browsing the letter r

A particularly apt set of initials for a member of staff who was a particularly large arsehole.

I concur - and the fact that he acted like your best mate once you were in the sixth form didn't make up for the fact that he'd acted like a cunt in all the previous five. But I digress -- Phil

Lee Sylvester was 2 years above me at school, and clearly the school hard man. He demonstrated this by decapitating a rabbit and nailing its head by its ears to the school basketball hoop.
He took me to one side and showed me the rabbit's foot, making it form a fist by pulling on the tendon hanging out of the back.
I'd never spoken to him before - the fact that he showed me alone made me feel very special. Does this mean I'm a gayer?
Yes.

Alan brought his pet mouse into school in a plastic ice cream tub. Boys then skewered its regular supply of droppings onto sharp pencils and ran after more sensitive children, attempting to flick the wee beastie's shit onto them. A direct hit would lead to the victim solemnly being informed they now had rabies, and would, unfortunately, die foaming at the mouth when they got home. One particularly weak child got some in his eye - naturally meaning he now had super-rabies. He spent the rest of the day sobbing under a desk, waiting for the inevitable.

A simple variant on the classic humming game, that requires no self-control. Start a slow crescendo of humming, imitative of high performance motor vehicles, is performed by each member of the class whilst all is quiet. The race is approaching.
Once the teacher becomes aware of engine noises, students are free to roar with gay abandon, mimicking whichever vehicle they damn well please.

A totally non-PC game where somewhere's rubber is daubed with the union jack and the words BNP. For additional effect, the rubber can then be used as a stamp to accessorise exercise books.

A team effort requiring patience, a streaming cold and a strong stomach.

By coating a radiator with snot and phlegm and leaving it to bake hard, it is possible to 'grow', over the course of a few weeks, a material akin to snakeskin. Further prosthetic enhancements (especially ears and lips) can be made from the Hubba Bubba mountains on the undersides of the desks.

All you need to do then is find someone on whom to perform a unique makeover.

Only certain children are capable of achieving the rage. It is the state where you are empowered by two silver lines of snot running from your nose to your mouth. Once this bionic power feed is broken, the child will lose their powers and become sullen, sorry, and somewhat confused at the chaos that surrounds them.

Unpopular children who would come to school with bags full of sweets in a pathetic attempt to ingratiate themselves with the more popular, infinitely richer, and therefore fundamentally better kids.

Over all the streets and houses
Rain-bones flying high.
Shoot the little Cheese-man's children,
Kill them till they die.
Over all the streets and houses,
Rain-bones turned to green.
3-4 Methelyn-dioxy-
Meth-amphetamine.
Shall we go and Napalm Browntown,
With a chickens head?
Why has mr Tidmann got a small boy,
With him in his bed?
Mr Tidmann was an RE teacher, who had once said 'everyone goes through a homosexual phase. I know I have.'

Another of the mystical acts, such as felching, and squicking. Simply to clear the air, my understanding of a rainbow kiss is that the man gives the lady a mouthpiece when she is subscribing to the monthly rags. After a certain time, he rears up his head and kisses the lady, who doesn't appear to mind that she is being fed her own chewed up placenta. Why this is a rainbow kiss is somewhat confusing. Red, for the blood, obviously. Yellow, for the wee-wee. But green, purple, blue? I should be concerned.

Small multi-couloured puffed sugar rice. On sale at the breaktime tuck shop for 5p a bag. Contained enough E-Numbers to fell a mechanical horse. Guaranteed to induce raging spasms, violent behaviour, and epileptic fits in anyone fortunate enough to try some. And that's before you even get started on the name.

The most anti-climactic moment of a generation's primary school life. Everyone got the afternoon off to watch this momentous event on the TV in the assembly hall, and what emerged? A couple of planks of soggy wood. Everyone shuffled off home disappointed that the promised magnificent galleon and flagship of Henry VIII's war fleet had spectacularly failed to appear.

Recounted tale of a girl in a first school I didn't attend curling one off on a radiator. As you do, when there's no toilet near by.

