemble Tony the Tiger's hind legs ... At the time it made no sense either.

The incomprehensible way in which Mark Lewis used to pronounce 'penis', and the sole reason that we used to look forward to Geography lessons*. Mark would sit in front of us and mutter it to himself constantly throughout the lesson. Sometimes he included someone's name as an afterthought, but we liked it best when he attached it to a type of stream-bed erosion or the name of a country whose main export goods were being discussed.
* Apart from "Windy" Miller the teacher and his extravagant pigeon strut.

A construction devised and built by our physics teacher, Mr Ward, out of a cardboard box, with a large paper speech bubble reading "Yes Mr Ward!".
Our physics teacher would ask it questions like "Will you pass your exams?", and then answer himself in a high pitched voice, saying "Yes Mr Ward!", while jiggling the cardboard box with his hand.
One story that proves that the insanity of teachers isn't always entertaining.

All the girls of a certain age got these party bags. We also got to see a film about Becoming A Woman.
It pissed the boys off no end, as they didn't get any bag for needing a shave, or having a wank.
We would, as consolation, share our tampons with them, so we could all play wet the tampon with liquid soap and throw it at the ceiling.
Tampons remained stuck to the ceiling when I left, two years later.

My old school still sends me its twice-yearly magazine, and in it I recently read that Mr Sheldon is retiring. That's the Mr Sheldon who formerly gloried in the title Master of the Lower School at the risible Eton-wannabe institution I had the misfortune to attend for six years. In an interview for the magazine, Mr Sheldon said that he'd enjoyed his career, but the one thing he could never bring himself to enjoy was having to administer corporal punishment.

So that'll be why he used to make you spread your legs apart, bend over on his plush red leather chair, and wait, arse up, for long agonising minutes while he stood in the corner where he kept his quiver of canes, selecting one cane after the other, flexing it between his meaty fingers and swishing it through the air a few times to test its suitability for the melancholy duty it was about to perform. He was punishing HIMSELF more than anyone else. And his distaste would be clearly evident afterwards, in the way he'd stand there puffing and blowing, sweaty and claret-faced, agitated out of all proportion to the physical extertion involved in botty-whacking a small boy a few times. It was because he HATED it.

1. The teacher's pet can be fisted (punched) in break time. 2. After school, you may decide to fist your cat. Or dog.

Obscure allusion to homosexuality. The idea is that you go to Albert Square market to buy bananas from Pete Beal, and put them in a bowl. Instead of eating them, however, you put them up your arse.

June 1987. Sports day. The fifth form 100m final contestants line up on the start line. Among them, Peter Bliss - wearing size 12 rugby boots, tatty grey baggy cloth shorts, a too-small t-shirt died pink in the wash and his trademark NHS glasses.

And they're off.

Ten kids hurtle down the track encouraged by the shouts of 500 kids and adults. But - within a few seconds, the noise falters, withers, then dies completely. Apart from a faint "phut phut phut phut phut".

Peter Bliss, with a furious look of red-faced determination etched on his spotty mug, is running faster than all the other competitors. He just isn't running in the right direction. Nobody's watching the race any more; all eyes are on Peter as he runs straight through the crowd of kids and shellshocked parents, and straight across the empty playground behind.

He runs straight into the toilets. With a big pile of shit tumbling out the back of his shorts.

It doesn't stay quiet for very long.

Victim is floored, arms out-stretched. Someone kneels on the elbow joint and the arm is pumped up and down. Often initiated with the question "Would you like leaded or unleaded?". Requesting "unleaded" possibly led to a less ferocious pumping but probably relied more on the benevolence of the initiator.

And I suppose if the kid started crying, you could all go "thar she blows!" and dance around clicking your heels and whooping, as though you’d struck oil like in them films. That sounds fun. Susan.

The pupil of Ysgol Tryfan, Bangor, who removed one of his dainty stools from the bowl, and smeared it across the walls of the toilet, leading to an assembly in which we were told we had "a very real problem". Retards and pyschopaths alike came under suspicion, but the plucky turdslinging Welshman who wrecked the walls with bowels of folly will take this secret to his grave.

They sought him here, they sought him there but the phantom shitter was always one step ahead of the posse.

It began in the October I think, the location was a horticultural college in Kent. The modu operandi varied but the result was always the same. The shock discovery of a turd in places where you really didn't want to make such a discovery. The first discovery was made in an empty bath (on reflection I think this is worse than a full bath)in one of the girls' bathrooms. The choice of this target was inspired, the outrage and gossip the act generated already meant that the Phantom Shitter had attained legendary status. The folowing months were to cement his (or her) place in history.

Over the next few months turds began appearing at random times and in random locations. Often they were contained in a tupperware container, or they were left on a deliberately cleared surface (so to heighten the aesthetic impact one would suspect). The actions stopped in as sudden manner as they started. The strtange thing is that once it stopped, we all missed the anticipation of the next discovery. And no, it was not I and we never did discover who it was. The Phantom Shitter, will however be a part of all of those who experienced it forever. Today, I see it as a kind of performance art.

Ask the askee; "Do you collect stamps?" -- If yes, you get stamped on the foot. A more sophisticated variant is to ask the question: "Do you want a Shakespeare Stamp?" And when the victim says yes, shake him, "spear" him in the chest, and stamp on his feet.

"My dad's a banker" "I was born on a pirate ship" "Two cows went up the hill and parted" Both are magically transformed if you put a finger in each side of your mouth and pull your cheeks apart when you say them.

By quietly repeating the words of the teacher a moment after they say them it is possible to have the poor bugger sitting next to you become so disorientated they start to write down what you are saying, and not the teacher. Once they are hooked, to their surprise they suddenly find they are not writing about the properties of oxygen, but a blue monkey with a huge penis.

