browsing the letter s

Silent But Deadly, a popular type of fart. Whilst in retrospect volume was never inversely proportional to the actual stench produced, it was generally accepted that the silent ones were the worst, as our elaborate pantomimes after inhalation would attest. Common remarks in the immediate aftermath almost always included, "He who smelt it, dealt it" (q.v.)
Steven Jackson developed quite a penchant for getting good lungfuls of the expelled air, and giving a considered and expert opinion on the quality. We always listened to his judgement.
(The reason this has popped up again seven years on is that the involved party has asked for his friend's name to be changed. We don't think anyone should be passed up for promotion based on their deep, fruity inhalation of other men's farts. But unfortunately we do not live in an ideal world.)

The 'Schools Christian Assembly Team' who toured Derby, and possibly elsewhere, in the late 80s.

On the night before his death, according to the Christian scriptures, Jesus consecrated bread, wine and chocolate and gave them to his disciples, saying "this is my body", "this is my blood" and "this is my poo-poo". He commanded his followers to repeat this rite in his memory, and the Poocharist traditionally involves consecration of bread, wine and Walnut Whips by the clergy and their consumption by worshippers.

In Roman Catholicism the Poocharist is a cackrament, and the bread, wine and chocolate are thought to become the actual body, blood and ploppies of Jesus through transubstantiation.
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Particularly vulgar and amusing variant on flashing by Greg, who would expose just his scrotum in public.
Sometimes this would be just casually doing normal stuff like, say, buying sweets at the shop with his scrotum hanging out of his flies as if he hadn't noticed, and sometimes it would be a full on run-up-to-the-granny-pull-the-old-sack-out-whilst-shouting-sack-attack-and-running-away-again routine. Endlessly hilarious and linked to several legendary tales.

A game involving a sharp pencil and extrasensory perception. Named, for some reason, after German worksheets of the same name.
Player A wields the pencil and thinks of a number between 1 and 10. Player B guesses the number. If B guesses correctly, the roles are reversed. If he guesses wrongly, A stabs him in the thigh with the pencil with a shout of "Sag Mal!" for being so fatuous as to suggest a wrong number. Over time you become spookily good at it. Or you end up with very sore thighs.

Improbable cash-in board game, linking ITV's top presenters with the true story of how the Spanish Armada foundered on the rocks around the coasts of Britain. Suprisingly, Mr Roberts deemed it of sufficient historical value that myself and Andre (its co-creators) were asked to play it on school open night in front of the bewildered parents of prospective pupils.

Our Home Economics teacher, Miss Munroe, would get the class to chant "salts and sugars are not nutritious" before the start of every lesson.
After school one evening, Miss Munroe was spied by Martin Jenkins gobbling off our sports teacher in the car-park of the local pub.
When she intoned her mantra in class the following day, Martin's reply of "what about the ones in Mr. Johnson's spunk, miss?" was enough to see her scream and run crying from the room. She didn't return to school.
A shame really, as we wanted to know if she'd gone against her own teachings by swallowing.

A speech synthesis programme on the Commodore 64 that provides me to this day with my comical "robot malfunction" voice. Oh, you should hear me. I'm such a one.

What may seem like a rubbish insult got me in a lot of trouble, because Sandra was a Jehova's Witness, as was the teacher in that class. Why they should be so sensitive about smelling like squirrels is beyond me; unless they, you know... bum them.

Liam Cornelius Kennelly, oblivious to the immaturities of his fellow 6th formers, loudly replied to Phill's claims that he was gay with the unforgettable line:

"Yeah, Phill, I'm really gay"

It was the addition of being "really" gay that made the admission even more shocking. Any gayness we had previously perceived in Liam was clearly only the tip of the gay iceberg.

I mean, even gay people don't admit to being "really" gay, unless they're taking part in some kind gay mating ritual of one-upmanship. Heh. One up man's shit.

The form of Satanism which consists of nothing more than memorizing the Lord's Prayer backwards and drawing pentagrams on our New English Bibles.

Has anyone ever come up with a satisfactory name for that paper device thing kids (girls mainly) made to do fortune telling? You'd fold the paper in a certain way to make a pyramid thing you could stick your fingers in. Then you'd approach your testee and ask them, say, their favourite colour. "B-L-U-E" you'd spell out and do something complicated with the paper. The paper thingum would now look a little like vulcan handfanny (q.v). The testee would pick a number from one of the flaps, lift the flap, and it would say something like "You love Luke Goss" or "Your tits smell."
If you have any idea what the fuck I'm blathering about, please write in. You are probably a girl and probably owned a mood ring when you were young.

Shower-time practice of stretching the scrotum out with both hands until it is perpendicular to the body, causing the genitals to resemble the titular item. Accompanied by a cry of "Sausage on a plate!!"
Most commonly seen in lunchtime rugby practise. Does not go down so well in french lessons.

The distinction between the French words "saucisson" and "saucissez", acording to the Tricolore books, is that one was a "continental" sausage. I have not heard this expression since I was eleven, and any requests for continental sausage in the Co-Op have met with a stony indifference. It did however, form the basis of a bilingual song; "continental sausage / continental sausage / continental sausage / je suis!"

Our German textbooks were narrated by a talking sausage. Enterprising young men - ie everyone - would draw a line across and a line down, ensuring German was taught to following years by a cock in lederhosen.

A slogan of the insufferable Paul Gittens, a smug little shit and would-be intellectual. He announced his cod-theory that atoms were made up of tapered, cylindrical sub-particles. Appropriately, he was bullied thoroughly, but this only seemed to bury him in ever more smarminess. There seemed like no way to break him. Eventually, we staged Save Our Tactons Day in which the slogan was chalked onto every available flat surface. He finally cried when someone threw a rugby ball at his head - an inspired irony given the ball's tapered, cylindrical shape.

"Say Red..." says someone.
"Red", you say innocently.
"You wet your bed!" they say to hoots of laughter.
"Say Blue..." they continue.
"Blue." you say, slightly suspicious this time...
"You done a poo!!!!!!"
GRRR! BUT YOU HAVE ONLY YOURSELF TO BLAME.

The more we said "moist" while she was talking, the more increasing was her frustration.
"I know what you're doing!" she told us.
So did we. We were saying "moist" at her.

A game devised in Year 11, and something of the antithesis of the more subtle game, "fuck". It basically involved going up to Mr. Stove, our Science teacher, and saying the word "fuck" to him.
e.g: "Sir, I'm not sure I understand this equation for measuring acceleration. Fuck."
or "Mr. Stove, can you tell Andrew to leave me alone? Fuck."
"Fuck" had to be said clearly, and could not be disguised in the middle of a sentence, or as part of another word. Not saying "fuck" once you had made your approach resulted in a beating. Mr Stove never reacted in anger. In fact, he hever gave any signs of giving the tiniest shit.

New pet adopted by Mrs Reeve's class following the sad demise of the elderly Bobby. Tragically killed on his first time out of the cage after being trodden on by promising ballerina Victoria Robinson.

For a role-play exercise in German class, the pupils had to stand in front of the class and display their new-found knowledge of airport vocabulary. After a short terrorist-and-bomb-style exchange, Sean Wensley and Michael Lancaster shouted "Schnell! Schell!" and ran out of the room. Sean never came back to the class. After that, we had no more role-plays.

A headline which appeared in our local paper following the announcement of the closure of our tiny catholic boy's school. The paper reported that the parent/teacher pressure group campaigning to keep the school open had spoken directly to the Pope, who was said to be 'gravely concerned' about the situation.
So concerned was the Pope, that he immediately cancelled all his pending engagements and flew to Droitwich Spa in his private jet, to jolly well give the local authorities what for.
Then the chairman of the pressure group woke up - and the cat was hungry.

A much maligned effort to encourage children to eat school dinners in the mid 90s was the 'School Dinners Are Cool Dinners' advertising regime. It didn't work. I got a T-shirt with the slogan on it which didn't fit my portly frame and thus was burnt and deposited in a corner of the music room.

In the grotty little Northern town where I had the misfortune to attend primary school, I formed my dislike of public urinals.
The Toilet building was outside the main school - making it a favoured excuse for leaving the classroom - and was clearly developed some time after Norman the Conker had finished with Robin of Sherwood or something. It had a small open area at what I guess would be 4ft high or so, directly above the urinal trough.
This was vaguely reminiscent of the arrowslits in a Castle; something which was not lost on the minds of the older boys, and walking past the building too close became a piss-soaking lottery for the unaware.
However, this was nothing compared to the risks of going inside when a novice was making their first attempt at glory...

A breed of civil servant who will look at a school with raw sewage on the playground thanks to overflowing drains, take into account the asbestos, make notes on their clipboards about the aging buildings that would disintegrate slightly in winds, nod sagely in response to the draughty prefabricated huts that had slowly replaced our regular classrooms, disappear forever and give the school a flying pass. In short, cunts.
"You'll never guess the rank shithole I passed today, dear."
"Oh do tell me dear, was it so very filthy?"
"Perfectly squalid! If the sewage doesn't kill them, the untreated asbestos will!"
"Ha ha! Oh, darling. I do wish we could go in there and kill them with our bare hands, though."
"Me too, my sweet. But until that day, we can only hope a roof tile stoves in one of the little bastards' heads."

In junior school I had a school medical where a man made me run round the gym naked. No one believes me and thinks it's some kind of strange fantasy, but it must be true as I remember dropping a mini skip and a jump in and no one fantasizes in that much detail.

Ashley had a misjudged belief that he could walk on water. We enjoyed many happy breaktimes watching his christ-like attempts to cross the pond, or "the scourge of all human nature" as he called it. It really makes you wonder, it really does.

Whilst on a school trip to the Lake District, an enterprising fellow, by the name of Speakman, took with him a cheap foil disposable barbacue (the sort you'd purchase at petrol stations), a pack of bacon, sausages, and bread. Speakman reasoned he could cook, and then sell bacon and sausage butties when we stopped for our lunch break, thereby generating a fine profit for himself. After getting the BBQ going, someone (who read the instructions on the discarded wrapper) informed the world in general that it would take an hour or so for the barbaque to reach a stage where food could be prepared on it. The gathered crowd (those with money to buy such things) quickly dispersed, causing much embarassment on Speakman's part and loud admonishment of the label-reader, which led to the disposal of the flaming BBQ, piled with bread, sausage and bacon into the lake we'd stopped by. Presumably he hoped he could dispose of the now unwanted stuff, and that would be an end to the affair. It wasn't, as the foil tray refused to sink, and drifted gracefully across the lake, merrily blazing and belching dark smoke, like a viking funeral for bacon and sausages.

A chap at my school (now training to be a circus ringmaster) went all-out to establish a reputation as the school weirdo. His antics included:

1. Performing impromtu hygiene services where he'd run up behind you, whip out a toothbrush and clean your teeth for as long as it took you to shake him off. All the while, he'd croon "I'm a doctor" in an American accent.