Not a convincing reason why you shouldn't be sent to the headmaster's office for pointing a replica pistol at the caretaker. See also "don't push me, I'm muscley".

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

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

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

The unfortunately monikered Rammy was widely rumoured to take it "right up the batty hole" and so a song was composed to commemmorate this. The only lyrics were as follows:

Who takes it?
Rammy takes it,
Right up the batty hole.

This grew in popularity to such a level that impromptu renditions, often involving the entire class singing repeated verses in close harmony, became commonplace in most lessons.

The dance remix was inevitable, but still welcomed.

'B' block had three floors and two stairwells at either end ot the building. Although you couldn't get more than about three metres before hitting a right angle, you could - albeit briefly - slide down the bannisters.

One afternoon Richard Randall started his trademark descent from the top floor. Something clearly went awry, because instead of enjoying a few seconds of sliding bliss, he plummeted to the floor at bottom of the stairwell.

As a direct consequence of the event, slightly weedy looking 'safety bannisters' were welded onto all bannisters in the school, bringing their height to about 2 metres - far too high to slide down. These were immediately christened 'Randallbars'.

Most things at our schol are random. It dusnt even have to be that odd it will just be random its sorta one of those unwritten rules!

Perhaps based on the word “rapier”, I thought for some time that the term “rape” meant to attack someone with a knife. I rather foolishly enquired with a group of male friends whether or not we should go rape the girls.
(The image is only improved by the idea that Widdler was waving a knife around at the time… - Log)

The announcement that several thousand Mars bars had somehow been filled with rat poison would, in any normal town, have driven sales through the floor. Not here.
Kids were buying armfuls of the stodgy buggers,hoping to get one with that elusive blue biro cross that "proved" it had been injected with poison. Rumour had it that shopkeepers began to randomly mark Mars bars to sate the endless thirst for Work, Rest, and Death.
This led to a bizarre forms of playground bullying ever seen; a child would be forced by pogrom to consume a "tainted" Mars bar, after which he or she would be detained to allow the court to "observe the effects". Generally this would involve bad play-acting by the accused in a misguided attempt to make the court feel first guilty, then panicked, ideally summoning a teacher. Needless to say, this was wishful thinking, and the victim was "buried at sea" by hurling them bodily down a hill.
Nowadays we would be eating poisoned chocolate so we could sue for compensation. In 1986, we simply didn't have an excuse that good.

The practice of rolling up a towel diagonally, so it tapers to a fine point. This can then be used to whip people coming out of the shower.
I could never perfect the whipping action, which made it all the more surprising when I caught Francis Gotto on the end of his cock with an absolute corker of a flick. However, something (I presume a label from my towel) went flying off just as the crack (and subsequent howl of agony) happened. For a few horrid seconds I was convinced that I had literally whipped the top of his dick off like popping some sort of phallic champagne cork. Images of expulsion and/or prison rampaged unchecked through my head.
I never rat's tailed anybody again.

According to school rumour, womens' bits smelt of raw potato. This could never be disproved because the girls wouldn't let the boys check.
For the record, mine don't smell of potatoes, raw or otherwise, and these days, I'd be quite happy for you to pop round for a sniff. My address is: the remainder of this entry has been witheld.

After the title "God and Morality", simply write "...sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G". It worked for me.

When asked to read out loud, bear in mind that one of two scenarios will always prevail;

1. A child not making mistakes would be jabbed in the ribs with a ruler. This would make his voice break, allowing everyone to call him a girl.
2. A word would be seriously mispronounced (for example, the Christopher Frame Orange-Ootang incident). This word would become one's nickname for the foreseeable future.

A third, more dangerous path, was to add references to the last film you had seen into the book you were reading, largely by shouting "pyow, you're dead meat sucka" in the middle of Charlotte's Web.

There was a boy at my junior school who, if you stamped your foot in his general direction and went "Yargh", even at some considerable distance, would curl up into a ball on the floor with a look of sheer terror on his face.
Only now can I assume that he was being abused at home every night, and in fact I was contributing to an existence more miserable than I can ever dream of.
If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a victim.