This means "seal egg" in French. It is a great tragedy for pupils in French lessons everywhere that seals don't lay eggs. Or that you can't ask for one in Paris restaurants.

Should you be entrusted with the dubious honour of photocopying teaching material, it is incumbent upon you to make asinine alterations guaranteed to cause a giddy head rush.

Your starter for ten: a highly childish assault on the periodic table achieved by inserting the word "Jimmy" after the symbol for copper ('CU...Jimmy').

The wires used in physics to attach various devies to a battery - such as a clock - could be used by those not wishing to become Einstein as a whip. The plastic connectors could, on a good swing, break skin.

During my school days, I learned that the best way to stop pickpockets is to put a dog shit in a sandwich bag, and put it your coat pocket. You can guarantee they'll never do it again.

Aye, right. So you walked around with a dog shit in your coat pocket all day, just in case someone tried to steal your handkerchief? You've emerged as the clear winner here. You daft sod. - Matt

If anybody called you a pig, you could declare that it stood for "Pretty, Intelligent Girl", and was thus a compliment.

After the film "Lost Boys" came out, Jason O'Malley went to a careers interview and asked for information about Vampires, and he was rather badly Bollocked by the teacher. Undeterred he decided to get on the vampire Career ladder and started bringing pigs blood (procured from the bemused butcher) in to school and offering it to people under the guise of 'Home made Blackcurrant Juice'. After getting over our initial shock for a few weeks we were able to play games of 'Pigs Blood' at lunchtime which involved nicking the plastic Panda Pops bottle of pig's blood and playing football with it until it burst. The games ended when Jason decided he wanted to be a fighter pilot for the US Navy and ride a motorbike instead.

A fantastic story from the US... more like this, please, yanks...
Mrs. Bergstrum the biology teacher clearly checked the wrong box when ordering dissectable fetal pigs from hog-bit providers Edmund Scientific.
What showed up instead was a reinforced drum of full-sized adult pig heads swimming in their own facial sweat. Making the best of her mistake, an attempt was made to dissect these in class, but this failed miserably as no one could get through the skull.
Sensing potential, someone slipped accidentally on purpose, a pig head ended up on the floor, a head was thrown, a girl screamed, and things went from bad to worse.
Soon enough, the unused heads began to disappear from their storage cabinet and show up in girls' lockers, the ball bin at the gym, staring up sadly out of the toilet bowl, etc.
For a few days, these heads were everywhere.
Interest waned when the fruit flies arrived.

Our GCSE Science teacher brought a set of pig's lungs to class, around which we all gathered to watch as she demonstrated their function and dissected them for us. As part of the demonstration, she stuck a tube into the windpipe, and asked Chris Belton to blow into the tube so we could see the lungs inflate. Chris obliged - only for someone to bring their fist down on top of the inflated lungs, shooting air and mucus from the lungs back up the tube and into Belton's mouth.

A name for the admitted rare phenomenon of a child with one webbed foot. The success of the insult really lies in the protracted nature of the linked insults, e.g. 'Pass me that pencil, oh you can't, pigeons don't have hands'.

Like sardines, yet more violent. Still catering to the newly evolved homoeroticism of school kids. Basically, someone falls over on the hard gravel floor of the playground, and everyone else jumps on them. Pile-ons were regularly arranged for various break times as well, but few people were daring enough to be the first. Often led to serious injuries.

All good friendships must face tests. My friendship with Pilky - a truly lovely chap - faced such a trial when I got him to place his foot over a rusty nail sticking out of a fence. Then, I stamped on his foot.
It is a testimony to the magnitude of my emotional givingness that we remained on good terms. That and the fact he promised not to grass me up.

There was a kid at primary school who claimed that he dreamt that he was eating a giant marshmallow and when he woke up, he had eaten his pillow.

I didn't know that this was a widely-known joke until recently when I was perusing a children's joke book.

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.

The painless insertion of a pin under a layer of dead skin on the fingertip. Experts can manage ten pinfingers without accidentally popping one out. This leaves the pinfinger able to do little other than wave their hands at people and say "look look " to people they hope will be impressed. (Log)

In my third year of secondary school, we all went on "camp", and I went to the water sports one in Wales. Me and some other boys played a few games of the role playing game "Call of Cthulhu". While I was running one of these games, I made the mistake of saying that one of the beasts was "pink and blasphemous", within ear-shot of a school bully. I was hounded by cries of "pink and blasphemous" until the day I left that school, 5 years later.

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".

If you tell anyone that you like Pink Floyd in year eight, you will be singled out as a bender.

An unfeasibly tall, largely silent, unassuming Asian girl who wore unnecessarily garish stripey leg-warmers. To our (suprisingly tolerant) six year old minds she seemed perfectly normal, little did we know the she was gaining reknown elsewhere.

This hidden notoriety only revealed itself more than 10 years later, at a party for a departing teacher, when parents and faculty members alike chose her as the subject for their fancy-dress costumes.

A game involving a number of people chasing each other around a car. All contestants are required to drink a can purchased from the local store. Then, chase each other around the car, attempting to trip the person in front of you. Continue until someone falls over. The unlucky individual would then be subjected to a hot, then almost immediately cold, drenching of piss. In cold weather, the urgency is increased, and so therefore is the risk of dirty tackles and wetting yourself.

A joystick-waggler game for the Atari ST, created by the Hot Spunk Crew.
Each level began with a sample from Jack Nicholson as The Joker, saying “Gentlemen – let’s broaden our minds”, after which you would immediately thrash your joystick from left to right. This action would animate one of a series of very short films, which included a bean-flicking incident and some hot three-way pixels.
Although obviously a humourous game, it was quite frustrating for people actually wanting to pleasure themselves, what with having your hands otherwise occupied. You could convince a friend to waggle the joystick for you; but if you’re that close you might as well just toss each other off anyway.
Additional features include colour cycling for those who want to watch green fingers slide into a deathly grey vagina.