2. Putting his penis (which he'd named "Eugene") in a bap and parading around.

3. Producing a dead crow from his pants in an English lesson.

4. Being employed as a mercenary to kick people up the arse because it was highly likely he'd be in trouble at the end of the day anyway.

Andrew got bored during a physics lesson and decided to pretend to cut my other friend, Mario's ear with a crappy pair of orange scissors.
When Mario failed to respond to the stimulus, probably thinking "yawn - as if you would actually cut my ear with a pair of scissors", Andrew decided to squeeze a bit harder. To his dismay, the scissor blades actually met with a resounding click and a steady trickle of blood on to Mario's crisp white school shirt.
What I remember most was the look of 30% concern, 20% pain and 50% contempt on Mario's face changing suddenly to 100% concern when Andrew guiltily handed him a used tissue.

The Midlands is divided more or less equally between those of Northern origins who pronounce the popular tea-time snack scone so that it rhymes with 'gone', and soft Southern or social climbing types who rhyme it with 'bone'. In my final year of primary school this led to a schism as violent as that of the Crips/Bloods.
Forty kids racing towards me with a blood curdling howl of 'scooooowns!'
My best mate being forced to rhyme scone with bone at the top of his voice under torture and returning, his treachery never quite forgiven afterwards.
A ditch full of captured scowns with thousand yard stares, numbly awaiting their turn to be forced to utter the unthinkable word.
The headmaster even turned out to be a scown as he lectured both armies in assembly. The enmity over now, thank God, and I even regard one or two scowns as my friends.

A person with no pubic hair.

Probably a mis-heard and subsequently justified form of scoper. It's a person with a physical and mental illness, sat on a bus full of similar children. When the name was questioned, it transpired that the name was based on the lack of control over their arms, which were locked in a malevolent scooping shape, and moved up and down with great enthusiasm (a "chicken-winger").

Post-spastical name for people who were spastics before The Spastics Society changed their name in a bid to stop people calling spastics spastics. We didn't lose a word for spastic, we gained one. And it was scoper.

'Hilarious' variation on the classic, and in no way funny, game British Bulldogs. So called in deference to Craig 'Jock' Lawton. Interestingly, not stretched to Scottish Cow-Cats.

The first Gulf War prompted no moral discussion on the ethics of modern warfare. It did provide a sparkling new range of insults. Out went threatening to 'smack' someone and in came the terror-inducing 'I'll scud you in the eye', for example.

The 'exocet' shot was introduced to football, and everybody called Colin was re-christened Colon after Colon Powell.

Largely non-malicious game of obstruction and irritation. When someone is trying to get through a crowded seating area, and the seated people set about obstructing them as annoyingly as possible with their legs. This may not sound particularly harsh or amusing, but is surprisingly difficult to escape if the legs maintain a downward pressure. The combination of "walking through treacle" and "double gravity" can often lend a pleasing edge of panic to the victim's face. Endless repetition, as is so often the case, may result in tears. (cf doccer kill)

There is a common myth that seagulls explode if you feed them Alka Seltzer. <a href="http://www.snopes.com/weddings/horrors/birdrice.htm target="_blank">They don't.
However, it's such a cool urban legend that it has to be worth a try...

Mr Eade was (and presumably still is) a very camp, unmarried man. Rumours of his homosexuality are probably exagerrated - he always struck me as more of a serial boy rapist. Anyway, he taught history. The textbooks we used were by a man called Terry Seaman. A comedy name to be sure, and much mileage was gained from the authors unusual monicker. We used these books for three years, so after a while the hilarity sort of abated, if you know what I mean. One day though, just when we thought the Seaman had run dry, Mr Eade was covering a particulalry dull area of the Schlesweig-Holstein affair and, obviously acting under the divine influence of Our Lord Jesus Christ himself, a certain Pete Rogers cried out in frustration, "Oh Mr Eade! Its all covered in Seaman."

Having found myself waiting outside the headmaster's office for a menial crime, I became rather bored and decided it was a good opportunity to practice my Kung Fu kicks against his door. However, mid-kick, the headmaster opened it to find an 8 year old girl in an undeniably threatening pose.
He was so horrified that he sent me to stand outside the secretary's office, a punishment, I was told, that he had never before been forced to bestow upon any pupil. As it was, the secretary was a kind elderly lady named Mrs. Brooks, who put plasters on children's knees when they fell over. She made me some Ribena and then sent me back to class.

Alligator => Masturbator
Crododile => Peadophile
Other creatures in the "Goodbye, sweetheart" range include "In a minute, donkey's winnit", "See you soon, Ken Boon", "Au revoir, pig in a bra", and "Auf Wiedersehen, Hitler's brain".
Not to mention "Cheers, Deers", "Caio, Cow", and "B'Bye, F'fly".
I'm sorry, I took a fairly naff entry and made it three times worse. Oops - Log

There was always someone who decided that their life would be vastly improved by adopting a cool nickname of their choosing. The idea was that news of your new moniker would spread through the halls of the school, and by lunchtime everyone would know you by your new, cool nickname. The problem was that most people chose something lame like 'mad max' or 'LL Cool J.' Sigh.

We were subjected to school assemblies in which motivational speakers, usually fat, badly-dressed men, would badger us for an hour or two. One such speaker, this time a fat, badly-dressed woman, held up a piece of paper, and informed us that this was our self-esteem. She then proceeded to go through all the rotten things that were said to us (or, we suspected, her) in the course of the day.
"You're ugly."

"No, you can't sit with us."

"Jesus, you honk like a good'un, Cheryl."
With each insult, she would tear off a strip of paper. At the end of the day, evidently, one is left with a very small scrap of paper, or self-esteem.
It was common in the following week for children who had been insulted to pick up a piece of paper and rip it with a mock-sad face; that fat useless jabba had accidentally given children a decent defence to any insult.

Both the user name and the password used to gain access the school's most important files, the Powerpoint presentations for assembly. A few swift alterations later, Jack Petchy had sprouted mysterious nose penises and the award receiver was replaced with a picture of Mr T.

After the terrorist attacks, anyone who destroyed a paper aeroplane was referred to as a terrorist, and would be violently beaten. Also, hitting someone with a paper aeroplane became known as a 'September 11th' and if this happened, people would pretend to cry over the 'tragedy.'

This story contains the words "bucolic" and "boob-pinching" and caused the PL team to go for a little lie down. (Not with each other, don’t get funny.)

Sergeant Major was a game played by a lot of girls behind a garden shed in our bucolic playground in primary school. My friend, who invented the game, would always be the Sergeant Major, and another girl would be her Second-in-Command. Mostly the Second-in-Command would be played by a nice, docile girl who was kind to us, but occasionally the School Bully would take that role, which would add an extra frisson to the proceedings. The game was very simple and involved the Sergeant Major lining up the other girls against the shed and giving out small but curiously disturbing punishments such as boob-pinching and chinese burns if we didn’t stand up straight enough. It usually lasted all lunchtime because of our lax posture. Despite the oddness this was one of our favourite games. My friend who played the Sergeant Major also instigated Lesbian Day every other Friday.

A more extreme version of kiss chase which never existed at my school, although at the age of about eight, I unsuccessfully tried to convince my cousins it did.

In middle school we got to watch a tasteful and informative series of sex education videos with our pretty young teacher Mrs Wood. At the end of the first video, which we had sat and watched quietly without giggling or crying, she asked 'Now, are there any questions?'. One young boy stuck up his hand and in an earnest and fearful voice asked 'Miss, what's a rainbow kiss?'.

A game that was played with the bladder of a deceased leather football. The bladder itself was known as "The Sex King Ball Bags", and was adorned with a superabundance of graffiti.
The actual rules of the game were vague, to say the least. It was played in the tennis courts, and involved kicking a half-deflated football bladder around, with a valve sticking out of one side.

In Primary, the boys and girls loos were next to each other, separated by a wall. Me and a friend worked out a rythm of banging on the walls to the girls with our fists which meant we wanted to have sex with them. If they answered back with the correct return code, it was on. They never did get the return code correct.
One is left with the enduring image of a bunch of girls, standing in a toilet, listening with marked bemusement to the sounds of excited banging emenating from the boy's bathroom - Jamie.

I got my first stirrings when Mrs Ramsay bent over to cut a large sheet of sugar paper I was holding, and I got an unencumbered view of her tits down her top. I was 8. Later that year, sex was explained to me when I asked Lee Davies what he was referring to when he sang a song containing the lyrics '...And the hairs of her Dicky-Dido went down to her knees'.

At the time of the Teenage Mutant "Hero" Turtles (Psst, the BBC - we all called them Ninja Turtles anyway, you dicks), a variant of tag where instead of being it, you were 'Sexy Splinter'.

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This is a photo of Splinter. Sexy Splinter. Phwoar. Splinter.

The most gay child in the class is Sexy Sue. It is Sexy Sue's task to run around, trying to grab the penises of the other boys. However, you can defend yourself by beating Sexy Sue to a pulp.

Game based around a tree.
One person would be elected the 'puller' and the rest of us would grab hold of the tree trunk for dear lives. The puller would attempt to remove pupils one by one from holding onto the tree by sheer force and if you were removed you then became a second puller and were then employed in removing others from the tree. The winner was the last one to be left clinging onto the tree.
This game, however, died a rapid death after some of the older boys said we all looked like we were trying to shag the tree. It did too.

The inability of English teachers to explain how Shakespeare or Chaucer could possibly be useful reading material is matched only by the pupils' inability to explain, in terms that English teachers accept, why it isn't. An impossible situation that will continue as long as there is oil in the earth.

From New Zealand. Mock any embarrassing situation with the word “shaaaaaaame”, following by a stroking of the chin between thumb and forefinger.
Regional variations; “Shamola!”, where you rub the forefingers of either hand together, and oddly enough, in Wellington, of saying “TAAAAAAAAY!” and pulling a lower eyelid down.
(Shame in England can be accompanied by licking the finger and holding it to the shamed person's face. The heat of their embarrassment will cause the spit to "sizzle". Well, it won't, of course - that's why you have to shout "sizzle".

Lunchtime entertainment based as loosely as possible on the classic 80s arcade game Arkanoid.
Arkanoid was a posh version of Breakout, and involved moving a bat around to bounce a ball against some blocks.
Arkanoid didn't involve our class headcase chasing us around school trying to whack us around our shorts-trousered legs with a large ruler. This was known, unlike the game Arkanoid, which this doesn't resemble at all, as "crisping".
You were briefly immune from crisping when you stood on a desk. Arkanoid had no such safety zone. However, to maintain this safety, you had to jump from desk to desk, like in Donkey Kong. Not Arkanoid.

Pre-Feargal solo, but possibly not pre-Undertones. On Charity No-Tie day - freedom of expression for 50p - anyone not undoing their top shirt button was said to be Sharky. I do not know to this day whether this was an insult or not.