Rectal Prolapse is the musical variant of the aforementioned Anal Fist Fuck. Instead of shouting louder and louder, the first player sings "Rectal Prolapse" in as low a tone as he can and holds the last note. The next player picks this up a few tones higher. The process continues until the full musical range of the group has been covered. On some occasions, this is musically quite pleasant.

An enterprising genius nicked a pot of the thick yellow indelible paint used to paint yellow lines on roads, and painted MR THOMAS IS A RED DOG'S KNOB in foot-high letters across the bridge in front of the school. From that day forward he was known as Red Dog. Or Le Chien Rouge if you did A level French. It's still there to this day.

(It’s the detail of "A level" French that does it for me. Hee hum. –Susan.)

Achieved by daubing a little tomato ketchup on the front of your grey trousers, and running your crotch into girls' faces. They might not get what's going on, so explain; say "I've got a red ender!"

Based on the TV series with the fat kid who couldn't climb over the wall. Playground-wise, however, Being part of the 'red-hand' gang was to have a sensitive part of your anatomy slapped with vicious force, to produce the 'red-hand' club insignia. As the marks wore off rapidly, some lower members were forced to renew their subscription every 5 minutes or so.

3-2-1 spoonerism that I cannot believe didn't occur to me when it may have been topical. Or funny.

A hard slap delivered, usually in P.E., to the back of the neck with an open hand. The victim quickly and uncontrollably puts their head back and shoulders up in a Deaconesque spasm, which only adds to their pain.

Apparently, if your balls hung low (and wobbled to and fro) you could swing them over your shoulder like one of these. I can't recall ever seeing any kind of soldier doing this - though I assume carelessly standing on a landmine could result in a similar effect.

As cars pass, you have to make an insult beginning with the three letters of the registration plate. The finest moment came with "YCE", where Adam Whitehouse instantly said "Your Cunt Echoes". Which was fairly excellent, considering.

Short for remedial, and therefore a common insult. Even the teachers used this one.

Extra mileage could be garnered by grasping the handles of an invisible motorbike and starting it up, as though on a cold day. "Remmm. Remmememem. REMemememEMEMEMEM (twist throttle) REEEEMMMM! Reeeeeeemmm, reeeeeemmmm, rerrrrmmmmm." And so on. This was not insulting the mentally ill, it was merely making motorbike noises near them. Even God would find it hard to spot the hidden sneer.

Hypothetical shop from which the really absurdly rotund female teachers get their dresses.

Being a member of Rescue Squadron involved swarming upon a small group of people in the playground and pushing them around a bit, then we'd all run off, spin around and shout 'Rescue Squadron'. This was us 'transforming'. When we'd totally transformed we'd run back to our original victims and pretend to rescue them from their attackers which usually involved jumping on them again but this time shouting 'Rescue Squadron!'. Eventually the year above formed 'Playground Patrol' to protect pupils from Rescue Squadron.

An aptly named game. A mob of 6 - 20 kids would gather round a solitary victim and then placing 1 hand on their shoulder it would be announced that "ressistance is useless" whereupon they would be lead to a 15 foot deep ditch in an isolated area of the yard and hurled in. The game was interesting as it became a deep test of character for the victim. Some would try to run, some would claw the ground and scream for help that never came, but others would riase their heads high and walk slowly and with dignity to the waiting abyss. This dignity was often accompanied by a round of applause from the mob, whose appreciation of mettle stopped just short of not throwing the person in the pit.

Each person playing this game has to address a figure of authority with a different position of respect. Say, a bus conductor is checking your tickets;
Thanks chief.
Cheers, boss.
Nice one, governor.
Nice work, squire.
Ta, er... Lance Corporal...
Um... At ease, Archbishop.
As you were, Mayor?

Resusci-Annie was an unpleasant tasting plastic torso. When it rained during PE, we were made to practice resuscitation techniques upon her. Eventually, the congealed spittle of a thousand children made her go mouldy and she was deposited in a skip. And there it should have ended. We staged a rescue mission. Dressed in cast-off uniform from Lost Property, Annie looked uncommonly like a first former, and we took full advantage of this by placing her in bins with one corpse-like arm poking out of the top, hiding her in lockers and so forth. Her final appearance came when she was hanged by her little plastic neck from a tree by the First XII hockey pitch. A nervous Biology teacher fainted and Annie was subsequently incinerated. It was only by the narrowest of margins that we escaped the same fate.