The seemingly unlimited supply of empty camera film containers which we found in Mrs Bailey's classroom. These were urinated into, then left in a hidden spot for several days, so that they may mature. After this, the contents were emptied in a place where they would have most effect. A bald teacher walking underneath a window got a soggy head. In retrospect this was quite unacceptable behaviour.

If you smell very bad then it can be suggested that you shower by standing under a colander that your father is pissing into.

Toilet game perfected by Nick Edy, who would hurl a piss-drenched swaddling of tissue into an occupied cubicle, soaking anyone foolish enough to be ejecting brown at school.

Apparently, in Celtic mythology the goggle-eyed Pissgrabber lurked in the bowls of public toilets, attempting to insert a maths text book up the first arse that appeared. If the victim screamed the Pissgrabber returned to the Headmaster's office.

There were a number of factors that contributed to the terrible decision to piss in Steve's bed. It was the last day of a school trip to Austria. Two things had annoyed us throughout the week:

a) Steve
b) The utterly horrible food

So, to punish Steve and the hostel, all we had to do was piss in Steve's bed. When I say 'we', I mean 'I'. And so I found myself pissing onto a mattress in Austria.

In hindsight, it wasn't really worth it. My God, I can't believe I pissed onto somebody's bed.

Being at that age where penile exploration (and subsequent comparison) was particularly rife, three friends and myself thought it would be a cracking riot to share a communal piss in the "big kids" loos.
Giggling began as four streams joined togeteher in glorious Handelesque harmony, but it soon got too much to resist.
It started with a little flick, a little move to the side, then suddenly we were taken by the moment, spraying our urine on the toilet, walls, floors, and each other. We finished up, convulsing with laughter; the last boy making a show of it and spinning around in a 360 degree piss cycle.
We then opened the door to find our teacher standing there, fuming at our soaked trousers. Two boys started crying right there; I held strong though, until they broke me back in the office - the "getting your mum in" card was too damn effective.

Where everyone stands along the urinal in the P.E. block. One shouts 'Pissy Circle' and does a nifty pirouette sending a looping strand of piss over his co-pissers.

A bomber jacket owned by Anthony Harrison had been stolen from the changing rooms during PE and was found at the back of the field slashed up and pissed on.
As if this wasn't funny enough in itself, he came in the next day wearing the SAME JACKET, that his mum had mended and washed.
This earnt him the nickname 'Trampony'.

One of the more dangerous forms of Kung Fu, especially in the hands of clumsy jumping juveniles whose only experience of martial arts is "backwards and fire for a roundhouse kick on Way of the Exploding Fist".
Battles last around 5 minutes, after which people will be bruised and breathless, unless someone has watched Van Damme's Bloodsport, in which case noses will generally be broken.

Chris Ellis was an unfortunate boy who looked like a frog. Imagine our joy when he claimed to be a pixie, and that if he sat still and quiet he was invisible. Saved us from digging his grave for him.

The name of our victorious sixth form five-a-side team. The gutless teachers changed it to "The Beard Brothers" when our triumph was announced in assembly.
Now, for some reason I've always thought that this modified title implied that we took to the field with our arsecress braided to that of other team members, creating a monstrous pentagon of hairy bottoms.
This would have been quite an achievement, perhaps an even greater one than merely plaiting one's own anal beard and subsequently beating all comers at five-a-side football.

In my third year at school, our PE block was found to have asbestos in the roof. This meant that while it was being removed, all indoor PE lessons were conducted in the assembly hall instead of the larger PE halls. Downsizing from two PE halls to one hall also meant that, for the first time, girls and boys shared indoor PE lessons. In the interests of sexual alienation, the teachers kept the boys on one side playing table tennis, and the girls did gymnastics on the other side. There was a girl in my tutor group that had a glass eye. Mass amusement by public ridicule is the 'in' thing, so my mate zips off to get a felt pen from his bag and on his return we start drawing pupils and lashes on our ping-pong balls. See where this is going? To cut a growing story short, he screams out that her eye's come loose as we hurl the plastic balls at her and her mates. She starts crying, PE gets dispanded and I end up with a letter home. Cruel and pretty evil, but I still can't watch Columbo without laughing.

Most young adults would have grown out of playing with Plasticene, but it had a brief renaissance for all of one afternoon in 3rd year juniors.
This was when we decided to make explicitly detailed models of Steven Williams' mum having it off with a big black man.

One day there were not enough chairs in the music room, so Daljit Kaur was told to sit at the piano. As the lesson began, Trevor Woodfield shouted, "Play it again, Dalj!". To Daljit's chagrin, other music lovers followed suit, urging him to "play it again" at regular intervals throughout the lesson. When the bell rang for English, the reluctant pianist ran to West Indian teacher Mrs Sutherland and falsely accused us of calling her a "black bastard". Mrs Sutherland gave us all detention. Racist.

Ask the victim whether they like Playboy or Playgirl?
Boys will generally reply “er, Playgirl... I mean Playboy”. Cue much laughter as you loudly repeat their first answer for anyone in earshot whilst jumping up and down and pointing.

An elderly referee's desperate appeal for calm after a game of inter-school football amongst nine year olds became a no-holds-barred violence extravaganza.
Players PLEASE! subsequently became the standard response made by anyone kicked in the bollocks, always resulting in both kicker and kickee laughing together mannishly.

I fell ill with meningitis shortly before end of term one summer, the treatment of which left me profoundly deaf. I returned to the same school the following term fully expecting to have become a social leper, shunned and ridiculed by my prepubescent peers. However, much to my relief, I wasn't.