Original played by screwing up a piece of paper in Mr. Sharpe's lesson and throwing it around until he noticed. Later , in the abscence of Mr. Sharpe's class, drawing pins were pushed through the paper before it was launched, causing some pain to the catcher. The lengths we went to, just so that we could play Sharpe Ball without the name seeming inapt.

Someone getting a brand new Helix plastic ruler was generally acknowledged as the opening gambit of a game of Shat Poo. Similar to Speednob, the brand new ruler would carefully be passed to owner of the sharpest compass, who would then scratch away the crazily jagged 'Shatter Proof' logo until only 'Shat Poo' remained. The modified ruler would then be replaced carefully into the victim's pencil case and hilarity would ensue (as it so often does) on discovery.

A variant of the game shat poo for owners of new Shatterproof rulers who were suspected of being gay.

Well - you had to be sure.

Before repetition lent the cliché some meaning, I thought the advert for Dempsey and Makepeace, which contained the line "she's as cool as a cucumber" was surrealist nonsense. Thinking I'd learned a new funny phrase, I took it into my active vocabulary without question. So when I nodded intelligently in primary school and noted that Miss Kaveska was as cool as a cucumber, thinking it was a joke, I must have sounded a right little turd. Ah well.

Descriptive of eyes after smoking first, illicit marijuana cigarette. No, your mum won't be fooled by you sucking a polo and spraying your jumper with Lynx.

This commendable practice began innocently enough when Carlos Dunbar claimed he had snorted three tubes of Sherbert Dip resulting in an "amazing" high. Soon most of the class were snorting incredibly fat lines of sherbert directly off German texbooks in class. The procedure would usually be to pour, chop, snort and then bellow as loud as possible to indicate the strength and status of your "high". With a particulary fat line, sherbert-activated mucus foam would pour from your nose, covering yourself and those near you. Soon we were making "wraps" of sherbert and I had cunningly placed my "gear" in an old Tic-Tac box, making a rather dapper "snuff box", which was quite a hit with the laydez. As anyone who's seen Scarface or Pulp Fiction will know, this halcyon period could not last forever. Our Jimi Hendrix was Andrew "Tarby" Tarbet. On running out of Sherbert during one especialy fraught German lesson Tarby, driven mad with need, crushed up a packet of Refreshers in the hope of a "hit". After snorting most of a packet of crushed up refreshers a woozy quiet descended over Tarby. Suddenly blood began to gush from his nose onto his books, trousers and Louisa Milne who sat in front. Soon bits started coming out with the blood and Tarby fled to the toilet, presumably to die. After this shock, nasal Sherbert consumption tailed off and was almost completely over within six months.

Upon making a mistake it is customary to acknowledge this to your friends by wrapping your upper lip round your top teeth, pressing your index finger on said lip and saying 'Sheudy Meu'.

Shinny the shoe was probably a nice kid but was never going to fit in because he had a briefcase, and even more unforgivably, shiny shoes. Word quickly spread that it was good luck to touch Shinny's briefcase and his shoes at the same time - but you must never speak to him during the act, as this would immediately undo the good fortune.

Shinny led a distraught and solitary life, and the nickname accompanied him into his early career. I like to think his personal accessory choices may have helped him along a bit in the real world of work, as some kind of compensation.

An offshoot of graffiti art, thought to originate in schools around Leicester. Often using twigs or lollipop sticks, urban artists would find fresh dog shit and thrust the sticks into the poo. What remained was both a work of art, and an Excalibur-style weapon, for a brave child to withdraw and wave around threateningly. Such a brave child had to be very careful of the "double dipper"

The first incidence of shit writing in my experience was someone writing shit, in shit, on the toilet wall.
"What's that?" someone could ask.
"Shit," their friend might have replied.
"I can read, thanks, I meant what is... oh."
A week later the words "GUNS 'N' ROSES" appeared on the same wall. Not spelled out in Guns and Roses, though. Still shit.

A game loosely based on "Street Hawk", TV's motorbike Knight Rider. The rules; after school, Steve Wild's little brother would ride around the playground on his BMX as close to 200mph as he could get, while we threw rocks at his wheels.
It ended, as all good things must, when Steve launched a set of those elasticated hooks used for securing luggage to roof racks into the front wheel at close range. His brother flew headlong onto the playground. I'm not sure how badly he was hurt because I did the honorable thing and legged it.

The computer room had monitors and BBC B's all the way round the outside. If you got in quickly enough after break it was your job to switch all the monitors on to save time.
However, if you were second in, it became your role to go round all the monitors and 'wipe' the static off - storing it up for discharge into the neck of the biggest girly mong you could find.

Turn a normal cookery lesson into shoe cookery by putting a rival chef's shoe into a pre-heated oven.
For dessert, pour ribena in the CO2 extinguisher's horn and spray it all over the ceiling.

An amiable enough game where you stand right in front of your opponent and take it in turns to see who can spit closest to the other person's shoes without actually hitting. If you did hit the shoe or trouser, they are allowed to spit on you anywhere. It's only polite, really.

It all began when someone tried to kick a football and their shoe came off. From there, it was natural progression to see who could flick their shoe the furthest, and then why not start a fight with shoes?
It all ended when a shoe went through a window and the culprit was immediately identified as the kid with only one shoe on.

The unexpectedly inventive nickname for polyester wadding which was one of the two major materials we used for making everything in first year Textiles. The other was paper.
First invented by Darren Kitching it caught on quickly to the point where everyone was chanting it constantly during Textiles. Unfortunately for me, the teacher had outlawed the practise while I was in the toilet and so finding the class strangely quiet on my return I started the cry once more. This got me 2000 lines that were to read "Polyester Wadding is not a popular music group".
A little excessive, I feel.

The windows in some of our classrooms would often steam up with condensation during lessons.
We discovered that if you had greasy skin (as many teenagers do), you could rub your fingers on your face, transferring some 'facial grease' onto them and then write 'invisible' words on the glass when dry, e.g "Bill Marlow is a Cunt".
When the windows next steamed up (which could be during another class) the invisible words would miraculously 'appear'. Often the blame would be directed at innocent pupils and once a whole class got detention for not revealing who had done it; they really didn't know! IT WAS ME! HA!

A game designed to achieve maximum interactivity with a Japanese girl who possessed a limited command of the English: her name, the word "yes", and "shut up".
You begin by asking her name, when she replies, you say "No, it's not". When she counters with "Yes", reply simply with "No". Continue back and forth until she gets fed up and tells you to "shut up".
For some reason, this provided hours of amusement for much of the school.

A summer game. When the grass has grown, choose an area of ground for your Sidney Home. Gather some friends (or people who like spitting), and get them to hack up a load of greenies onto the plot. Cover this with ripped up grass, and repeat. Once you are happy with your home, and have enough friends to feel safe, throw someone weak onto the Sidney Home. Usually Patrick Sears.

A sidney home with more than five floors.

Silence in the courtyards,
Silence in the streets.
The biggest gob in England,
Is just about to speak.
Starting from........NOW!
Often used in classrooms as a teacher approaches, or in shared rooms to shut people up and allow sleep. In some versions of this game, however, sound effects are allowed, as long as they don't form words. So those attempting to sleep will be kept awake by cacophonic grunting.

One fellow pupil advocated the use of his mother's "silks" as a masturbation aid. We were never quite sure what was supposed to happen with the underwear, until he demonstrated what became known as "the silks dance" with a pair of imaginary tights. The dance is too complex to describe here – just imagine a boy fucking a stocking and you’re not too far off.

Series of music books, filled with retarded songs that kids were meant to sing instead of hymns during assembly in our Godless primary school. The only tunes I can remember from it were:

Jiggle jiggle jiggle jiggle/
Jiggle jiggle jiggle/
Little sack o' sugar I could eat you up.

And

I went down to a party/
It was me and Ben and Mack/
And before I knew what happened/
I got an itching on my back/
Scratch, scratch my back.

Sure, the music was safe from the oppressive spectre of religion, but boyhowdy did it suck. Why couldn't I have gone to a Catholic school? Knee socks, kilts, Latin and enforced cunnlingus, surrounded by all that fabulous stained glass and gigantic gold bleeding Jesuses. Hosannah! Hosaaaaaaaannah! I'd have LOVED that. And nuns. Nuns are way cool.

The popular assembly hymn in which all the infants wonderfully and as one sang "of kings..." at the end of the chorus, their voices trailing off as they realise there isn't another "of kings" there.

The name for a child, most likely of special educational needs, who is found masturbating in the school room by a girl, but resolutely completes the deed while she dithers between running off to tell and watching in slack-jawed paralysis.

Craig Eady shouted this at our art teacher while standing approximately six inches behind him.
Sir's reaction proved that he was entirely, or at least partially, deaf.

Pupils of opposite sexes were required, by this ridiculous rule, to remain no less than six inches apart whilst on the school's premises. Frequent were the boasts of male pupils that they could be get intimate with their girlfriends, whilst remaining six inches apart, as they were "hung like a donkey".

There's every chance that we did know what our woodwork teacher meant, when he said "pack it in or i'll stick my size nine up your backsides". There's a considerable possibility that we knew he meant his shoe, in a non-penetrative sense.
But we never let him know that.

A game similar to 'Scissors Paper Stone'.
Option 1 (denoted by making a fist) - look at a reflection of a photo of Sket's mum, one where shes not facing the camera, from 2 miles away.
Option 2 (denoted by a flat palm) - get done in the bum by the entire New Zealand rugby team, whilst being watched by a couple of silverback gorillas, who then join in for seconds.
3
2
1
Everyone shows a flat palm, even Sket.

Brown Y-fronts invariably had skid marks (actual evidence was unneccesary for conviction) as did any undergarment with a even a suggestion of yellow piping. Strong correlations were found between those sporting lobsters at swimming practive and the presence of skid marks thus causing prolonged embarrassment. Further etymological and historical research can be undertaken if necessary.

Areas of compacted snow used for highly territorial skidding. What, you were expecting shitty streaks on your knickers or something?

Once, we were in the changing room after a games lesson . For some bizarre reason, Steven Maule had taken off his kegs and left them on the floor. Upon further inspection, we noticed they were covered in skid marks. When challenged about this, young Mauley offered the following by way of explanation: "It's not my fault, my brother had them on yesterday".

Highly competitive activity where the winner was the one who could piss the highest up the wall of the toilet block. The resulting winning stream was marked off with chalk on the wall. Strange how the sense of occasion meant that we only pissed on the outside of the toilet block, as if that was OK. This was an exciting past-time, the enjoyment of which could be vastly increased if a competitor acheived a 'Lucozade'. See also "lucozade".

Jackie Tyler wanked off Beanie Baker and Rob Chatwin at the same time. "It was like skiing," she confessed.

To be skil with one l means that you have no balls. Usefully, they are both pronounced "skill", so you don't really have to reveal which skill you're using until you have your answer.