High School. Lunch.

Phil and Charlie, both retarded, are taking turns jumping on a wooden bench. Phil then flips out and jumps on the bench non-stop until the slats splinter.

Charlie shrieks and then turns to Phil: "Phillip, I told we should not play Fall Guy."

Phil turns to me and points menacingly: "Don't tell nobody I did that."

They both scamper away.

Dr Poo's primary mode of travelling through space and time.

A tense and exciting game where the kid with a well-known peanut allergy would be pinned against a wall and force-fed 'Revels' one by one (statistically, one in five of which would contain a peanut). A standard get-out for the victim involved him pretending to have consumed a peanut and falling to the floor in mock-spasms clutching his throat, thus rendering the game over. Ultimately, however, this 'cry wolf' strategy backfired when he actually did swallow a peanut and alarm was only raised when he hadn't got up ten minutes later.

The AK-47 in the arse-nal of the phantom shitter, the Reverse Dougan involves squatting on the bog the wrong way round, facing the cistern. Your brahn baby will curl nicely on the gentle slope at the front of the bowl, and will sit there earnestly waiting for the next person to use the facilities. Flushing, naturally, is verboten.

Richard Stock reckoned he was the hardest kid in our school. He also reckoned he could do a shit, and that before it broke off, he could suck it back into his arse. Turned out he was wrong.

Squatting naked before a circle of encouraging adolescent boys, he parted his buttocks with both hands and duly delivered an inch of log from his dilated anus. So far so good, but before his piece de resistance could ensure his legendary status, an involuntary spasm prematurely snipped the turd.

An gasp swept through the crowd. It was like watching a high-wire walker sway from side to side. A high-wire walker whose arsecheeks were festooned with bob.

He was forced to waddle from the changing room to the toilet, to wipe his chuff. He returned clutching a ball of toilet paper, atop of which was a solid lump of shit. Sensing he had face to regain, he planted the stool to the forehead of James Turner, the computer-liking type who had been trying to get changed without getting involved.

Turner's reaction of disbelief at this squalid turn of events inpired instant remorse from Richard, who offered "I'm sorry James, that was too far. You know I'd stand up for you if I ever saw you in trouble."

Like, if someone had daubed your face with shit.

Natalie Nicholson did a poo How many dollops did she do? 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9" etc...

A boy who played football on his own, all play and lunchtimes, with an invisible ball. It was always Liverpool against Stoke, he was always scoring for Liverpool and then celebrating VERY loudly as they won the FA Cup, again.

Casual insults hurled at those children who were pigeon toed. Those whose feet were only mildly inward pointing were dubbed 'Ricky', short for 'rickets'(the condition caused by not eating enough yam flavoured sailors); the more severely afflicted were called 'Nobby', after the rhyming slang for haemorroids (Nobby Stiles: piles). Evidently, the child's imagined bumgrapes were so massive, that the only relief to be had was to walk around with his buttocks as far apart as possible, resulting in that unmistakable 'Elvis Costello' stagger.
[picture: d758203sn18.jpg]

The most basic form of retort to an insult, taking its name from the following exchange during cross country:
Me: God, you really are crap.
Ridley: No, you're crap.
Just less imaginative than "what you say is what you are".

Otherwise known as Catch-22 579268b.
Approach a male friend, and make him agree, for the purpose of this conversation to use the phrase "Right On!" to signify "Yes", and to use its logical opposite, "Right Off", to mean "No".
Next, ask a series of fairly benign yes/no questions, for example:
1/ "Is your name [their name]?"
2/ "Have you ever got in trouble with the headteacher?"
3/ "Have you ever kissed a girl/[insert girls name]?"
Finally, ask "have you ever pulled a boy's willy off?"