As much as I'd like to claim it was because I had surprisingly understanding and tolerant friends, it's probably more to do with the fact I taught everyone to finger spell various obscenities and, eventually, full-blown derogatory phrases in BSL. These words and phrases would be repeated with glee under the noses of the teachers.

Any respect and admiration built up over the next two years evaporated when I became one of the country's first recipients of a Cochlear Implant, and the playground soon rang with delighted cries of "Richard's got a COCK IN HIS EAR!"

And the cruel thing was I could actually hear them again.

Remove the cap from a whiteboard marker, then light the ink-sodden tip. This creates a slow burning wick than can be hurled into the open sunroof of the headmistress’ car, gutting the interior. Alternately, throw at walls, ceilings, or animals.

The way porn mags circulated at school was interesting. At the age of 12, the only way to see a porn mag was if a friend sold it to you. The same battered copy of Escort would be sold to one person for £1, then a week later sold to someone else, occasionally for a profit, and occasionally with the reader's favourite picture removed. And so on; until the same old Escort had half its pages missing, all its remaining pages stuck together, and sold for about £8.50.

Find a friendly neighbourhood cat and firmly cradle it, as if you're going to be nice. Then turn it upside down so it is facing out in the opposite direction to you. Then pop it's tail in your mouth and gently at first bite down; then bite harder until you notice a correlation between the firmness of the bite and the pitch of the cat's wailing.

During breaktime, collect a few large stones. Inform a peer that you are about to have a shit in the pond, then drop the stones behind your back, slightly squatting, making ever-increasingly tortured straining noises before each is released. When boredom sets it, try using different, larger and more irregular objects, or better still, perform to the girls.

'Plucks' are free punches which were earned after someone has farted. The first person to smell the travesty says 'pluck' as many times as possible before the farter can say 'no pluck, no revenge' - in Geordie 'ney pluck ney revenge'. The number of plucks said beforehand become the number of free punches to be claimed. The temptation to not admit your fart at all was compelling. Declaring 'ney pluck ney revenge' as soon as you fart allows you freedom to waft it around for all to enjoy.

The bullies of Leicestershire appear to be slightly more poetic than their Derbyshire brethren. One child approached me, and said;
"Look into my eyes..."
His eyes, like Kaa the Python from the Jungle Book, whispered Trust In Me... then he slammed his knee into my tender sweetbreads, and said;
"Your balls are paralysed.".
In Derbyshire you'd just get a good kicking. Twice. Fucking Leicester fops.

I spent a lot of time making a poison pen letter to insult my ex-friend, even assembling the note from cut-out letters from the newspaper like they do on Miami Vice. Once I had posted it to my victim's house, it only took ten minutes for me to be caught, slapped round the head and made to apologize. Perhaps I shouldn't have waved to her mum as I posted the letter through the front door.
Anyway, my best friend made me do it.

Take a Jammy Dodger biscuit, put it on the edge of the table, whip out your dick, and take a polaroid of your member touching the biscuit.
Warning. This will not work with a regular camera because the lab will call the police and you will be arrested for fucking a nostalgic biscuit.
Take a packet of Jammy Dodgers into school. Offer them around, with assurance that they haven't been spat on. The second the biscuit is in their mouth, show them the Polaroid.
The photo is good for around three packets of Jammy Dodgers before word gets around that it's a joke. Or that you're the guy who puts his dick on Jammy Dodgers.

A term of abuse attached to any poor soul whose hormones were rapidly changing, causing the kind of rancid body odour that only teenage boys and tramps that sleep in humid climates can exude.

Polling is very much like posting, in that it includes slamming a child's balls against something unforgiving. However, polling takes place on the top deck of a bus, and rather than having one single "post", towards which all your energies are focussed, you have around ten metal "poles". This allows for a much more chaotic sense of potentially-endless bollock agony.

• Form a committee. Nominate a Pole Master and a Pole Greaser. All other committee members are muscle
• Block the stairs to the lower deck. The Pole Master shouts Grease The Pole!
• The Pole Master walks up the aisle, looking at each boy, smiling and rubbing the poles. His gaze falls upon the selected boy.
• At the same time, the Pole Greaser has been polishing the poles with a cloth - once the child is selected, he announces The Pole Is Greased, Master
• The selected is hoisted up, and has his bollocks slammed against the poles.

Acronym for pants off, legs open. A general term for a slapper.
Alternatively, penis out, legs open which is a general term for tediously drawn out foreplay.

A full packet of Polo mints had to be eaten outright, against the clock (ending with a mouth inspection for illegal residue). Crunching was the only stipulation with no full-mint gulping allowed, and the packet was usually split open length-ways to allow for quicker access beforehand. Manic chomping on a gobfull of brittle mint shards invariably resulted in lacerated gums, loss of fillings etc, but a small price to pay for a shot at the coveted title, last known to be held by David Crake at an impressive 21.3 seconds.

Part of Clarkes Shoes better-thought-out plan for world domination. Realised that children only wanted shoes on the basis that they were 'good for skidding' when it snowed. Looked like Cornish pasties for feet.

It is one thing to have the piss taken out of you by the other kids, it's quite another to have the piss taken by a teacher. Pontius Pilate was a nickname bestowed on one John Pennells by Mr. Young, the Head of Metalwork. Pennells earned this moniker by washing his hands every 5 minutes during Metalwork lessons. Young would further torment him by sending him on pointless errands such as "Go and fetch me a left-handed file" and John, being such a dick, would wash his hands and go look for one around the (quite large) Crafts block while the rest of the class laughed mockingly at him. If he felt himself get a little grubby during his search, he would pause to wash his hands before continuing his faux quest.
And of course when he realised that he was on a wild goose chase, he would stare darkly at all in the class, mutter under his breath.....and then wash his hands.
Fifteen years later and with the help of hindsight we recognise this behaviour as the start of Compulsive Obsessive Disorder that marked the start of John's descent into Clinical Depression and mild Schizophrenia, aren't you happy that our Teachers are such caring, perceptive professionals?