An excellent ruse. This involved asking a victim if they had "Skill". They would warily answer yes, which was a mistake. Skill, it was hilariously revealed, is an African bum-disease. The victim was of course trapped by the initial question, as to not have Skill was an obvious admission of being a total gaylord. (Interestingly, both definitions called it an African Bum Disease)

The original counter-strike;
Q : Have you got skill?
A : Yes.
Q : Ha ha, skill is an African Bum Disease!
A : No, I've got the skill that's in the dictionary...
Was finally conquered by the counter-counter-strike...
Q : Yeah, the African medical dictionary!

In extreme cases of skill, the surname McGill may be added.

Confusing. Skill on its own meant something good, used in the same context as ace, or mint. A skiller, however, was somebody who was completely crap at a given task. Look, I don't make the rules.

A glorious juxtaposition of 'brilliant' and 'Skill', and more than the sum of its parts. Recently re-adopted into my modern vernacular via the discovery of a tipp-exed cherry is skillient on a GCSE history folder.

Skinny banana long legs with webbed feet,
Went to the pictures and couldn't find a seat,
When the pictures started everybody farted,
Skinny banana long legs with webbed feet.
But what happened next? I'm not sure if I'd have stopped and watched the film. Not standing up.

Sounds innocent enough, but at our school the term 'sliding' was invented after Mark Myers climbed up the ladder of a playground slide, and did a shit at the top. He then pissed around the shit, causing the excretia to descend the slide like a kind of warm piss and shit log* flume.

In a vain attempt to achieve equal glory, Craig Campbell-Ace crapped onto the lower part of the slide, but only managed to produce tidy little nuggets and immediately demanded toilet paper.

Not quite the urine soaked, rock 'n' roll finish we gave Mark credit for.

*I know.

The beatings delivered to a person who has just farted. The only way to stop the slogs (short of waiting for your beaters to become bored) is to recite the alphabet, forwards then backwards, then naming three teachers. Shouting "no slogs" immediately after farting offered some defence, but not if you were unpopular.

Any teacher trying to disrupt the slow clapping of an unpopular pupil's award ceremony by clapping faster than everyone else is doomed only to add a jazzy off-beat to the taunt, which will be enjoyed by all.

Gobbing on the back of one's hand and flicking it onto to the back of a teacher.

A friend of mine would become so apoplectic with rage that he suffered from a kind of expletive blindness and could manage to splutter out only the most feeble insults. His all-time classic was "You're nothing but a sly old fox", closely followed by "You're just an old bagpuss".

The child holding the ball is the queer. It is the job of all the other children to smear him. To wit, hard-tackle him as violently as possible.
The phrase smear the queer has no connotations with smearing poo around his anus. Using your penis.

"Smell my cheese", the bully would invite. Cheese famously smelling delicious, you would eagerly bend over to the waiting fist, anxious to see if there is a tiny cube of fragrant cheese concealed within. As you get closer, you become suspicious. There's no cheese here... and then, the bully would punch you in the nose. A pleasing variant of this is when the bully adds "Smell my cheese, would you?" and walks off huffily, as though you've offended him mightily. You are the victim of another imaginary foodstuff. See also "You just drank my wee".

Usually followed by a five second fist-fight.

-Log...
-What?
-...Smells.

An affectionate name for Donna Kelly - whose mother was often speculated to be a welfare slut who craved slimy man-fat. It was all she knew.

The remarkably immature outburst of our pissy History teacher when anyone mentioned television. There we would be, sagely discussing the journalistic merits of the Equinox programme, and he would pop up and shrill "smelly telly!" in our faces.

Not a game devised by Smith, but one that involved his bag. Essentially the same as Piggy in the Middle, but with the additional gameplay element of throwing the bag to nobody in particular and watching it smack against hard concrete.

The game was deprecated after a strawberry yogurt burst messily inside a compartment of the bag. Nonchalant as ever, Smith started using a different compartment for his lunch and left the yogurt to fester until he got a new bag months later.

The vigilance of local shopkeepers denied us access to real cigarettes, so a competition developed to see who could smoke the most unpleasant and noxious substance found in the school classrooms.

We tried many items such as rolled up newspaper, animal bedding, plants, etc. But first prize went to the boy who attempted to smoke a significant length of bunsen burner tube. He lit one end, and then inhaled the fumes from the other.

He was, of course, copiously sick, leaving the classroom like a scene from The Exorcist. Magic.

Also known as the Dirty Sanchez, this trick explains the recoil reflex of any adult when you try to put your finger underneath their nose. It involves sticking your finger up your arse, asking your victim to sniff your finger, waiting until they tell you it smells of shit, then wiping it across their upper lip. How far you stick your finger up your arse is entirely your own business.

This act was not one I took part in, although I was the victim of on many occasions;
The object of Sneaky Bollock is to bare one's teste through the zip at the front of your trousers. Then, sitting in a suitable gaping position, you would call people over to "check your work" or something. They would then be horrified at the small hairy lump protruding from the loins.
For extra points, you may consider the following:
-Get a teacher with a Sneaky Bollock;
-Go the whole hog and flop your entire meatsack out;
-Draw a smiley face, or write a message to the victim on your scrotum;
-Walk around the classroom with yourself on show;
-See how long you can stand in a conversation with someone without them noticing.
In the last days of the school year, Sneaky Bollock was rife in our ranks, and the words "Hey, can you just check this for me?" filled our hearts with unmitigated fear.

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

To 'snorkel' is to walk as if wearing deep-sea-diving flippers and waving your arms up and down. This had to be done just out of sight of a teacher while the rest of the class tried not to laugh. If someone laughed and the teacher didn't catch the snorkeler then they became 'the snorkeling snorkel-king' which was a position held in high regard.nnThe origins of this are so cruel that I can't believe I used to snorkel. Amanda has severe learning difficulties and had lost her ability to show emotions (such as laugh or cry) as a result of a serious car accident. The accident was explained to a class of twelve-year-olds as follows:nn"Amanda came out of the school gates last night and saw her mother on the other side of the road. Unfortunately she didn't see the car coming as she was wearing a Snorkel"nnTo the teacher a 'Snorkel' was a navy blue jacket with orange lining (made by Lord Anthony) with a fake-fur hood that when zipped up gave you tunnel vision. This obviously explained how the accident happened. However, thirty twelve year olds all imagined Amanda running across the road wearing a 'snorkel', face mask and flippers. The outburst of laughter landed all of us in detention for a full term and was instantly recognised as THE cruelest subject to joke about.

Q: (Pointing)Whats that?
A: What?
Q: Snot put your bogey on top.
I fell for this many times, but I never felt too bothered. I still don't understand what was happening.

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

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

[video on youtube]

A name for those whose foreskins are too tight to achieve a painless erection. To loosen the foreskin, doctors advise masturbation with soap and water. To be called soapy, therefore, you have told people that you have a tight foreskin, that you have been to the doctors with your tight foreskin, and that the doctor has prescribed you a course of soapy wanks. If you get ridiculed, you can hardly be surprised.

Many years ago at school, I went out with a girl called Kerry. I had boasted for many weeks before hand to my friends (mainly a guy called simon), that the weekend my parents were away would be the week I would "do it" to her.nnThe weekend and came and went, without me "doing it" to her. Come the monday Simon asked me if I "did it".nn(At this point it is worth pointing out that Simon was sex obsessed, fat, had a huge collection of porno mags and so much body hair, at the age of 14, that I as an adult 15 years later would consider it to be an abnormal amount.)nn"No" I Said. We we all 14 year olds - no one would have believed me if i had.nnSimon narrowed his eyes, ready to accuse me of lying to him. I had been promising him for weeks that I would "do it". He also seemed upset, perhaps because he was such an unnatractive fat mutant the closest thing he would ever come to sex was being told about it. nn"In fact I did something better than sex" I triumphantly proclaimed.nnThe whole classroom (did I mention I was in a classrom?) fell silent, and listened in awe - what could be better than sex!?!)nn"I had a Soapy Tit Wank." nnI demonstrated this hitherto unknown advanced sexual act, by squatting down on the floor, miming (accompanied all the while by a nervous verbal description) the act of squirting washing up liquid onto Kerry's breasts, placing my dick between them, squeezing them together and thrusting vigorously. The stunned silence that followed, I believed for several seconds, was because of my demonstration of mature, sosphisticated love making. nnUnfortunately, it was because I was at the front of the classroom, facing the door, and the teacher had just entered the room.nnYou'd expect that my life would have been made a living hell until the end of time for such a display. But no, the children at my school were far wiser than you'd think - the ever present memory of performing such a display, and the searing embaressment of being caught "doing it" by a teacher, was a far greater punishment than any number of sadistically-sophisticated school kids could ever think of. It remained with me till I left sixth form college at the age of 18.

This was a game played in the changing rooms, after the class had spent an hour and a half running around in freezing mud. Proceedings would commence by flinging a wet muddy sock into the air. If the sock landed on someone, there would follow a cry of, "Uuurgh! You got sock, mi lad!", and the game would continue.
There were only two possible end scenarios to this game. Either somebody would get beaten up, or a fight would break out. In either instance, acts of violence will be largely ignored by the games teacher, in a "let them sort it out amongst themselves" kind of way, faintly reminiscent of the interracial basketball match scene in the film Scum.

A simple ruse. Suggest a competition to see who can hit the other person the softest. Allow the victim to go first. After he has lightly tapped you on the shoulder, you let him have it with a perfect dead-arm, before informing him that he has won.
Warning. This trick is EMINENTLY REVERSIBLE. It is probably wise to ask if your friend has ever played "softest punch" before. Remember - they get the first punch.

A group of boys stand in a circle around a biscuit, wanking. The last one to spunk on it has to eat it. An urban myth?

Glasweigan name for wet toilet roll, thrown onto the roof or wall to lend it a stipply 3D effect. Once dried, new layers can me applied. Soggy boggies are also effective as a non-lethal short-range weapon.

A medical complaint where the nose becomes soggy and spreads sideways across the face. Used to insult anyone with larger than average nostrils.
The inventor had meant the insult to be a clever reference to the computer game company "Psygnosis". The fact that no-one realised this meant the insult caught on, and he wasn't delivered a beating for being a "spod".

Mrs Soloman, a particularly fierce piano playing teacher from the 1980's, now dead. Soloman's pet hate was pupils having their back to her, so the whole class were seated facing towards her in a 'Praise Mecca' style in twos. If you turned her back on her whilst she was talking to you, woe betide. We adapted this to a playground game, which made good for random beatings. If a kid such as Daniel Holmer Tolliday showed you his back, you were well within your right to belt him in the back whilst taking on Soloman's manly growl and saying ' you darest showeth me your hind?'Why we adopted a Medieval vocabulary is another question.

Kristen Cottier arrived in 1981 from the Isle of Man - a fact he was insanely proud of. He later explained that his surname was Manx for "son of the otter hunter". A silly mistake.

Knew too much about rainbow kissing to be right.

