Credit must be given to Dov Skipper for his valiant efforts to avoid the dreaded BCG jab.
As we all remember, there was an initial jab which would inflame should the antibodies in question already be in place. For a fortunate few, this meant no actual BCG.
Dov came up with the idea of artificially inflaming his test jab. So he spent a week attacking the test spot on his wrist with an arsenal of pencils, drawing pins, fingernail etc. The result was not so much an inflamation as a gaping Richey Manic style lesion.
The nurse wasn't convinced that he was already super-immune, and that his massive trauma was the product of really fucking kick-ass antibodies.
The victim (let's call him Ian, for argument's sake, it was always an Ian) would be asked "Do you have a BHI?"

A positive reply would be met with the ear-splitting declaration "Ian has a baldy half-incher!"

Negative replies would be met with the slightly less offensive "What, so you don't have a big hairy invader?" On the whole, we preferred the positive response.
Mr. Badman, our games teacher, not only had a glass eye, but was devoted to the talent of Billy Joel. One afternoon's games session was called off due to a mix of rain and apathy on our parts, and we were forced to pack into the Biology Lab and watch Billy Joel's greatest hits on video for over an hour. Despite offerering to run laps in the rain in our pants, we were forced to sit and watch this sickening filth until our brains poured out our noses.
I went to school at what was the sad, tattered, skull-fucked remains of a Christian Brothers school, and Brother Kelly was the head. The only one of that paedophile clique still around... He used to walk around whistling, a huge fat fucker of a man, he was. When I was 12, our teacher wasn't teaching us enough, so we got BK every Tuesday instead. He'd drag you out to the front of the class for Maths all morning. If you got a question wrong, you got punched. If you were in his way as he went to punch a student, you got punched. If you got a few questions wrong, you'd have your head smashed into a wall. He also had a strap. And a banana.
Being fortunate enough not to land in dear Brother Kelly's form class, I heard only rumours of what went on. But one thing we all saw was a plastic banana. Like a dog's toy. Lying on his desk. He used to staple it. Full of staples it was. I don't know why. I don't want to.
If you did something wrong that didn't merit an extra five pages of the dreaded Two Grade, you got the strap. Simple. Six times across each hand with something that no-one ever did describe. My friend had it done to him because he kicked a girl in the shins after she'd stolen our entire collection of helicopter leaves. There was supposed to be a gang you could join at the main school which consisted entirely of people who'd been strapped. Like a bondage Mile-High club. It didn't exist. Lying fuckers.
A smelly person. You don't have to be huge and black, but it helps.
Someone who has been circumcised. Effective, because people generally wonder what the hell the person's getting at. The punchline, "I've been cut off", generally pleases.
Someone who is too poor to have a phone and so has to use pay phones. Feel free to add that the phonebox is actually their home.
Babb listened to Radio 4 and collected stamps. Despite this, his fate was only sealed the day he missed the bus on the sixth form university open-day trip.
Instead of running, or walking off swearing, Babb, chose to skip contentedly behind the bus. He only fucking skipped. For long enough for everyone to see.
Subsequently, when you had a conversation with him, there were people queuing up to do a Babb behind his back. From that day, Babb was cursed to never have another conversation with anyone who wasn't laughing at something that wasn't quite him.
Baby Babylon was the name Andrew Karkutt gave to an appealing BusyBody character. BusyBodies were like chunkier, friendlier Lego people, with infinitely more convincing hats. Baby Babylon became the mascot for a range of cleaning products, which involved shouting "there's shit in my trousers" then whispering "Baby Babylon"

He was later joined by The Poo With The Flaxen Hair, who had this theme tune;

The Poo with the Flaxen Hair,
The Poo with the Flaxen Hair,
They seek him here, they seek him there,
The Poo with the Flaxen Hair.