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.

An unsolveable enigma, a confounding mystery a poo conundrum. Based on a time when an orderly queue of some twenty or so pupils had formed outside our boys’ toilets, eager to steal a glimpse of the wonder within. Somebody or something had somehow managed to deposit a spectacularly healthy looking stool, right at the absolute, trigonometrically-perfect-epicentre of the large tiled floor. This wondrous turd-column was 10 metres away from any wall, appeared to have suffered no impact-collapse from its deposition on the floor and was unaccompanied by wee-wee or any other form of calling cards. The party responsible was never found. After weeks of analysis we failed to identify anyone bright enough to work out the maths involved, or, thoughtful enough to have carried out such a needlessly well-considered act of dirty genius. It was a poo conundrum.

If you've found a dog poo on the way home from school, but are bored of the Poo Game", why not go solo and bedazzle your friends with a flamboyant "poo dance"?
Based on the (pooless) Scottish sword dance, the protagonist cavorts above the poo to the strains of a pretend bagpipe. Points are awarded for technical complexity and how close the Clarks goes to the poo without touching it.
The game ends when the Dancer either stands in the poo or gets bored and, if it is a dry poo, kicks it at a spectator.

Walking home from school with your mates? Found a nice, fresh dog poo? The conditions are perfect, so why not play the Poo Game?
Stand face to face with your mate, the poo between you, and link hands over the poo in a soldier's grip. The name of the game is to push and pull your mate until he steps in the poo.
Simple, effective, entertaining. Best practiced when your mate is wearing new shoes with good, deep treads.

When I was seven my best friend, Daniel, boasted the ability to tell you just by looking at a person the exact colouration of their poo. The girls in the upper juniors, for instance, produced yellow sloppy poo, and one boy's poo was described as being exactly like the underside of Daniel's tongue. One of the girls in our class provided proof that not all girls' poo was yellow, constantly inviting us as she did into the toilet to examine her poo, which if I remember correctly resembled rabbit droppings.

One day someone pooed in the lower school boys drinks fountain. I vaguely remember there being a boys only assembley in which we were tole not to do this. Thats it. Oh - no it isn't - someone pooed in the bath twice while I was at university. Shapely 10 inch logs they were.

An amusing but dangerous game. Placing a firm but internally succulent poo on a stick, run headlong at someone direction, with the shitty end of the stick as far away from you as possible, shouting "eeuugghh poo on a stick!!!!!" Alternatively, just firing it at some unsuspecting passer-by with absolutely no warning. Then shout "poo on a stick", to let them know what happened.

A grille-covered drain that was the terminus of a large-diameter grey plastic pipe outside the staff room.

Completely innocuous and unlikely to cause harm or even dirty your shoes, but having been given the nickname, being shoved into that deadly zone by an opportunistic fellow pupil would earn the unsuspecting victim many hours of bewildering taunting for having breached the "Poo Pot".

Possibly speculated to be the source of the "fleas" that everyone was so terrified of inheriting by any kind of glancing contact with the wrong sort of person (girls).

Back in the ealy 1970's at Borough Green CP in Kent, the toilet block was separate from the main school, with lads and girls entering via doors at opposite ends. Inside the building was a partition wall to keep the boys and girls apart, but, inexplicably, it only reached to within a foot of the ceiling. This left a clear opportunity for scat-based mischief:
1) Help yourself to a lot - say 6 yards - of bog roll.
2) Fold it over a couple of times so that it forms a thick, 18 inch long strip.
3) Use your arse cheeks to hold it in place hanging above the water in the bowl as you drop off a steamy bob into the waiting dung 'hammock'.
4) Gather the two ends that have been sandwiched between your buttocks and the bog seat and, in a David and Goliath stylee, sling your cack grenade over the top of the partition wall and into the girls' side.
5) Listen for screaming and walk out, whistling and with your hands in your pockets.
Considering how crap at lying 6 year olds are it is a miracle I got away with it.

In the case of an arse which has not been wiped to the full, flakes of poo-dust are jettisonned everytime one farts. An inference of gayness can be made by the suggestion of white poo-dust. For example - "Is that dandruff on your jumper, Richard, or has your dad been farting on you again?"

A game played by myself and Greg Sullivan at primary school. The premise of the game was that we ran a hotel built entirely out of poo. (Imaginary) guests would come and stay, and we would try and ensure that they never realised the true nature of the hotel. It wasn't just the walls etc that were excretal in origin, however - hilariously, the menu was mainly made up of such delicacies as "burnt sausages" and "lemonade". We also offered a fine range of after dinner cigars.
In retrospect, it's hard to escape the suspicion that the entire game was a a flimsy bolt-on to a rather poor pun - but it still kept us out of trouble. Readers may also be interested to know that as a mature(-ish) adult I harbour no cloacal tendancies and that this was obviously "just a phase".

The hand action required when shooting at basketball, according to one of our P.E. teachers. A flap of the wrist in the well-known 'hello sailor' style.
This is what would happen if they let them in the Army.

This was a road sign supported by two pillars straddling the pavement just outside the school entrance. Any person who inadvertently walked between the pillars was destined to lifelong homosexuality unless they could retrace their steps within three seconds. If walking this stretch of pavement with a friend, one would attempt to engage them in protracted and intense conversation for the time it took for them to both walk through the lifestyle changing portal and for the effects to become irreversible. One could then loudly draw the unsuspecting fellow's attention to his new love of musical theatre.