A more subtle way of saying "subtle attack". You have to wrap yourself in a duvet, for bonus subtlety, before launching yourself into the enemy's dorm and spraying them with deodorant.

An unfortunate pupil at our school had mild Spina Bifida which caused him to walk with a sideways hip-swinging shuffle.
We thought he was rather cool because he looked as though he was grooving along to a funky tune that only he could hear; he may have just been listening to our tuneless rendition of "Soul Man" and finger-snapping as he jive-walked past our classroom window.

The damp build up of sweat that forms in the arse crack of Farah wearing post pubic boys sitting on plastic chairs in hot summer classrooms ,"Soup, sir?" "Certainly, a possible broth if this heat carries on."

A game which requires steps, a football, and several young children so eager to play with the big boys that they are willing to approach slowly down some steps towards men kicking footballs at them. Boys (never girls) started at the top step, chanting "we are space-invaders". Once hit by the footballs, you moved onto the next step down - an improvisation from the strict format of the arcade game, allowing for more bruises. Now you must run faster, and are more likely to be hit by a ball this is travelling at a higher speed. Once you reach the ground floor, by which point you should be screaming "we are space invaders", you were relieved, and could move to the top step again. The lure of watching your friends getting hit with footballs was always too much to resist. No-one ever really though to simply stand aside and watch the game. Apart from the bemused teachers.

A highly mutated, third generation insult for someone with acne. It started as the basic "Crater Face", evolved into "Neil Armstrong" and finally into "Space Suit". A tribute to the creativity of kids who fail on traditional academic measures.

What we kids in the late 70's called spastics, and by association anyone who was a low achiever no matter what the reason.
Im now a responsible and mature father of two teenage girls who would not dream of mocking the mentally subnormal just for kicks, so did NOT curl up in hysterics when their school's drive towards 'spelling, punctuation and grammar' was launched under the banner of 'S.P.A.G'.
And I definitely did not laugh to the point of vomiting when my daughter brought her english exercise book home with the word 'SPAG' written in red biro by the teacher over each and every spaggish grammar or spelling mistake.

The act of slapping an unsuspecting individual as hard as possible across their forehead and shouting 'Spam'.
This can be countered by holding a guarding hand across the forehead, if suspicious of an approaching attack. This led to the development of the 'Neckback' which followed a similar path as the 'Spam' but involved slapping the back of the neck. This is also known as MAPS - spam backwards, you see.
When a double guard was developed, involving a person holding both their forehead and the back of their neck, a third route of attack, the 'Lipblap', was unveiled. This involved slapping down at a persons mouth (when they were talking for best effect) causing them to sound stupid and make a wet blubber noise. The beauty of this third attack meant that even when guarding, there was always one route of attack open - although the attacker now had to be quick to find the ungauarded area, and (especially with the 'Lipblap') the confusion tended to result in a simple face punch.

This is the name given to a silly sound effect that I made up one morning on the bus to school, and me and my friend Angelo Martinez would recite it over and over again during a dull moment. There is a background to this sound effect, and it goes as follows - There is a man with a whip chasing a another man around a ring. Next to the ring is a guitarist, who plays that "dun de le dun de de de dun" sterotypical spanish tune constantly. The two men are quite close to each other as they run, and at the end of each playing of the song the man with the whip cracks his whip on the man in front's arse, causing him to yelp with pain. So it would go - "Dun de lun dun de de de dun PSCHH ha HOO!" You really have to hear it to understand it. When we got tired of doing it, we would finish by slightly altering the last "ha hoo" so that the "hoo" would be long and drawn out and falling in pitch, as if the man who was being chased had fallen down a chasm or fallen off a cliff or something.

Our primary school had a pair of Emergency Trousers, which were given to any unfortunate kid that was found to be accidentally carrying a chocolate passenger.
The reasoning behind issuing this garment was presumably to spare the soiled kid the embarrassment of going back to class wearing niffy damp trousers.
However, the Emergency Trousers must have been lying about since the 1970s, which meant you had to toddle back to class looking like Rupert the fucking Bear. And as such, it was obvious to everyone that you'd suffered an unwelcome "brown visitor", and you were not spared the ridicule of your peer group in the slightest.

Not how you pronounce "spasmodic", Ian Lucas.

A cross between spasmojesticles and Joey Deacon. Not an insult, like most Joey Deacon variants, but a fine warcry and an excuse for legs to flail in the wind.

Taking the everyday "spazmo" as its base, the "mohican" aspect arises simply because it’s one of the few funny words that begin with “mo”. Fleacon combines the grotbags element of fleas with the heavyweight of spazmos, Joey Deacon himself.
In retrospect, quite a likeable insult.

The fusion of the words spangle, smorgasbord, jesting, and icicles.

Daniel Parry - Spastic Pastic - made the mistake of announcing that he was very ill and that we shouldn't make him laugh or else he'd cough up blood. I made him laugh, and much to my delight, he wasn't joking. A week or so later he left, never to be seen again. To this day I don't know if I inadvertently killed him.

My friend Phil's parents invited a load of members of the local Spastics society around for Christmas day. Phil denied this for years, until on a boating trip to Norfolk he was made to walk the plank off the side of the barge with a sign reading "I had spastics round for Christmas" hanging around his neck.

The lane you live on if you are a spastic, or scoper. With your tongue between your teeth and lip, say "dur, by dabe's ... and I live on Spaff Lane". No one we knew lived on Spath Lane, but the suggestion that you might was devastating.

No description required - it's just a cool word.

Is to spazmo as cuboid is to cube. That is to say, some of the sides are of different lengths, but... every face is a rectangle... only with spazmos.

Similarly, a great word, and very similar to spasmojesticles. A superb slant on spazmo and testicles, with a bonus "j", which is the funniest letter.

From the too good to be true range...
For the matinee performance of one my school's plays, the special education students were brought into the auditorium in their wheelchairs and parked in the front row. To prevent the students in the motorized chairs from going anywhere, the teacher turned off the power on their chairs.
Being the light-board operator I had seen the production several times and was paying more attention to the audience than the show. About halfway through the performance, one of the handicapped children caught my attention; he had pushed himself out of his chair. I watched him for about twenty minutes as he pushed himself further and further to the right, until he finally reached his goal.
A boy in a motorized wheelchair, who had fallen asleep on his joystick.
Motorized wheelchairs are capable of decent speeds, it seems. So when (after twenty minutes of sterling work, mind you) the crawling young man flipped the power switch on his neighbour's chair, the hapless sleeper was rocketed forward full throttle, slamming the chair into the low stage.
The now very much awake student flew - in that slow motion way that disabled people flying out of their wheelchairs have - onto the stage. The actors stopped, the audience was aghast, and the only sound louder than the wailing cries of the student on the stage, was the hysterical laughter of the young man on the floor where once a wheelchair was parked.

Go up to an S.U. kid, face full of innocence and concern, and say "Jonfun, what are you still doing here?" On sighting the blank(er) expression, say "Didn't you hear the fire bell? We've all got to go home!". A few more "Go on!"'s should be enough to get him thru the gate. The terrible thing? They never even noticed he'd gone.

Ben Evetts suffered from a very bad speech impediment that prevented him from being able to pronounce his ‘t’s. Being slightly backward, his mother made, what she considered, the wise decision of teaching him to recite his telephone number in the event that he ever got lost.
There were only two problems with this:
- Firstly, it became a panic reflex, which he blurted out at the slightest provocation.
- Secondly, his home number was "East Tisted 282".
The end result was that he would be chased around the playground every break, screaming, “Eesk Kiskig Coo Ay Coo! Eesk Kiskig Coo Ay Coo!”
This only carried on for a few weeks, however, before his mum withdrew him from the school and they moved away.

This involved drawing as many penises as possible on a colleague's text book / excercise book / bag / homework diary / piece of artwork / photograph of dead relative etc. whilst their back was turned. It was perfected to 3 loops removing pen from paper only to draw in a "T" at the top. Twenty nobs in ten seconds was a skilled, but not uncommon occurrence.

Speednob led to a series of creative approaches to disguising the nobs drawn on your property. These included spaceships with billowing smoke clouds at lift-off, funny faces, general swirly patterns and many more. It is important to note that, if a nob was drawn completely (with the three loops and a T-shape), it was impossible for the disguised nob to look like anything other than a disguised nob, which was still quite gay. However, if you managed to intervene in the drawing of the nob and prevent the T-shape being drawn across the bell-end, you had half a chance of changing the three loops into something innocent. Try it yourself. You'll see what I mean. Of course this made it all the more critical for the nobber complete the nob and only encouraged kids to try harder. See: speednob, advanced.

As part of a civil recovery scheme for the vast number of inky cocks drawn in our Tricolore text books, we were each given a bottle of Tipp-Ex and told to obscure the offending members.
The result? A vast number of inky cocks with a vast amount of spunk coming out the end.

Speednob became such an obsession in my school that it was unusual to see any ink-permeable surface without a nob on it. Eventually pupils were so alert to preventing their property being nobbed that it was very difficult for even the most committed player to nob anything at all. The only option for the potential artist was to draw a nob on the flat surface of an eraser with a cartridge pen and quickly use it as an ink stamp on the targeted item. So long as the victim didn't see you draw the nob on your eraser, he would be entirely unsuspecting and a swift movement with the eraser would ensure a successful nob placement on anything from textbooks to foreheads.

The act of drawing a 300 foot long, fully detailed phallus in the wet sand on Tenby Beach during a Geography field trip, before teachers can descend a cliff to stop you. Chances are, however, that they will simply look dismayed and let you have your fun. Which is pretty patronising when you think about it.

Barry's peculiar tale here has a sinister edge and will leave you slightly damp, clammy and uncomfortable, just the way that possibly phoney swimming instructors like you, I'd wager...

A new swimming 'teacher' appeared mysteriously one day at the local baths.
As, apparently, one of the school's great swimming hopes, I was subsequently singled out for special tutelage, presumably to get me onto the path of the Olympics.
A special trip was organised where he and I drove to town. I distinctly remember trying on half a dozen pairs of Speedos and had to model each set for him, complete with twirls.
Following this, I was treated to a cream tea at the local cafe and while listening to his platitudes felt extraordinarily privileged to be the 'sports star with potential'.
I never saw him again after that day.

Outrageous claim from Paul Walker that the loose cannon Geordie cop played by Jimmy Nail was, in fact, his dad. However, rather than an attempt to command awe and authority, it was simply an excuse to say 'how bastard!' and headbutt someone.
Based on the mispresumption that headbutting people is genetic, and not just a symptom of living in Newcastle.

Previously unknown supply teacher, GCSE biology class, walked in and announced that he had a higher sperm count than any of us. He left the room, promising to answer any question on sex that we could write on scraps of paper and place in a coffee pot on the desk at the front. Amazingly, some of us actually wrote questions, and he answered them all deadpan. We never saw him again, but the legend of Sperm-count man lives on. I hope he found a job where his utter coolness and phenomenal sperm-count were more appreciated.