Then there was Megaslap, just about the only thing I could draw. Here they are, the pricks.
Abusive chant directed at me by class bullies for daring to wear an iron on "Fighting Fantasy" transfer on my jumper. The chanting started in a normal voice, but was gradually replaced by a mock-spastic voice and finally stopped altogether when one of my tormentors decided it would in fact be a better idea to spit on me.
A name for us, the cool kids, whose coolright it was to occupy the back seats of any bus. This right was defended with violence and intimidation, when necessary.
It is only with hindsight that I realise that it sounds more than a little gay.
To allow the liquid from a can or bottle to re-enter the vessel, complete with some of your own saliva. The soft drink equivalent of bumkissing a spliff. Backwashing led to the often repeated statistic that the last 10% of any can of coke is 50% saliva. Plainly bollocks, as not everyone is a scabby backwashing bronno.
Mrs Pocklington's breath was so bad that no one dared ask her for help. If you were foolish enough to ask for help, she would come over to you and breathe her foetid stench breath of rotted shit and dead animals over you until you died. Or spewed. Or spewed then died.
We all failed History that year.
If a bully from the year above is amusing himself during a quiet lunch break by repeatedly banging you head on the ground, it is a Bad Idea to press your head against the ground to stop him lifting it up again.
He will stamp on it instead.
I don't know why we hated David Baddiel so much, but it was enough for us to invent this marvellous game. Basically, you run as fast as you can towards your victim, shout BADDIEL, loudly and then push them over.
During a biology lesson, Derek Parker claimed there was a badger sett in the woods close to his home, so the teacher organised a field trip to study it.
Early on a Saturday morning several young boys duly arrived at the woods near Parker's house with a camera to take photographs of the badgers.
Naturally, the sett couldn't be found, and it was suspected that, much like Parker's uncle who built a talking robot, the whole thing had been a figment of the boy's imagination.
Getting everyone up early on a Saturday to participate in a fictious extra-curricular activity should have been sufficient grounds for a beating, but when the film in the camera was developed, it transpired that Parker had sneaked off with it and used it to take photographs of his cock.
If your English teacher is named Mrs Bagnall, and she is a right cow, then you can use this "sneeze" to excellent effect.
In 1973, Gary Glitter's "I'm the leader of the gang, I am" was number 1 in the charts. To commemorate this event, Peter Bagnall's mom bought him a black bomber jacket and embroidered the words 'I'm the leader of the gang' on the back in big red joined up letters. The irony was that Bagnall was the snot kid of class 3B and was leader of no gang at all.
Many games include balls. Football, squareball, softball, tennisball. Here are some of the others. Murderball / Deathball : A pleasing mix of football, it, and violence. A football was kicked, and if it hit you without you controlling it and returning the ball, then you were chased and pulped.
After a procession of supply teachers, each failing in some vital way to hold onto the job, we were given Mr Conteh. Going for the intimidation tactic, Mr Conteg was a huge African man, with a very strong accent.
Did you notice his name was Mr Conteh? Well, that alone had us in hysterics, but eventually he found the class so lacking in concentration he started a disciplinary talk. This included the repetition of the phrase 'the ball is in your court'.
Unfortunately in his thick accent, this sound like Mr Cunty telling us that the ball was in our cunt. I mean, he could talk, being called Mr Cunty. And so, after an hour of uncontrolled laughing, another supply teacher tied up his belongings in a spotted hanky, and walked off into the sunset. (Actually, to my sister's school, where the same thing happened again)
French writer of the early 19th century, famed for his Comédie Humaine.
This was written, of course, so that in later years aspiring young wags could enjoy variations on the following classic wordplay:
Q. Did you get your head around the Balzac?
A. I'd always considered the Balzac a little hairy but once I got a taste of it I couldn't get enough!
La hilarité est ensuivant - Human Comedy indeed.
A short-lived fashion of shoes in the late '70s. They were very flat, very wide, but most importantly, had very stiff wooden soles that stuck out at least 1/2 an inch, which were ideal for kicking shins in. I've just done a google search but found no references. I will personally blow anyone who can produce a picture of them. If you can find a pair in size 11, the sky's the limit.
Cutting sarcastic putdown used by a maths teacher, when a pupil answers a question without stating the units.
TEACHER: "what's the volume of a cube with sides of 2cm each?"
PUPIL: "eight"
TEACHER: "eight what? bananas?"
Pupils would often fall out of their chairs and asphyxiate with laughter.