The large, hairy birthmark of Mark Pooley. Also had a theme tune, which I can't remember. So that's useful.
(I bet it rhymed garden with hard-on, though. If it didn't, you had no place making up theme tunes about portable gardens - Log)

A game devised at primary school which entailed standing on a step and making a fart noise, then jumping off. So simple but so much fun.

My first ever detention, year 4. What for? Dunking an apple in my chocolate milk. A strange, strange, reason to punish one so young.

Next, year 8, writing 'fuck' in an essay on pirates. Pirates DO say "Fuck"! Good examples are: 'fuckin land ahoy' and 'yarrrr me fucker.' and 'fuckin shiver me fuckin timbers.'
They. DO.

The fact that "plastic" rhymes with "spastic" led to some speculation that Scopers were made out of the stuff.

Half a pound of nuts and bolts,
Half a pound of plastic.
Stick them in the washing machine,
Out pops a spastic!

The single redeeming feature of this rhyme is the jubilant bursting out of the washing machine by the freshly manufactured spastic. You could almost imagine him with a rose between his teeth and jazz hands.

A form of torture that involves being restrained on the ground and having a sock covered big toe shoved up your arse.
Pop's Torture Support Group
This was inflicted on me several times by my older brothers. I'm writing about it here in the hope that someone will have experienced the same humiliation at some point in their infancy. Maybe we could, you know, talk about it.

After the pope's visit to Wales, our school got the altar. It was left on the school stage under a green tarpaulin, too holy and wondrous to be seen by irreligious children, who'd probably just write 'shit' on it.

One rainy playtime I snuck in and wrote 'shit' on it. I later panicked and returned to cover my crime. I changed it to look like 'ship'.

I lost sleep that night. The capital P at the end of ship was a dead giveaway of an converted t, and when the teachers found it they'd get the Pope back, and he'd proper bollock me.

Next day, I went back one last time and changed it to 'I love shiPs'. This put my mind at rest straight away - that's just the kind of thing the Pope would say. That drugged old cunt loves the ships.

Weeks later someone rearranged the plastic letters on the front of the altar, so they spelled out swear words instead of religious Latin. That Pope doesn't half leave some fucking cheap-arse altars behind him.

Swear words added in the editing process. Direct all Pope-bashing complaints to me, Log. PS your pontiff's a cunt and you secretly know it

A gay male. Possibly derived from the sphincter-loosening drug Amyl Nitrate, although possibly from the sound that we imagined bumsex made. 'Popping' was to insert the penis into another male's anus and thrust repeatedly. 'Poptastic' was never used, although I wish it had been.

Armistice is a big deal in some schools. At ours we all had to wear poppies. We spruced up the traditional red poppies with Smash Hits cut outs, paisley, tartan and check material etc etc and got the sixth formers to flog them from the tuck shop. The headmaster was livid, but impotent as poppy day collection had quadrupled from previous years. Not funny, but true.

At the given command of 'porn break' which must be loud enough for the all members of the class to hear. As many people as they dared stood up at their desks and re-enacted the movements of their favourite porno flick (by themselves, no homo porno was allowed). Props were allowed including chairs, tables, cupboards, bins and board rubbers. This went on for a maximum of five seconds, when everyone sat down and carried on working in complete silence as if nothing had ever happened.

Half the fun was the expression on the teachers faces, where you could see 'did that just actually happen?'. Most of the hard pressed staff chose to ignore it. Until Russell, a genius playground terrorist, took it too far and ran up to a French teacher during a porn break, and pretended that she was giving him a blowjob, then fucking her, then he bent over in an act that, I can only guess, was her rimming his arse. We all paused, mid-pump and gaped in awe and respect.

Anyone could initiate a 'porn break' but there was substantial risk of being called a 'gayer' for those who refused to take part. They do so by giving the command 'porn break,' which must be loud enough for the all members of the class to hear.
As many people as they dared stood up at their desks and re-enacted the movements of their favourite porno flick (by themselves, no homo porno was allowed). This may have envolved getting oral, doing anal, straight, the 'wheelbarrow' or any other sordid image we could conjur up. Props were allowed including chairs, tables, cuboards, bins and board rubbers.
This went on for a maximum of five seconds, when everyone sat down and carried on working in complete silence as if nothing had ever happened.
Half the fun was the expression on the teachers faces, where you could see 'did that just actually happen?'. Most of the hard pressed staff chose to ignore it. Until Russell, a genius playground terrorist, took it too far and ran up to a French teacher during a porn break, and pretended that she was giving him a blowjob, then fucking her, then he bent over in an act I can only guess, that she was rimming his arse. We all paused, mid-pump and gaped in awe and respect. We quietly sat down as Russell was dragged from the room by the scarlet faced teacher.
Porn breaks dwindled away after that, Russell was the undisputed king and in that summer of 1992 he became a hero for a brief time. Until he got suspended for making hoax IRA bomb threats to the staff room....but that's another story.

The mythical nymph that delivers crumpled and stained pornography to pubescent boys. The Porn Fairy leads its followers on a wild and wonderous treasure hunt, hiding its bounty of slightly soiled jazz mags in hedges along secluded country lanes, in dark alleyways at the back of the corner store, and, for some reason, in the park by my mate's house.

After a while, you develop a killer instinct for tracking down the Fairy's wares, and swoop like a hawk on any stray pieces of coloured paper that catch your eye. This often lasts into adulthood, resulting in fully-grown men who can't pass a bin without a quick rummage, and who will vault over fences and chase through fields after that distant piece of glossy that invariably turns out to be nothing more than a discarded Sunday Mirror magazine.