If girls become wary of you when you tell them that there is a spider in their hair, you can convince them that no, really - there really is a spider in their hair this time - by saying "no, really - there really is a spider in your hair this time".
If more persuasion is required;
Level 1 : There is a spider in your hair.
Level 2 : No really - there really is a spider in your hair this time.
Level 3 : Oh God, there's a really big spider in your hair. Everyone, come and look at the really big spider!
Level 4 : It... it looks like it's laying eggs...
Level 5 : Look, I know I've been saying this a lot recently, and at the back of my mind, I realised a time would come when one day, you really might have a spider in your hair. I think I was hiding from that possibility, hoping it would never come, because I knew you wouldn't believe me when I told you. But honestly, this time, there is a massive spider in your hair, and from the markings I think it's poisonous. I don't expect you to believe me, I guess I've dug my own grave in that respect, but please - please seek help regarding the oversized spider that's running amok in your lovely hair. You must tell me your hairdresser, by the way.

Notably batey fatboy Scott Weightman (see fat kids for more background on Scott Weightman) involuntarily became this superhero every Monday afternoon History lesson. The bright young things of Mr Cook's class were placed in the next classroom to the rabble and could only look on in helpless appreciation as Scott had the class bin shoved on his head. Not content with the level of distress this caused, pupils then took it upon themselves to hang onto the bin and pull down with all their body weight. The result looked like a particularly agitated Darth Vader storming around the classroom whilst being closely attended by imperial guards. Similarly the face that emerged from the helmet on those hot afternoons was not unlike Skywalker's father in the film.

Little gifts left on branches to make climbing a tree more difficult and unpleasant for those who follow you. These can include regular spit, greened spit, and the impassable chewed up soggy Cheese and Onion crisps.

The game played as a child where various participants fill their mouths with saliva and compete to see who can create the longest 'spit dangle'. The winner was the one whose went the lowest without it turning into a full blown 'gob'. The more skillful players would show-off by sucking theirs back up before it hits the ground.

See also dead heat in a zeppelin race, two ferrets fighting in a sack, two bald men. But not in this list.

This is great fun, we normally did it to cunt kids with big chins, we used to get them on the ground then we got a group of people to spit in his mouth then started poking at his face saying "HAHAHA you now have AIDS you have technolcally kissed loads of males you willy wufter" then kicked them in the face for old time sakes.

(More stream of consciousness fun can be found at Bob Mara's website, Kerrap. Please, no-one else emulate Bob Mara's style in their entries - his is a unique voice. - Log)

The self-chosen name our school's foremost rap duo. Marginally better than if they'd called themselves "Ping and Pong", or "MC Hello Dolly and the Belgrano Connection", I suppose. But only marginally.

A game which combines the intellectual with the violent. It involves two teams of boys, one of which will think of a word made up of as many letters as there are team members. Each member is given a letter. The other team must then guess the word. They do this by inflicting great pain on each member of the other team until they crack, and blurt out their letter. Once you've given up your letter, you join the torturers. Or sit there like an idiot for a while, I forget. When the word is guessed, the teams switch roles. I never played your basic Splogger much, because I was much more interested in.. Dirty Splogger. This has a team of boys and a team of girls. One team has the word, as with basic Splogger, but instead of hitting you, the other team.. does things.. to you until you get hysterical and embarrassed and give up your letter. Dirty Splogger can go on quite some time, and in our school served as the introduction to sex for most kids.

Spoilsports was a game of my invention which involved going around the playground and fucking up everyone else's game - kicking footballs over the school fence, standing in the middle of the girls' game of elastics, and so on.
The game was great fun, but was sadly curtailed when I had the shit thoroughly kicked out of me by an older girl.
I spent much of the afternoon sat on a female teacher's lap sobbing like a great jessie. And that's why I like NWA.

Incredibly spurious nickname for a boy who has received a sponge bath from a girl. The nickname itself makes enough sense, but for the love of mercy, what are twelve year olds doing giving each other sponge baths? They should be at least sucking each other off.

A unit or activity of hard work. When a classmate exerts more than the accepted 'minimum effort' in the classroom, mime the motion of spooning a substance out of a container. This substance is "effort" - feel free to say "eff-ort" whilst spooning.
For extreme cases, imitating a JCB operator or the motion of the Channel tunnel excavator is required.

One who finds a friend's younger sibling attractive. Based on the true story of Robert Durrent, who quite actually spooned out some of his little sister's love gloop, and ate it like cough medicine.

We used to call poor people 'sporkers' based on them supposedly not having enough money for proper cutlery, and having to eat with those crappy spoon-fork combination things.

Children who excelled at sport. The derision with which this name was delivered justified the sloth of hundreds of fat kids, like myself, who had just got a Commodore 64 and didn't really want to be running around.

A poor person. A person who wears a sack and has to use dead squirrels as buttons is a spunk bubble.

After watching sex-ed videos, we would boast that we were all capable of producing spunk, and plenty of it. One ginger fat kid claimed he had an entire bowl of it at home. Since that claim, we all pretended to be in possession of at least a pint of our own semen.

Sitting on the bus at the end of the day, we were informed that Neil Clements had wanked into his hand during a maths lesson. When someone asked how the teller could be sure Neil hadn't merely pissed on his own hand, they were told, "Because the spunk was all crispy." This has baffled me for the last nine years.

Our junior school was surrounded by fields, one of which became the winter home for locally famous fairground operators. As a result, we shared our classrooms with several young gyppos. Having led the exciting, criminal, sexually active lives of the fairground deviants they were, they provided us with sex education at a tender age. One of them convinced us all that girls produced spunk, just like boys, and that the smell on his fingers would proove it. This sounded proposterous, but his fingers did indeed smell spunky. It didn't occur to me that this was probably because his older brother had got to his younger sister first.

Between the ages 11 and 13, I laboured under the delusion that cum was purple, and had the consistency of frogspawn. It was started by a child who claimed to have seen his brother’s spunk.
Being eager to impress, the next day I told my friends that I myself had come. Moreover, I claimed to have produced a pint of plum coloured spooge. I was hailed as a hero, until puberty let everyone know that I was either a liar or a freak...
It was at this point that I should have pointed out that the lie came originally from a boy who watched his brother wank.

The ideal Games option, allowing the loud macho lads to demonstrate their iron-pumping skills in the gym while we pale anaemics hid behind the upper stairwell above the squash courts. If caught and forced to enter the weights room, standard procedure was to occupy the exercise bike, strategically positioned behind an archway so that its user could minimise legwork and sneers from the lads while watching Annie Lennox on MTV on the opposite wall.

A local urban myth peddled by an irresponsible adult about a local old man who used to go mad when someone shouted "squashed liver" through his letterbox. The old man was then capable of speeds up to 70 mph when chasing kids who had shouted squashed liver, who he would then kill. He is still alive today, but due to being over 90 cannot get above 40 mph.

A farting Catch 22.
1. A high pitched squeaky fart is the product of an arse which is substantially blocked up with cum. Real men do deep, rumbling farts, so free from spunk are the caverns of their anus.
2. A "squeaker" is the sign of a tight, virginal arsehole, unprodded by Big Ron. Meaty biffers were direct evidence that your arse had seen action, and was ragged around the edges.

A defence to the lurgy. Girl's squitsies were by crossing your two forefingers, and boys do squitsies by putting their thumb between their forefingers. This stopped you getting the lurgy, leaving it trapped for the rest of the day in the new victim's fingertip.

Terrifying local who travelled various upper schools in the area, teaching what was labelled for convenience "Judo", but actually amounted to "Urban Survival Studies". He was an ex-army lunatic who would claim at least once per session that he could show us how to kill someone with one hand, but, obviously, wouldn't. This was a wise decision, as we would have put his technique into practice straight away.nnStan's finest moments included:nn1) Showing us how to break out of a neck hold, and then informing us he was going to wrap a fire hose around our necks and throttle us until we broke out or passed out. He did, too - luckily, he was actually quite a good teacher and we all made it. We had red necks, though.nn2) Lining us all against a wall, and demonstrating how easy it was to hurt someone without much effort by smacking his open palm into our noses, one by one. I was near the end, and got to watch a whole load of kids clutching their faces and moaning as he drew nearer.nn3) Grabbing a window-opening pole and running at a group of us, screaming and swinging it in a wide arc. most of us dodged, a couple got hit on the shins pretty hard. We learned.nn4) In a shock move, demonstrating effective teaching techniques by asking us whether stalactites went up or down. We didn't know, so he said he'd tell us, and we'd never forget. The lesson: "If you've got a beautiful woman in front of you and she's wearing tights, what are you going to do? YOu're going to pull them down. So remember, stalacTITES come down." We never forgot, and you won't, either.nn5) Useful demonstration of what to do "if a coon comes at you with a broken bottle".nnAs I said, he got work in a whole bunch of Northampton schools, unless he used to just walk in with his back of judo outfits and shanghai his students. We didn't really care, it was better than rugby and there was always the outside chance he might relent and tell the secret of one-handed killing. A couple of years after school I saw Stan in the town carnival, dressed as a clown and riding a penny farthing. Big mover on the charity scene, apparently. So.

After a particularly orgiastic 6th year disco, when half the prefects were caught sack-deep in pupils from another school's 6th year, the assembled culprits were given a mass bollocking by the headmaster.
The climax of his harangue was the instruction "...and if the urge ever comes over you again, get a box, stand on it and shag one Mr. Bain's cows". (Mr. Bain ran the nearby farm.)
After that, every time someone got the horn, they would murmur "I could just stand on a box..."

My parents, being frugal sorts, decided that it would save money if they bought clothes that I could "grow into". So, in my first year at secondary school, with the 4' 11" and six stone frame common to most 11 year olds, I was the proud owner of a Rugby Shirt with a 44 inch chest. The arms, when rolled up to allow my hands to function, gave me the appearance of a man with elephantitis of the wrists.
On the plus side, if the accompanying shorts were lowered to the where the shirt ended, I was able to make myself appear to be a long bodied spazmohedron. (Or Stanley Matthews, if the teacher asked what the fuck I was doing.)

The coolest of the "gun" weapons to be found in a school, beating glue guns by a fucking mile.

It is possible to launch yourself through the air, with a staple gun in each hand, firing John Woo-style into planks of wood across the room.

For closer-range attacks, simply staple a Dairylea triangle to the wall in reception. Some bursting may occur, but ours stayed there long enough to go rotten. Perhaps they thought it was science.

Neil Durston and Dafydd Griffith?s version of the 1977 George Lucas epic.
Fluke DogBuggerer and Jedi master-a-bator Obese Wanki-nob, ably assisted by their robot VD-69, seek rescue Princess Labia-Orgasm from the Death Star and the clutches of evil Shaft Vader and his heinous bum troopers. Fluke enlists the help of Sham Homo and Pubaca the Wanky and their space ship the Millennium Fuck Bucket to get to the Death Star.
The saga approached its climax upon the arrival of our heroes in the Deathstar when they gained entry hidden in six giant penises. I am not certain what happened after that.