One of the boy's in the year above mine once tried to fend off the arse of a very flabby fourth year which was being pushed towards his face. Apparently his right index finger disappeared well below the knuckle. He was henceforth known as "ringer" or "ring-a-ding-ding".

In my youth I had a knack for starting daft crazes. My two favourites were:
1. Object Breaking: This consisted of breaking pencils with your head; starting with one, and steadily increasing the number of pencils until you couldn't break any more. This craze ended abruptly when one young protege rendered himself unconcious attempting to break a thick piece of plywood stolen from wood tech.

2. Noseology: The study of how far an object can be inserted up one's nose. The most popular items were Lego bricks, which were removed on every occasion by the school nurse with a pair of tweezers. In attempting to put my school mates to shame I managed to trap a kidney bean in my sinus which my sister informed me would grow into my brain and slowly kill me. Luckily, I sneezed it out a few days later. PHEW!

The art of jumping into someone's back when they weren't looking. However, soon after the point of take off (approx 3-4 feet away from the target), the 'riser' was required to turn 180 degrees, sticking out his backside as he did, with the intention of planting it firmly between the shoulder blades of the recipient.

Correctly executed, the initial stages of the riser bear a remarkable similarilty to the approach of the High Jump, with its curved run up and hilariously elongated stride.

Noone got hurt until one day someone inadvertently bent down to pick something up, and Simon Gotch broke his wrist. We were all more careful after that. Well, a bit.

During English, Mr. Shaw was distracted from teaching us Shakespeare long enough to tell us about his fierce hatred of all rodent-kind, particularly squirrels. "Little plague-rats with fluffy tails," he proclaimed darkly. The next day, Kristin brought in a somewhat larger-than-life plastic facsimile of a squirrel, which was immediately christened Roadkill, and given pride of place at the front of the classroom. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Shaw instituted the practice of leaving small gifts (pencils, jewellery, money, sweets etc.) on Roadkill's 'altar', which was mandatory before every test 'if we wanted a good grade'. Songs and psalms were soon to follow. So whenever anyone tells me a depressing anecdote, I can usually top it with 'my English teacher forced me to worship a squirrel.'

How Mr Shaw got from hating squirrels to worshipping the infernal beasts as his masters will presumably never be known - Conor

[picture: roamer.gif]
An educational grey dome with wheels, that boasted a thrilling array of colourful buttons. Basically, a Big Trak that couldn't carry apples or make "pew pew" sounds at a bemused dog.

[video on youtube]

Was never quite well-known enough to form the basis of the following conversation to wind up travellers:

"I'm from the Roma community"
"Oh cool! Where are your gaily coloured educational buttons?"
"No, Romani"
"Don't be silly, Roamers don't have knees"
"*sigh* I'm part of an Indo-Aryan people, traditionally normadic itenerants, living mostly in Europe"
"MUM THE ROBOTS TALKING WEIRD AGAIN"

Looking back, I'll always feel sorry for poor Robert Ryan. Always a reclusive, loner bully-magnet, he thought he was experiencing the worst of it when, aged 13, Pokemon cards were discovered in his jacket. He wasn't.
See, he chose to do accountancy - only so did every waster in the year. He happened to sit at a row of tables beside three girls - each one called Laura. All through the class, he'd hear the chant "Robbie is a Laura" sung by those in the back rows. Eventually, this worked it's way around the whole year and everywhere he went he was greated to the same chant. Someone even made an "I Am A Laura" badge, presented to him on his birthday in assembly.
Poor fella.

Replying to Robert's comment that our experiment was giving of a smell like apples, our Scottish chemistry teacher piped up, "Well, I wouldn't mind some of your apples, Robert!" This was greeted with a stunned silence.

Plastic ‘boomerangs’, in the shape of a T with a robot drawn on them, were popular at my school for a time, and were naively considered by the teachers to be harmless enough for indoor use. This craze went on for some weeks without incident, until one day when I watched Martin Bradshaw, in a manner not dissimilar to the ape who plays with the bones in 2001 – A Space Odyssey, looking first at his boomerang and then at the back of Gareth Gurd's head. A hefty throw and the crack of impact followed, and then the madness affected us all. Before long, the floor was littered with the crying and injured.