MUTINOUS ENTRY-CRASH FROM AN EDITOR: Seriously dude, Porn Fairy? Are we going to have entries for White Dog Poo and Spangles reminiscences? There’s a fine line between whimsical memory jogging and tired out old stand-up routines that are such lazy comedy cliches they have in themselves become lazy comedy cliches. What next- "Was Mr. Benn gay?" "Is it me or were Cadburys Crème Eggs a lot bigger when we were kids?" JESUS. Log and Phil, my fellow eds, I’m looking at you in a tutting type way.

A nickname I earned thanks to my sterling efforts to stay one step ahead of the IT department, and ensure that all pupils got to look at boobs on the newly installed computers.

My budding porn empire came crashing down when I was confronted by a PE teacher holding a print-out of a picture of a lady pleasuring herself with a cucumber, and the question "is this your mum?"

Being 'Posh Pete' for speaking with received pronunciation at a school of thick Nottinghamshire accents became even less pleasurable when the Spice Girls occurred in the late 90s. I can only agree with the bullies who beat me up for being 'Posh', and a girl and gay as a consequence.
Sharing this epithet remains, to this day, the only thing I have in common with Victoria Beckham, as unfortunately, I have never sucked her husband's cock.

A torture often inflicted for minor infractions of playground rule, such as not being popular. The unlucky victim is held by the legs by two people, who then run as fast as they can towards a suitable post (usually a goal post, hence the name, but occasionally a tree, fence, etc). The two draggers run either side of the post, causing massive testicular damage to the dragee.

At my school, posting was perfected to achieve a more painful end. The 'postee' was carried by four 'posters' so more speed could be developed, and was posted face down into one of the thick wooden struts which support cricket sightscreens. These, for those not in the know, slope downwards at approximately 45 degrees, thus ensuring maximum contact twixt post and genitalia.

A variant on standard posting which would involve grabbing your victim's legs (boys only) while they were astride some section of climbing frame. You would then recruit as much help as possible (sometimes three pullers to one leg) and pull the victims legs towards you and hence crush his genitals against the climbing frame. The net result of all of this was that the boys never went on the climbing frames. This meant that the girls couldn't either because all of the boys would look up their skirts. As a result only minging boggers went on them.

15 year olds who have theoretically discovered Cannabis may smoke pot pourri, thinking that it could be a decorative form of pot. This echoes other sad attempts to get high, including dried banana skins and microwaved menthol Tunes. (G*les B*ckn*ll)

Two of our school slags would suck you off for one pound at lunch time. Sadly, they were in direct competition with the local chip shop, who offered curry and chips at the same price. No real competition; chips every time.

A game played at primary school, and a shocking parody of the life that was to await some of us in 4 or 5 years time. We'd take off our jackets and stuff them up our jumpers, pretending that the resulting bump meant we were heavily pregnant. The McGregors then walked around, hand on hip, complaining "Ooooh, my back's killing me" or "My ankles have swollen up". More mundane phrases would include "When's your's due, then? I've got two weeks yet."
The game came to a thrilling climax when the best McGregor, Naomi Smith, would proudly announce that her piles were playing up. We didn't know what piles were. I bet she does now, though. Ha.

Aged 11, Mr. Dobson decided that it was time the six boys in my class learned the facts of life. We were led into a separate room, whereupon Mr. Dobson turned a dark purple colour and announced "boys, over the next few years you'll experience a lot of changes."

We were then escorted back to class.

Any point on the human body which, when jabbed by the fingers of someone who has attended two Kung Fu classes, will cause collapse, haemorrhaging, and eventual death. This would be the typical itinerary of such a course; Dr Bodycount's Dark Dojo "Dead Men Don't Punch Back" Three Week Black Belt Course In Human Murder Week 1 : Introductions : Stances : Stretching Week 2 : Instant Death Spot : Refreshments Week 3 : Roundhouse kicks : Swords : Graduation

A sport for those very secure in their masculinity, or who simply don't give a fuck.
e.g. Sid Khan, who spent two terms making lunchtime passes at Robert Wilson, who never knew what the hell to do. Strangely, this game makes the victim seem gayer than the perpetrator, their inability to decide upon the best way to deal with the situation being interpreted as "actually thinking about it".
The only way to truly recover your heterosexuality is to punch the gay pretender, or to violently ram your penis up his anus until everyone knows the joke is over.

A game played on a quiet stretch of road, in which a child will lie down in the middle of the road, and await the reactions of drivers.
The judges hide behind a parked car or a low wall, and await results.
SCORING :
Posture : Creating the crazy-armed impression that your limbs are mangled will enhance your score greatly.
Sound Effects : Groaning, moaning, wailing, howling - all popular choices.
Speed of Oncoming Vehicle : obviously you get more points if there's squealing brakes, and the car stops with its front bumper over your forehead.
Reaction of Driver : Anger beats upset, unless they're really really upset, upset beats indifferent, indifferent beats joining-in laughter.
TWO THINGS, BARRY BERNDES :
1. Lie where you will be seen by the oncoming cars. Getting killed by the car is the equivalent of a 22 in Blackjack.
2. Don't wear your school uniform if it's easily identifiable, or there will be assemblies about it.
3. The Price Is Shite is a pun, and is therefore funny even if it has no relation to the game itself.

Teacher training days. This is where the teachers got rid of all the kids so they could play football in the corridors and "Beat Up McCann", a teacher we theorised as being less popular. Certian staff members also probably dressed in leather jackets and stole money from the lamer ones.

Duralex glass tumblers were widely used in UK Schools, so you could enjoy a glass of warm tap water with your school dinner. At the bottom of the glass could be found the word DURALEX, which is mysterious to a child because it has an "X" in it.
More importantly, there was a number at the bottom of the glass. This number was, quite simply, your age - for that dinner hour anyway.
The higher the number, the better. Being 2 or 3 was shameful, of course. However, being 89 was better than being 21 - a display of respecting your elders that would leave the doddering old cunts proud.