Does your school have nylon carpets? Do you have shoes? If the answer to both these questions is yes, then you have the basic ingredients for a static attack.

1) Shuffle around on the carpet for a while, keeping both feet on the floor at all times.
2) Approach victim. Preferably someone who hasn't been watching you shuffling around. Keep feet on floor as per stage 1.
3) Touch victim on earlobe or neck. Listen for sharp 'crack' and smell the sound of electricity and burning hair as your victim writhes on the ground in agony with smoke coming out of their ears.

In reality, stage 3 will be a disappointing "Ow!", but it does hurt. A bit.

More advanced static attacks can involve jumping off the ground and touching the victim in mid-air. Tests to determine whether this increases the amount of pain experienced by the victim have so far proved inconclusive.

The electrical capacitance of the average kid has yet to be accurately calculated, leading to the theory that if you shuffle around on your feet for an entire lunchtime, you will store up enough power to cause your victim to explode. Early experiments suggest that this theory could be fundamentally flawed, but further developments are eagerly awaited.

Ste Sammons didn't even bother to make his lies interesting; for instance, a truck once ran over his foot. It didn't break anything, though.
Fucking phew.

Remember when cash machines first came out? They had opaque perspex barriers that slid down to cover the screen and keyboard when not in use.
This was to prevent vanadlism, but as they were giving cards to everybody, it simply meant that vandals could make a right mess, then hide their handiwork until the next customer came along.
You would put your card into the slot, and the barrier would rise like a theatre curtain. To reveal a 'tableau' of greenies, marker pen and chip-shop Pies smeared all over the interior.
Today, that sort of thing would win the Turner. *Sits back, puffs on pipe, contented that he has had a dig at modern art, but vaguely annoyed he didn't get to mention split-in-half cows.*

Basic tool of the classroom. I lost two fingernails to achingly accurate flicks.

Stephen Brown was a very quiet lad whose voice broke over a period of years rather than weeks. So whenever he was asked a question in class, he would whisper very, very quietly in order to minimise the relentless piss-taking. The teacher would in turn get very frustrated and ask him to raise his voice.
"Turn your voice up, boy! What is your name?"
"Stephen ..." he would squeak in a shrill falsetto before slipping into a Brian Blessed-esque boom "... Brown."
Hence the birth of the Stephen Brown Game, the aim of which was to say "Stephen BROWN, keep your voice DOWN!" The first part would be rendered in as high a pitch as possible, before landing the "DOWN!" as many octaves below as one could muster. Usually played when Stephen was around to enjoy it.
Try this - it's enormous fun. - Conor

Stephen was small and very thin - and anaemically pale. The only sport he had ever shown an interest in was wanking which he did with dutiful regularity and an intense frown that suggested it was a chore. He explained that he had to do it often to try and straighten his penis - which resembled a sea-horse.

His father, in a twisted attempt to 'make a man of him' bought him a boxing kit for his eleventh birthday which consisted of gloves, a punchbag and a red shiny dressing gown with 'Muhammad Ali - The Greatest' emblazoned in gold on the back. He wore it out to play.

Word spread like wildfire and within the space of a few hours children were being bussed in from surrounding towns just to punch him.
He stayed indoors for a long time afterwards; sitting sullenly in the kitchen wearing one boxing glove, passing the hours by gently punching a dish of cat food into a flat paste with one hand and wanking with the other.

Upon being asked "Steptoe face please", the target had to make a face like Albert Steptoe from Steptoe and Son. The (quite polite) request could come at any time, even when you were in the middle of answering a teacher's question. If the required face was not made, the person making the request was entitled to beat the target up.

Steve Pine, a geography teacher, may have been gay. Paul Fletcher took it upon himself to test this theory by prodding him in the backside with a 12 inch ruler and shouting "WAHEYYY!!!"

The results were, sadly, inconclusive.

The surname Stevenson is shortened to Stevo, re-lengthened to Steve Ovett, Garfield's vet is called Liz, short for Lizard, the aliens were lizards in V, VD, D-Day, Day of the Dead. Therefore, Stevo, you're dead. So there.

The nickname of a thin lad called Neil. Also the warcry used before all his colouring pencils were snapped in two (usually inches from his face). Neil could be calmed from his ensuing rage if you pointed out that he now had twice as many pencils and that he could use a smaller pencil case.

A game where you entice a fly into your navel with jam, and attempt to stun it with your erect penis by tugging down on the member and harnessing the natural "snapping back" effect of the human penis.

Named after the bad letter in Diddy David Hamilton's game show "All Clued Up", this is the name given to a boy who has been circumcised. It may or may not be followed by an emulation of the electric timpani sound effect that the quiz show used. Important note : the insultee does not have to be circumcised for the insult to work. All they have to be is embarrassed. A more basic circumcision insult is BT. As in "I've been cut off".

A very stupid and irresponsible thing to leave lying around a primary school, especially one in which the eminently bulliable Patrick Sears is a pupil. A remnant from the Sports Day, and the humourous "throw sponges at a teacher" stall, the stocks were left ... in the playground. This frightening oversight led to much pain on the part of Patrick Sears. We didn't have sponges to hand, unfortunately, but we improvised admirably with pebbles. "They've got Patrick in the stocks!" was the excited cry, and I may be wrong, but the teachers were very slow to react.

Put a coin on the ground. When someone goes to pick it up, stamp on their hand. Valuable coins are more attractive bait, but if it's a copper, you can perform a jew-stomper combo. Then, at least, you are taking the moral high ground, protecting us all from a league of jews who are trying to take over the world by picking up one and two pence pieces.

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

The climax of each playground game of A-Team would involve Stuart Lazenby and I replaying the highlights of our adventures in much the same way that the closing credits of the series did. Mimicking the way in which the credits would punctuate each action sequence with a pause, we had to interrupt ourselves mid-explosion or half way through a death-defying jump to "stop for the words". Unfortunately, Ross Millin was unable to "stop for the words" when pushed off a concrete bench by Stuart's Mr T.

My favourite school bus song was 'stop the bus and eat a wee wee'. I loved it so much, my hysterical reaction would often result in slightly bemused looks from fellow passengers. Much the same look, in fact, that my American boyfriend gave me when I attempted to explain my Scottish childhood and sang it to him at the age of 27. He rather furtively suggested that perhaps I'd got the words wrong, and shouldn't it be 'Stop the bus I NEED a wee wee'? Oh, the shame.

Used to describe the best of something, after the ultimate Action Force figure, Storm Shadow. To whit: dark blue Nike air max were the Storm Shadow of trainers.

Lesser souls had to content themselves with his good but not as rare brother, Snake Eyes (both of which I had, making me great).

Pointless time-filling Geography exercise compulsory for every child in Britain to perform at least once. It involved writing down the registration plate of every car in the chosen street.

Come to think of it, Ken Livingstone didn't have to spend all that money on fancy cameras around the congestion charge zone. He could have just dispatched class 5 from the local primary.

Ask the class muppet "are you strong?"

In a bid to win friendship they will say yes. You then bring up a large greenie, gob it on the floor and ask them to pick it up.

Has Catch-22 potential. (Try eating a Mars Bar and drinking some Coke to give the greenie added string.)

Game for two or four players. Requires 1 (one) Armstrong. Split into two teams and pull on alternate sides of the Armstrong, until the Armstrong is broken.

A short-lived game invented by a warped individual (probably me). Knockout wrestling tournament where victors remove items of clothing between rounds. Ended when at the start of the final round, myself and my friend Simon (both clad only in Y-fronts) suddenly recoiled in horror as we realised the flagrantly homosexual nature of the exercise.

The nearest we had to a black face at school was Stuart McCabe, who was a bit swarthy and might have had a single exotic forebear at some point. But it was enough for the stereotype to take hold. Hence the graffito STUARTY AND HIS 12" - BUT HE DOESN'T USE IT MUCH AS A RULE.

Stuart used to buy a large portion of chips. We would only get one if we used to clap like seals. If we did, Stuart would throw us a single chip and shout "Stuart Rations!". This blatant power fantasy seemed perfectly natural.

The end of the 80's brought recession and poverty to many. But one kid at our school had it worse than most.

Our very first PE lesson at secondary school. 35 kids crammed in the changing rooms as our new PE teacher asked Stuart why he hadn't put his trainers on.
He explained that his parents couldn't afford any, and then produced from his bag a pair of red shiny wellies cut off at ankle height. These were to be his trainers.
To top it off, he later started cycling to school on his mum's brown Raleigh Shopper, wearing the same red ankle boots, because they couldn’t afford to buy him a bike either.
We felt sorry for the kid. But not sorry enough not to take the piss.

Variation of tig (also tag, dobby), where the person who's been tigged (also tagged, dobbed) has to stand still, and can only be freed by having someone crawl through their legs. The only reason anyone would risk their own mobility by attempting this is (a) if they are your friend, (b) if they are desperately unpopular and think maybe that you will thank them for it later, or (c) if the bristle of thigh and calf against shoulder is something of a thrill to them.

Here we come,
walking down the street,
We get the funniest looks 'cause,
We've got no hands or feet,
Hey Hey, We're the Stumpies...
And so forth.

Stumping was a well-loved summer activity at our school. The leader - and pivotal stumper - was Kev Jones.
Kev Jones was born with one and a half arms; the half ended in a smooth stump above the elbow. Kev would nominate a victim, who would be chased around the school field. Once caught, they were held down, and had Kev's stump rubbed in their face. Stumped!
It's heartwarming to see a boy so utterly at peace with his disability. Although it is somewhat equivalent to a man with a three inch penis stabbing it in your eye. Which pretty much sums up my weekend. Wahwah. - Log

Serene was a very stupid girl, several years younger then me. She was of Asian descent, had a disproportionately sized head, and was very, very stupid. She would be teased by people asking "Serene, are you stupid?" to which she'd reply "Yes". She'd get asked that question up to twenty times per break time. She never once cried.

Verbal trap. Asking a victim if he wanted something, you would then deny him with a rhyme. eg: Do you want a sweet? Yes Suck my feet! Do you want some jelly? Yes Suck my belly! Do you want a hat? Not really Suck my cat! Do you want a punch? No Eat my lunch! O.K. Oh.

Once a pupil has pushed a teacher to the edge, causing them to hit or throw something at said pupil, it is the moral duty of the rest of the class to chant "Sue! sue! sue! sue! sue! ..."

When you first start chemistory lessons you cannot be trusted with real chemicals it case you hurt yourself or throw them in someone’s face.
Hence you can do 'litmus paper' type experiments on Suger solution. The fact that the paper does absolutly nothing when put in the liquid proves without doubt that it is not acid or alcali but just water with suger in it.

