A girl's retort to any insult. It works on the same theory as "what you say is what you are", or "I know you are, you said you are, so what am I?".

Bully : Elaine, you scabby thighed fat bitch!
Elaine : A bit like you, really.

This is an imperfect reflection. The bully could quite logically reply:

What, just a bit like me? Do you mean I'm scabby-thighed but not fat? Or that I'm scabby-thighed AND fat, but just not as much as you? Either way, you just admitted that you are a scabby-thighed fat bitch, and I'm telling the headmaster.

Sitting in Maths, me and my mate (kev) were doing 26 extra difficult equations. They were lettered A-Z and we were working in teams of two to get them.

We went through the list, but couldn't get the 11th one (letter k) or the letter O which kev was working on. Minutes passed, until I worked it out at which point I turned to Kev in my slang West of Scotland tongue and said "A Fun' K Kevin" (I've found K Kevin).

Only really funny, if you're Scottish

i forgotten what the game is called but whta you had to do was get two teams and one would make a word with each person being a letter. Then the other team would have to get someone from the other team and beat them up to get their letter to stop being beaten up. If they got all the letters they had to guess the word if they did then they won. What was it called someone help me.

I have my paws all over this one

having gone to primary school in rural ireland, I fancy many of the follo0wing stories may be worthless to the site, worthless to the potential reader, and generally just poop. So in the spirit of pithyness, I submit my tales:

1: A local kid called Kieran Quealy appeared in school very cut up (literally - about the face and arms) after a few days absence. He claimed that he had been in a car crash. However, his sister managed to eventually blow the whistle, to reveal that he had attmepted to skateboard over his house using a simple planks-and-milkbottle crates ramp, which admittedly must have *pointed* over his house, but was only 5-6 feet long and at the bottom of a large hill. It faced a pair of PVC double glazed patio doors on the ground story of the 2 story domicile. Naturally, his inertia knocked the ramp asunder and he flew through these doors, to a pointy meeting with choppy nasty sharp bits.

proto Jackass, really. If only he had a DV camera. Not really an example of playground law though, is it?

Must think...

2: my school was composed of a number of interesting genetic specimens from the hills, deliverance style inbred kida with rotten teeth and common deformities ;-). respected and feared by all, one of my undying memories of them is one of them, after impaling his leg on a length of wrought iron through an ill judged soccer tackle at the edge of the playing field, proceeded to chase everyone around the school with the resultant, gory, blood squirting wound... scary.

But that's crap too, isn't it? oh well, one more... and this IS playground law...

3: though it beggars belief, my school, a poor national school in the arse end of nowhere, had a design flaw. Basically, the sewage main for the adjacent houseing estate went under the playground at a depth of only two feet or so. In distant memory, someone dropped a breezeblock on the thing, and it split, showering poop, papier mache de toilette, and condoms across the yard.

it then proceeded to flow out of the strangeley - landscaped playground, which consisted of steps and levels, by a highly circuitious route, thus making the entire school environs a health hazard, and necessitating a day off. Imagine the delight!

So basically, when the ground thawed and softened in the spring, there'd always be THAT day, when someone would remember the sewage trick, and break the pipe. Day or two off, all good...

or was it?

The problem with this was that, in the short time before the teachers realised what the smell was and came running, you had maybe 200 kids exposed to raw sewage. And this, like some pagan ritual, reversed the pecking order of the school. You see, the smallest kids, the ones that got thumped all year round, had no intellectual fear of sewage, and so would delightedly hold aloft condoms, paper cups, whatever, full of the stuff, watching the fear growing on the older kids faces as they began to swingb the condom around their heads, like glee-overdosed gengis khans. For a short period of time, the older you were, the more scared you were...

And that happened at least three years running, so that's a rule of sorts, no?

Anyways, I'll leave these three and run off. It's been ages since I contributed around here... heh...

laterf olks...

Once when I was in secoundary school, this bloody tosser came up round this girl we knew as Stephanie Stank ( real name Stephanie Stanck) and triend to pull up my skirt so that him and his mates could all have a good look. Well, they were able to get the skirt up to Stephanie's head, but sad for them, good ol' Steph hadn't changer her nickers for three days. (She was wereing those nickers with the days on them like they had in the 70s). Well needless to say, we all thought it was funny, and the day after me and my mates slipped a note to the tosser saying

What a cliffhanger! This really is the standard we're aiming for here in Cockfinger's Department of the Wrong. Do you think you've got a story as lacking in everything as this? Come on. I fucking dare you.