An actual excuse, as written on a late slip, for arriving half an hour late to school. I was on that bus, so I should know - it was we who had pushed him over the edge by ringing the bell every two and a quarter seconds and singing songs about vaginas.

A game. The 'psychoanalyst' would say a word and the 'patient' had to say the first thing they thought of after hearing it.

If the patient took more than two seconds to answer, the psychoanalyst got to punch them, for 'therapy'. Ideally, the patient, under pressure, would say something like fuck after the psychoanalyst said something like donkey.

Advanced form of the pube check. The 100m is run with the pubic hair tucked into the waistband of the shorts. Victory is forfeit if the pubes are not visible at the end of the race.

During secondary school I managed to convince my "friend" Chris Mckenna that bleeding out of your arse was the first sign of puberty and that everyone goes through it.
At first he was very doubtful of this, until the scale of this prank escalated, and after myself and half of the school year pestered and prodded him about him not bleeding out of his arse he finally succumbed to the immense peer pressure.
"So, Chris, you haven't bled out of your arse? That means you haven't started puberty yet. Are you sure??"
"Steven, I meant to say.... I HAVE bled out of my arse."
What a numpty.

Self explanatory nickname given to Emma Francis - a girl with too many hormones. To make matters worse, she had her first period in the canteen. Can't help being slightly jealous though - it took me another 7 years to acquire the same amount of facial hair.

A legal but distasteful rolled cigarette, made out of pubic hair and pubic hair alone. A boring day of revision at the school library. No teachers around. Andrew Hopley opens his flies, grabs the scissors, and cuts out a chunk of thatch. Rolls it into a piece of paper, borrows a lighter and tries to smoke it. Then the teacher came in. "Who's been playing with matches?" he asked. The teacher was standing on the still smouldering pubic spliff, that smelled - unsurprisingly - like burnt hair.

If Panksy Lane is where your mum lives, then Puddingbowl Lane is where you get your hair cut.

A short lived attempt by the sixth-formers to weed out the gayers in the school by putting up posters declaring Friday Pufti Day, and encouraging the boys to put on their best frock, bras, and suspenders. They were frustrated to discover that, despite the slipping standards of the school, nobody was actually that stupid.

Defecating into the pug mill (a device used to compress and recycle clay) will create an incredibly powerful stench, and create a substance not unlike clay from the nozzle. Unless the teacher has a genuinely filthy mind, the last thing s/he will think is that a child has gone bo-bos in the mill. The worst thing that will happen is a change of clay supplier. The last I heard of Dusty, our school's pug mill innovator, he was managing the bakery in Sainsbury's .

Standard, unimaginative retort to a threat of violence - "if you hit me, I'll hit you". "If you spit at me, I'll spit at you".
If someone is creeping up on you with a view to ripping the label out of your underwear, however, don't say "If you pull that off, I'll pull yours off".
If you did say that, hilarity would surely ensue.

A convenient label, incorporated into clothing, that the wearer is a poof under medical attention.

One of those "You can't hurt me..." idiots, with a smooth spherical ginger head and terrible teeth, "Pumpkin" already had enough reasons to be bullied.
Then his family got involved.
After school one day Pumpkin was about to get into his mummy's car when he was tripped by a boy half his age. "Ha-ha! PUMP-KIN!" laughed most people alive at the time.
Indignant, his mother burst out of the car, stuck her chest out and declared: "Yeah? Well I'm MRS Pumpkin!"

Pumpkin's look of "Fucks sake, Mum" coupled with the realisation of where Pumpkin's, well, pumpkin-ness came from, made for at least a term's worth of impressions and some great halloween costumes.

Mrs Baron was evil, vile and would rip you to shreds because the cleaners had knocked something over after you'd gone home.
One ingenious teaching method employed by this beast of a woman was as follows: instead of telling the class to be quiet, she would sit at her desk with her hand in the air in a type of Nazi salute. One by one the children would notice this and do the same. Her logic was that the last child to do it would be the child that was paying the least attention - and thus talking the most. Unfortunately, it could also mean that the child who wasn't acting like a member of the Hitler youth was actually getting on with their work.
Ironically Mrs Baron was barren. She left at the end of the school year to adopt a baby.

An unpopular female music teacher with dark hair one day appeared to have dyed it slightly purple. Todd Roylance, the perennial teacher-breaker, asked her why she had purple hair, to which she replied, "I walked under a purple cloud, and it rained!"
This pathetic attempt at a joke was met with howls of sarcastic laughter, and cries of "That's so funny, miss!", "You should be a comedian!", and possibly a simple, "You're shit, miss!". She left the room in tears.

A two handed nipple gripple. It should also be much harder than the nipple gripple, so that the nipples turn a gruesome shade of purple. The nipple gripple can be used for fun - the purple durple is for punishment only.

Irritable and ginger maths teacher Mr Duckworth had a PhD from some university or other. One day, whilst waiting for his arrival in class, Edward loudly informed us that PhD was an acronym for "Purple Helmet Duckworth". It was widely agreed that this was true.

To show who is supatuff, hold each others hands down and use a pencil eraser to burn a large skinless hole in your hand, by spinning the eraser back and forth as hard as possible on one spot of the top of your hands - like starting a fire with a stick.
Bonus round! While the wound was healing it would normally grow a bubble full of pus. Simply smack the bubbles of fellow supatuff pupils, and bathe in the yellow spatter.

Everyone has whiled away the odd hour or two at school trying to compile the definitive pussy thesaurus.

In my class, a piece of paper with the heading "PUSSY" was passed around for everyone to contribute to. Until it got to Ian, who wrote "cat".

Aged nine, a dirty girl in our school told me that when you were older, blood would come out of your gee and you would have a baby. This phenomenon was known as "Pyramids".