The boomerangs were banned that day, and the craze was swiftly replaced by football stickers. Martin tried his best to hurt Gareth with these, but sadly failed.

A popular experiment in rocket ballistics

Apparatus
Lab stool (with hole seat for easy lifting)
Ruler
Pyrex beaker / test tube
Any two chemicals
Method

• Inform classmate you are going to demonstrate 'rocket science'.
• Seat classmate on lab stool at desk.
• Place chemical in beaker.
• Count down from 10 as you prepare to add second chemical.
• On 'zero', accomplice jabs ruler upwards through hole in lab stool.

Result
We have lift off.

Derived from the true-life Rocky Mountain spotted fever. Basically a game of tag where you simply smacked someone and yelled, "You've got Rocky Mountain Fart Fever!" I invented it as a one-off joke, and was gratified when the fever spread throughout the class for an entire recess.

With a head composed of my middle finger and legs forged from the other four (yes, that's counting the thumb, you pedants), Roger the Dinosaur was the absolute smash of Bronte School's Class 6S... until it was bettered when Mark Anderson offered to chew ink cartridges for 20p. A feat which I have still not been able to top, ten years on.

Gommel was an insult meaning spastic. Rommel was a German general. Gecochtes Ei is German for Boiled Egg. "Rommel the Gommel and his Gecochtes Ei" is just... funny.

Dada-ist alteration of the phrase "Front Windows Do Not Open", as seen on the top deck of the school bus.

This possibly belongs more in, or may even have been lifted directly from, Roger's Profanisaurus, but it's still a good phrase for pissflaps.

A short-lived obsession at high school was the fear of Dalek invasion, and so we set out to identify the one Dalek-proof room in the school. Worryingly, the school was built on a slope, and so there was Dalek access through ground level doors on every floor.

However, we soon found a safe room, which was half way up the main flight of stairs, and therefore inaccessible to Daleks. Ironically enough, this was the room that had been allocated to the disabled students.

My discovery was that the friction caused by climbing ropes in the school gym was rather pleasurable, giving you that extra incentive to climb all the way to the top, even though your arms are about to wither and drop off. Unfortunately it all ended in tragedy one day when I actually orgasmed and ejaculated all over my PE shorts. Changing back into school uniform was a delicate operation that day.

Rosie and her brother, James, lived on a farm on the outskirts of a village near Derby. The school bus took us past their farm each day, a collection of ramshackle, rusting, corrugated iron sheds, some of which fell over if the weather was bad.
Because of their ethnic origin, it was widely acknowledged that the sheds were in this state because Rosie, James and their parents ate too much curry; first year R.E. dictating anyone from India ate curry and first year biology dictating that eating curry led to guffs-a-plenty.
To keep Anglo/Indian diplomatic relations healthy, an enterprising group of us took to throwing our sandwiches out of the bus window as we passed the farm, figuring that Rosie and James' bowels needed all the normal food they could get. When Rosie, who at the time was too young to attend senior school, began to wait at the bottom of the drive when the bus went past, the rain of uneaten lunches turned into a downpour.
The sheds were still ramshackle, though, and when it was eventually pointed out that Rosie was actually waiting for her brother to get off the bus, the sandwich throwing stopped. Our generosity turned to anger and we just threw whatever came to hand - text books, eggs, and even water balloons were popular for a while, but no-one managed to top Kevin's inspired "Do-it-all Painting and Decorating Guide".
Looking back now, the most tear-jerking thing about the whole sorry story is that *everything* we threw from the bus would be gone the next day. Their farm might have been a shithole but those Indians certainly kept their drive clean.

The hypothetical slut-mother of Ross Foal that formed the basis of a year of South Park-esque abuse. This peaked with the presentation of a framed picture of Ross's Bitchy Mum to Ross himself. The next year the theme of the abuse was "why is Ross so deformed?"

Rough books had a more coarse, more absorbent, and ultimately chewier consistency, and were never intended for handing in. This made them perfect for putting in your mouth, gobbing onto your ruler, and flicking at whatever the fuck you like.