The spelling has been untouched on this one because of the delightfully phonetic "chemistory." See also "skellington" and "chimbley".

James Ward was very short. James Ward was very strange. He often used to mumble obscenities during lessons, or storm out of classrooms arguing with himself.

When he failed to get a mark he thought respectable in spelling, he committed suicide.

He did this by standing on the bottom step in the playground, and announcing in a loud voice: "I hate you all, and I'm going to die." He then plummeted the eight or so inches to the asphalt below, and lay motionless.

He remained motionless for the rest of break, no matter how many people kicked him or stole things from his pockets, because, you see, he was dead. At least until break-time ended.

A 'lucky contestant' would be selected at lunchtime and was made to stand with their arms out to the side while everyone in the class hung their bag on his body in a buckaroo style. However, the contestant wouldn't fling upwards in the air, they tended to collapse to the floor with a desperate plea for air instead.

love from peter.

Thanks Peter, we love you too. X

A very rich, and very homosexual man who lives in a palace made of rubies and slaps his face in surprise at the misadventures of his subjects. (See also sultan sheik)

The right-hand man of the Sultan of Browneye. Sultan Sheik was by no means a rich man, but had a warm heart. He was the stabiliser wheels to the wild, careening Grifter that the Sultan of Browneye rode to Capersville, Arizona every week. Was married and heterosexual, but tolerated his frequent punchline buggerings with a "well, what can you do?" shrug.

If you can organise it, it's well worth getting everyone in the class to put on a pair of sunglasses while the teacher is looking at the blackboard. Top hats and red contact lenses is even better. You could also give the teacher a tour of the world, if you have plenty of room under your desks. A string of onions and a beret one time, a three cornered hat and a bockwurst the time after. I would challenge any teacher to get genuinely angry at that.

Super-heroes have been quite the thing recently, and showing unusual popular awareness, our local church decided to surf the zeitgeist.
Children attending church days were no longer sub-roleplaying gorks. They were Super-Heroes who attended Mission HQ (the village hall) to receive top-secret (cos no-one bothered going) assignments!
This rebranding of the church was backed up with a series of A4 posters containing all the vaguely hero-related clip-art the vicar could throw at it.
Needless to say, with a single stroke of the pen, these posters were amended to offer the children of the parish a rare strain of Super-Herpes.

We had a supply teacher who was a druid. Two weeks of constant abuse, and the poor gimp left. Heh. Mind you, that's not a nasty as the German teacher who left shortly after we discovered her miscarriage.

At my old school we had an annual fete, and every year there would be a raffle. The prizes would be boxes made up of items that parents and others had donated, and there were different categories, such as the 'Chocolate' box, the 'Bathroom' box and, by far the best, the 'Surprise' box, where the mystery contents were wrapped in fancy paper!
One day, walking across the playground, my friend and I saw a nice ripe piece of dogshit; so we got a cereal box, stole some tape and some pink poster paper, and wrapped our piece of shit up, slipping it in to the 'Surprise' box before lunch.
Sadly, we never found out who won the 'Surprise' box, but we hope whoever it was one day visits this wonderful website and realizes it was me that gave them a big shit in a Coco Pops box.

It was during a science lesson at first school, when my friend Dave lent over too me and said; "Surprise Surprise, your little boobies". The teacher, weary of interruptions, suddenly stopped and asked him to stand up and tell the class what was so important that it had to be said during lesson time.
There was a long silence, before Dave said "Surprise Surprise, miss". She then asked him why he had disrupted the whole lesson just to say "Surprise Surprise".
I am the only person who can recount what was actually said, and now am glad to have finally been able to document it. Thank you.

Execution : 'sus'; very tight, slight lingering on the final 's';
'brains'; long and drawn out, esp. on the 'a'.
Accompany with Joey Deacon (q.v.) face, along with various hand-gestures that an on-looker might associate with someone who has discovered a nest of roaches living under her/his fore-arm skin.
Usage : Primarily an insult used against a peer who has said something superficially innocent, like 'do you have a rubber?'

A practice pioneered by a small but evil kid at my school. He would stealthily creep up to someone enjoying their sandwich or chocolate bar, snatch it from them, and then proceed to cram it into his mouth with an expression of evil glee on his evil fucking face.

This continued until the day when Russel, much to his dismay, dropped a virgin Topic bar on the ground.
Inspiration struck me. I searched for and found a dog turd, and dipped the Topic into it, giving it slightly more than a hazelnut in every bite. We then waited until the inevitable swan-dive. Revenge was very very sweet.

The evil kid had the gall to complain to the head of year about this. I explained to Mr Cooper that I had just instructed Russel to dispose of his dogshit-encrusted Topic into the bin lest any young children or animals think to eat it when the swan-dive occurred. Despite Mr Cooper's huge grin and barely stifled laughter, he appeared to believe me.

The most potent tool of any troublemaker in German lessons was the swastika. Our tools were a particular kind of felt tipped pen, and a 50p coin. These pens, with slow-drying ink, were used to draw a reverse swastika on the 50pence piece. Then, after finding a gullible victim, you would tell them that it was possible to test their intelligence by pressing a coin to their forehead and timing how long it took for it to fall off. If executed in a timely manner, the victim would be completely unaware that they were spending the lesson a la Charles Manson with a fucking great swastika displayed proudly on their face.

My history homework was to draw a map of Europe c. 1936, clearly showing the fascist, communist and democratic countries. Mrs. Shield, my teacher, was so pleased with my swastika (correctly placed in Germany) that she got me to teach the class just how I had created this perfectly formed symbol of potent evil.
My only experience in the profession of teaching has been to spend half an hour instructing a roomful of white school children in the nuances of drawing a swastika. It's a scene that didn't make it onto the recent TV and poster recruitment drive.

The pastime of the third row in maths (intelligent but not geeky) was to fill in the grid provided by maths textbooks with swastikas. It wasn't so much that they were all Nazis, but that you could fit exactly 16 on a page and they looked rather pleasing. They also offended those annoying girls with liberal mums who you couldn't even call someone gay or fat in front of. Upset ensued when our books were one day randomly checked by a Jewish supply teacher.

You may say bitch and sod, because a "sod" is a clump of grass, and a "bitch" is a female dog. Bastard, however, is the acid test.

The moment a classroom is first exposed to The Macc Lads is hugely edifying. It's a real South Park "Asses Of Fire" moment, when the bar just seems ever so slightly raised.

"She's like a tub of lard / she makes my willy hard"

Sweaty Betty propounds the Rubenesque aesthetic, flying bravely in the face of the modern preoccupation with weight loss. Sadly, this embracing attitude didn't extend to the gay community, in the song "Now He's A Puff".

"He's going to spread AIDS all over the world / Kill the bastard"

Their most recent song of 2006 - 21 years after the seminal "Beer & Sex & Chips n Gravy" explains how different parts of the Macc Lads' bodies are English.

[video on youtube]

In the Fifth Form, rumour had it that somebody on my street had indulged in some heavy 'bottom canoodling' with Sandra.
Thereafter, she was only ever referred to as Sweetcorn Sandra, as it became widely known that upon extraction, he discovered that a piece of sweetcorn had become lodged in his Jap’s-eye.

At the tender age of 10, Knight Rider is everything. I have never seen the episode in question repeated, but in it the hapless Hoff puts his foot down and utters the immortal line "Pedal to the metal, sweetheart". This must have made a great impression on me, for the next day at breaktime, during a frenetic game of tag in which I made my trademark driving noises, I yelled at the top of my voice "Pedal to the metal, sweetheart" while accelerating away.

The sudden playground silence which greeted the remark was, I suspect, a joy to behold, followed moments later by bewildered chortling, and, a moment after that, unabashed laughter followed by violence. The fact that I was fairly chubby and probably accelerating like a laden barge is, in this instance, merely an aside.

From most shops you could get these sweets which where on a string of elastic. We fashioned these into weapons by gripping one of the sweets in our front teeth and extending the elastic outwards to aim. Once you bite down on the sweet, half of it will be catapaulted infront of you. With practice, this can be developed into a very useful weapon, especially suited to temporarily disabling someone's eyeball.

When the transport costs for the coaches taking us to the heated indoor pool became too expensive, our school decided to have us use the pool in the local park - outdoors and unheated. Our sadistic bastard of a PE teacher would hurry us into the icy depths and then disappear into the little wooden hut to smoke, drink tea and take the piss out of us with the parkie-type man who worked there.
On one particularly bleak day, a boy, newly arrived from India, overcome with shock and cold and unable to swim, struggled weakly in the middle of the pool before passing out and rolling over for the last time. My friend Paul came to the rescue and began to swim towards the poor lad. The shouts finally alerted PE dick, who instead of jumping in to help, casually took off his sheepskin coat, trainers and socks and was removing his wristwatch when the boy was finally laid, unconscious beside the pool.
The other park-keepers revived him after a few tense minutes. There was no ambulance, no inquiry, nothing official. The PE teacher even blamed the boy because he couldn't speak English and never told him he couldn't swim. After the incident, Indian-boy-life-saving Paul somehow managed to convince himself that he was now a prime target for the National Front and it was only a matter of time before they would get him.

At Crossfields, an all boys public school, swimming lessons involved compulsory nudity.
I wish this wasn't true! The practice ended just after I left, due to the 'self-consciousness of the boys'. No shit. This was in 1985.
A nice twist came when the swimming teacher's daughters (in cossies) were in the pool on some sort of open day thing, and we all dived in to join them, much to their embarrassment, but not ours.

Stupid idea dreamed up by our swimming teacher so he could have an hour off. The idea was - rather than teach us to swim, he would leave us in the pool and let natural selection sort us out. The Darwinnian approach was helped by the volleyballs that we were allowed to play with. Basically the runt boy was the only child in the pool, and everyone else twatted him with volleyballs from round the edge. It was impossible for him to get out as every time he did he exposed his whole body to the barrage of hard plastic spheres instead of just his head. A terrible situation to find yourself in.

We were never sure if there really was a chemical in the water which would reveal if you had pissed in the swimming pool. However, throwing opened ink cartridges into the water behind Neil Jervis as he swam was enough to have him hauled out of the pool and sent to change. The reputation which stuck to him afterwards may have deprived him of female company well into his teens.

Presenting your teachers with a bundle of lumpen, shit-filled keks as proof that you are ill.
Generally, fingers down the throat or a note will suffice. Actually producing tangible turds is considered a little much.

One of our woodwork teachers, Mr Woodyatt, was so overcome by how god-awful our school was, that he took positive measures and hung himself.
This cleverness of this song, noting both the similar scan of "Mr Woodyatt" to "Sweet Chariot", and tying in the reference to the swinging actio of the recently hung, was not noted by the other teachers, who bollocked us.
Legend had it that he didn't compose the rope properly the first time, and came to earth with a a thud. He got it right next time round though, avoiding another bruised coccyx and neatly snapping his neck. Well done, Mr Woodyatt!