Mr Gregory was our geography teacher in year 2. We hated him, so formed (and my toes curl at the memory) the Anti Gregory Liberation Army.

The IRA and SAS can sleep easy in their beds - our rebellion stretched as far as making small badges with a picture of a beard drawn on with the wobbly green letters 'AGLA' underneath. These were then worn under the lapels of our blazers.

Our one tactical strike was putting the clock forward 10 minutes in lessons so we could get out early. Plot was foiled when Gregory, er, looked at his watch. No members of the AGLA ever went on to serve in the Gulf War.

Fiendish plan by two nine year olds who wished to dupe the charitable British public into giving them money to buy Star Wars stuff. The "Anthony and John Figure Fund" involved rattling homemade collection tins made from Panda Pops bottles with attractive labels drawn in felt tip and wandering the estate until we got bored. After two afternoons we had extorted £2.00 each from our parents, who found their children begging for toy money from their neighbours extremely distasteful.

I got Lando Calrissian - result!!

If you're going to throw a paper aeroplane at the French teacher, you might as well make a trip to the art room before the lesson and do it properly.

A variation on the normal game of tig. The aim was the same, except you had to play it with your coat over your head, peering down one of the arms, which ostensibly looked like you had an aardvark's snout. What we actually looked like was a bunch of kids running about with coats on our heads.

Abbot was popular, charming, and irretrievably fixated on all things sexual. Most of what he did and pretty much all he said either referenced or simulated sexual function. A few examples that stick in the memory:

-Enthusiastically and noisily licking a protrusion in the classroom’s plasterboard wall on the basis that it was "a clitoris".

-Jumping in front of the deputy head in the 6th Form common room, bending down low and spreading his arse cheeks apart with his hands. Because (in Abbot's opinion) the deputy head was gay, and would appreciate it.

-Drawing a detailed picture of a naked Mrs Tomalin, with meticulous detail and colouring on her vagina. He labelled this the “Triangle Of Delight” and pretended to pleasure it with his mouth like it was some kind of clitoral plasterboard wall.

-Pretending that a glue stain on the common room window was in fact his semen, which had flown out while he was masturbating. He would simulate the sound of this hot ejaculation by going "SSsssss".

-Serenading Dytham with a song outlining his gayness.

Well, Dytham’s a homosexual
He really is so gay
He likes to get boys on the ground
And roll them in the hay
If you should hear old Dytham
Making such a din
He’ll have got some poor boy’s trousers down
And pushed his penis in

Dytham was not gay, but that's OK - it he was, this song would have been homophobic.

-Proposing to the school council that we should have a swimming pool party in the school pool. When asked to elaborate what that actually involved he said “we just get a mixed group of sixth formers in there and encourage intercourse”

We never had that swimming party.

Are you ABC? Watch out! What ABC stands for depends on your response.

Say yes, and you've confessed to being an African Bum Cleaner. Say no, and you've just denied that you are A Brilliant Child

This doesn't exactly work if you're going to be a dick about grammar. And it is, to be fair, only really funny if they say "yes", because that's the only way you get to say "oh Jesus you're an African Bum Cleaner, this is most irregular".

When Mr Craig asks you to 'parse' part of a Latin sentence, you must reply with this answer. Mr Craig will then mutter "Oh, God" and put his head in his hands before weeping quietly.

The distance that Danny Swailes fell to escape a 10 minute after school detention for the whole class. Danny said he was leaving at the normal time. When Mr Luck blocked the door, Danny slid the back window open and hopped out.
Despite his confidence, Danny sprained both ankles so badly that he couldn't actually walk for a week, and had to ask a teacher, who happened to see this crumpled, crying mess on the floor, to phone his dad for a lift home.

A dinner lady once asked a colleague what the magic word was, after he forgot to say please. His response?

"Abracadabra motherfucker, now give me my potatoes!"

He later claimed that he had been calling the dinner lady "Mother Hubbard" as a term of endearment. It was a nice try.

Given to the smallest, weakest kid during games lessons. Victim is pinned to the floor and asked if he wants "an accelerator". Regardless of the answer (no-one ever says "yes"), you spread his legs, put your foot on his bollocks, and floor it. The engine realistically rises in pitch as you press harder, just like a real car.

This was one of those terrible events that you piss yourself laughing about until the day you die. It occurred in my last year at high school, at our Sports Day held in the Queen Elizabeth II recreation centre.