This involves walking up to a girl (one you've never met before) in front of your mates then you proceed to hold her shoulder and tell her she is the most repulsive person you've ever seen. After this, you hold on for as long as you can. The rougher she is, the harder it is, and the more enjoyable the ride.
Kudos comes from both the duration of the ride and the harshness of the insult.
(As adults, a sexier version of this game arises, in which you say someone else's name in bed while you're inside the sex hole. After that, see how long you can stay inside. However, it's worth remembering that having your cock in a non-consenting sex hole is tantalisingly close to rape)

A measure of distance, speed or power.
"I kicked the ball so hard it went round the world and hit you in the back of the head," and so forth.
Boasting that your cock is so big it encircles the globe is likely to backfire, as any pelvic thrusting on your part will lead to inadvertant penetration of your own arse.

Roy Bird was a fat, ugly smelly kid in our year, who defied all convention by not being treated with disgust. In fact, we was almost popular.
It was considered to be an honour if you were chosen to be Roy Bird's special helper. At dinner time, he would randomly select an individual from the group clamoured around him, by method of getting another group member to spin around, eyes closed and point to a person.
The winner got to accompany Roy in tasks such as aggravating the school retard, and collecting cigarette nubs from behind the 6th form block.
(Out of interest, Google Roy Bird, and you get... gasp! It's Fred West! A bit.)

1: After every question i ask, say "rubber balls and liquor."
2: okay.
1: What did you eat for breakfast?
2: Rubber balls and liquor.
1: What did eat for lunch?
2: Rubber balls and liquor.
1: What are you going to eat for dinner?
2: Rubber balls and liquor.
1: What are you going to do to your girlfriend tonight?
2: Rubber balls and liquor.
The idea of kid #2's having a girlfriend with a set of testicles, and kid #2's confession of rubbing and licking them proved to be an endless source of absurd merriment.

Write YES on one side of a rubber and NO on the other. Ask it a question, then flip it for the answer. Be wary, though, of what you ask, particularly the potentially devastating 'Am I gay?' If you get an answer in the affirmative, you are doomed forever. The rubber oracle never lies.

Mind you, if you are so sexually insecure as to feel the need to ask that particular question, you're probably gay anyway. Again, doomed.

Written on a white sticker and stuck on the front of drawers and filing cabinets in school. I think it was started by one of the German exchange students, but it carried on appearing for about a year. That's it. Simple but perfectly funny. I always liked the charming spelling.

Gym apparatus. Seven inch diameter doughnuts, made from inch thick foam-rubber. I can't remember any of the games they were used for, or why we ever got them out, but I do remember the comforting feel of one of the rings when you put it down the front of your shorts.

These are actually known as quoits. Women and attentive male heterosexuals will know that they are eerily reminiscent of the neck of the cervix. Or the neck of the cervix is eerily reminiscent of a quoit. Whichever. -Susan.

Quietly placing a rubber on a radiator at the beginning of the lesson will create a creeping junkyard stench. By the time it reaches the front of the class and the teacher, fellow pupils will have been chuckling and retching for minutes. By the time the teacher does become aware of it, the room is full of stank, and there's nothing anyone can do.

Based on a Department of Health advert in New Zealand, where a mentally handicapped child sits on a swing, rubbing his eye, and suffering from Rubella. Thereby, any evidence of one element (stupidity, rubbing eye, having rubella) would be met with the other two. For instance, if someone gets a basic question wrong (what is one times one), you rub your eye and shout rubella at them.
Conversely, if someone rubs their eye with their forefinger, it is a sign that they are stupid, and have rubella. If someone actually had rubella, presumably they'd be rubbing their eye and being retarded like in the advert, so we never bothered with that one.

The rules were simple: fill someone’s rucksack with as many random (preferably heavy) classroom objects as you can find, without them noticing. Then come the bell, person picks rucksack off desk, and collapses.
The game was quickly outlawed when a 4th year was almost crushed by a rucksack containing 6 bricks, assorted textbooks and a BBC Micro.

Three kids, Sharrock, Mytton, and Dutton, lived on the same street and (allegedly) had homosexual antics in Sharrock's shed. Apparently, an Action Man had entered an arse. This shed became the HQ of Rude Club - the only club that no fucker wanted to join.

A droll cartoon figure based on the classic textbook phallus. The testicles became the trademark chef's hat, while the tip of the penis served as the chef's legs.

Any phallus drawn on one's books or pencil-case could be rapidly and effortlessly transformed into a Rudey.

A beautifully poetic moment on a geography field trip to the Lake District. When one of the female teachers sat down on a rock for a little rest, her shorts happened to show a little more flesh than they should. One of the boys couldn't help but notice, and immediately told everyone: "Mrs Jones's got rugged flaps". A higher compliment there could barely be.

I'm not sure whether this has a name to it, but I remember licking the end of my ruler, then making someone else smell it. I suppose it could come under the title "Ruler smelling". Usually Helix rulers.

"Measuring" was a boring half-hour session at primary school, in which we had a worksheet that tasked us with tasks such as "Draw a line 1.5cm long".
Gary use his to measure his cock. Colin who, in hindsight was probably a gaylord, offered to help, and marked in green felt where it rose to.
When it came to measuring in the future, the ruler with the green felt tip at the 8cm mark was one to be avoided.

Harmless stories retold in school only need about two periods to change into nasty perverted rumours that win the hapless victim a year's worth of beatings. Let's study the following case;
Gareth and Joe walked to school together everyday. One day, Gareth told Joe that he felt sick because he had to share bath water with his brother. He had waited for his brother to get out, then got in himself and washed his face with the water, but his brother then told him he had done a piss in the bath.
Became;
Gareth's brother pissed into the water in front of Gareth and then Gareth drank the water. Once.
Became;
Gaz lets his brother piss into his mouth. REGULARLY.
Became;
Gareth ALWAYS begs his brother to piss into his mouth, because he loves pissdrinking SO DAMN MUCH.
Became;
Gareth CONSTANTLY sucks his brother off in the bath. So much so, it's amazing he has time to come to school.
Became;
Joe having to go into hiding for the rest of that week, as Gareth tried to track him down to kick his teeth in.

Tim was a hugely fat geordie with hairy moles all over his face, and arrogant as fuck until we broke his spirit. He normally avoided PE as the idea of him doing any kind of physical activity was so blatantly farcical. On one occasion the PE teacher decided it would be good for him to play Rounders, and ordered him outside. As Tim lumbered between the posts, the teacher tried to encourage him with a shout of 'Run, Tim, Run!'. Whether the teacher was being kind or cruel, from then on, any running person, fat or otherwise, called Tim or not, was spurred on with a shout of 'Run, Tim, Run!'. As an aftermath to the games lesson we stole his trousers, and discovered to our delight that we could fit two ordinary-sized people into them. He walked home in his shorts.

Rupert was, comparatively, a fairly normal kid at my primary school. This changed drastically the day he threw a pair of skidmarked Y-fronts onto his neighbour's roof to avoid the embarrassment of his mum having to wash the poo out. He had left the name tag in and the throw had been quite naff. The neighbour spotted the pants on his roof, went up to retrieve them and brought them round to show his mum, who actually owned the village shop. Not sure whether that makes it any funnier, but she did. Word spread fast and Rupert became widely known, so much so that many who hadn't met him before thought his surname was Pants. "RUPERTPANTS" was always said as one word, in an American accent, with emphasis on the last vowel. Rupert would often turn red and go mental, especially when the songs began to be invented, the most noteworthy being (to the tune of Deutschland Uber Alles, I think) "Coughs and sneezes spread di-sea-ses, Put them in your rupertpants." ...and, to the tune of "Let's Dance" (as sung by Jive Bunny at the time), "Hey baby won't you take a chance / Just smell Rupert's underpants / And let's dance / da-da-da-da da da da-da-da/ Oh let's dance"

Two people take turns twatting each other's hands with the spine of a book. Loser must then present the English teacher with a copy of the heavily blood-stained GCSE text used. Origin of 'Russian' in game title unknown.