Now, Hillmorton being the PC, progressive school that it is, we had a special unit on the school grounds for students that were severely physically and mentally handicapped. After the initial shock of having "them" in the school, people soon learned to capitalise on the humour element, as they had the habit of making loud mongoloid noises in school assemblies. Quite amusing.

Anyway, it was decided that, to be fair and equal, these students would have their own race... a wheelchair race, where able-bodied students would push the handicapped students along the track in front of the school. That was fine... everyone was sitting round going "isn't it good that they can take part, please have some of my fine sponge cake". And thus far, we had satisfied ourselves with laughing at one of the helpers pushing a wheelchair, who was hugely fat. However, we were to be treated to something deeply more.

To the absolute shocked amazement of everyone watching, one of the wheelchairs ran into a stone on the track. The wheel jammed and came to a sudden stop. The confused helper kept pushing, however, which lent an extra momentum to the handicapped girl, who was now sailing through the air.

She landed face first onto the hard track... and because she was so handicapped, she could do NOTHING to break her fall. This was the source of extreme tragedy, and consequently, humour. It all seemed to happen in slow motion... we saw her fly out of her chair, and do a graceful arc in mid-air and then slam heavily down onto the ground. There was a collective inward gasp amongst the crowd, and a rather shocked silence.

Then, to the disgust of the teachers who worked with the handicapped teens and who were now rushing in horror to the girl's side, the faint murmurs of laughter could be heard tittering round the place. With hindsight, something like this HAD to happen... and in a really unpleasant way, I'm glad it did.

The Action Man is a great tool for measuring how loved a child is by his parents. Simply tot up the Action Men owned by the child, and refer to this key.
0-1 Action Men : Child is physically / mentally abused. If he has one Action Man, and it is up his arse, he may also be sexually abused, or gay. Also has headlice.
2-3 Action Men, 1 Vehicle : Child escapes the more serious symptoms of neglect, but the house is devoid of love. Divorce may be on the cards, mostly thanks to the stress caused by the financial burden of raising a child. You.
4-5 Action Men, 2+ Vehicles : Average. The child will grow up contented, and have a string of relationships with Russian spies before settling for an obedient plain girl.
6+ Action Men, All Vehicles : Clearly the parents have just died, and the foster parents want to stop him wetting the bed. Either that or the child knows how to play divorced parents off against each other.

Used in response to someone insulting your father, or any other family member, said tearfully and sincerely. The victim would hopefully say "Oh shit, I'm sorry", and then you'd laugh in their face.

The new name chosen by our maths teacher in the mid 80s when it became apparent that teaching at a secondary school might become problematic with the name Mr Ades.
In our attempts to bring you only the truest stories of playground cruelty, we searched the online phone book for Adeses. London gives a paltry two results. However, they're popping up like Karposi's Sarcoma in Surrey , with a massive dose of 13 Ades. Leeds is Ades-Free for now, but with this many Gays, it's only a matter of time. Lucy Hannaford, our research leads us to believe you. Congratulations!

A synonym for moodiness or anger, one may be in an adge, or feeling adgey. This becomes a Jaffa Adge, if the rage is particularly pathetic or impotent, such as hurling a rubber four feet across the room.

Adidas bags can be doctored so that the logo is an acrostic for;
all day I dream about sex
after dinner I do a shit
a dirty indian did a shit
arse dicking is dangerous after supper
For double deedas, try;
a dirty indian did a shit and did it down a sewer

Cheap 4-striped Adidas 'kick' clones. from Woolworths. attempting to disguise them by removing the surplus stripe only resulted in a kicking.

Adrian Gombault (cleverly nicknamed Gaydrian Bumjolt) was....
The rest of this entry has been removed, as it frankly couldn't live up to this early promise.

An undiscovered anagram of which is "Bad Anal Rim". Thankfully, no-one found out - I had the piss taken quite enough already.

Andrew Sillitoe's voice was the last in our school year to break. It didn't take long before the connection between his wholesome blondness and that of Welsh choirboy Aled Jones was noted. The insult was soon tripled by some genius to Aflid - a nickname that spread like wildfire around the year, causing Sillitoe to cry, and lectures on bullying to be delivered to our entire school year.

Post-university, I bumped into him in London whilst very drunk. He was very friendly and his voice had deepened to Barry White proportions, but that didn't stop my mate Angus calling his mobile later that evening and screaming "AFLIIID!" like some rabid member of S-Express.