Shithole power station in which geography students were invited to attend for a week's school holiday (pikey kids went to the Outdoor Pursuits Centre). The week's activities generally involved walking the streets and questioning frightened old ladies about delta plains and longshore drift, walking along the beach throwing sharp stones at each other, and for those of us who didn't go out on the town at night, developing a scary proficiency for table tennis in the dingy little cellar.

Sleeping was frowned upon, as anyone who so much as closed their eyes for longer than a few seconds had their eyebrows shaved or lots of shaving foam spunked on their forehead. There was always someone who'd drop off first, usually Roger, and he'd usually end up going apeshit mental when we tried to put a banana in his mouth, crazy scamps that we were.

I'm pretty sure every school in South East Anglia had to endure the torture of Bradwell power station at some time in their life, unless you took pissy History and spent all day looking at Mr Newton's gay little drawings on the blackboard.

At Great Portland Street, which was a school for the blind, which is where I went because my eyes are shit, I discovered that you could press down some of the Braille dots on the hymn books.

The name of the school was written on the front cover of the books, and by removing the lower left dot of the P, and the two lower dots on the O of Portland, hundreds of blind children looked aghast as they fingers told them they were attending Great Fartland Street.

Not the rudest thing in the world, but just thought you'd like to know there's a lighter side to perpetual darkness.

To be worthy of "brassneck" was to have been embarassed to an extreme degree, such as thinking that the members of Adam's Ants were "Marco Merrick (one man), Terry Lee, Garry Tibbs and your Julie". Yes.

Opposite of "make friends". A remarkably civil ceremony that all friendly interaction shall cease, performed with a sharp, single, handshake. You may, at any time, "make friends" again, for instance, if you want to borrow a rubber, with this rhyme; "Make friends, make friends, never never break friends. If you do, you'll catch the 'flu, and that will be the end of you." Warning; this is childish.

Whilst waiting for 'bedtime' at our boarding school we would practice our breakdancing skills. Nothing strange there, except that we were dressed in paisley patterned viyella pyjamas, dressing gowns and corduroy slippers and 'performing' on a carpet covered floor. Cool!

When breaking in to your school during the holidays, in order to steal, deface the headmasters office and generally add some excitement to another muggy summers day in a quiet market town - remember to cover your tracks.
Whatever you do, do not bury your swag of multi-coloured marker pens in the school ground under some leaves. Not underground - under a few fucking leaves.
I would also advise that you don't write your name all over the boxes in multi coloured felt-tip, in order to test them out.
When the stash was found, and the police were called, it was lucky they had Sherlock fucking Holmes on their team. It didn't take him long to figure out the culprit, and I was consigned to three days suspension, which let me catch up on some serious Let's Go Maths!.

My primary school had a lesbian for a headteacher, who was seeing the deputy headteacher, also a lesbian. Another teacher, Paul 'Pogo' Patterson was gay, and used to frequent local gay club Ruby's. Whether this club existed or not, I have yet to figure out.

I shit you not.

Brenton Stanton smelled, and he had a head the same shape as a small bucket; but he never cried if he fell over. He had a brother called Royson who also smelled but who grew up to father four children who didn't. Despite his strange name no one picked on him because he had a real leather football and his father looked like Ian Brady.

Surname sounds like a Cockney pronunciation of the worst word. Saying "Brian" before "Cunt" therefore affords you some protection from punishment. Although you should rightfully get punched for talking like a Cockney.

Put someone you know's name on the front of this highly amusing song. For this example, I have used the name Richard. It is sung to the tune of Knick-Knack Paddy-Whack. "Richard's gay, Richard's gay, Richard's name is Brian May" Works equally well with Darren Day (my own variant).

Brian became a man of legend while we were on a school trip, and he deciced to moon another group of boys across the hall. He dropped his trousers, bent over and we all saw an inexplicably hairy arse and bulging scrotum.
Far from receiving the hero's cheer that would normally meet such an act of derring-do, we edged away from him, and couldn't meet his eyes for the rest of the day.
Why would it be hairy? Why would that happen? Hair on the arse would just get... covered in shit... why would the body do that?

Pointless re-extension of "brill" to make it just as long as the originally abbreviated word, "brilliant". To say that your new Big Trak is "Brillo Pads" reeks of privilege - you're asking for it, mister.

Ill-advised and all-too-camp exclamation by Mr Brown, obviously not content with having such an ordinary name. It became brilly burgers for at least 5 years.

A game so rampantly ubiquitous and with outcomes so predictably unhilarious that it deserves no further mention on a website tagged with the unofficial catchphrase "hilarity ensued".
For the Bulldog obsessed, we offer this humour-free alternative, which not only demonstrates just how unsuitable the subject is for the Law of the Playground, but also how much better we are at this sort of thing than they are. I mean, honestly.

By far the most amusing use of a punctured football is to form it into a bowl shape, place it on your head and strut round the playground, hilariously pretending to be bald.

A female poor person who lives in a caravan and wears the same clothes every day. Possibly derived from Neighbour's Bronwyn, who was actually very nice looking.

Mr. Wells was the owner of a truly vile pair of shit brown trousers. Unusually good natured mockery included the line "Those brown slacks are the business, sir!". This soon evolved into the chant of "Brown Slacks Binnif, The Binnif That You Asked For!". Sung in a hip hop style and accompanied by vague breakdancing actions.

Can only be done by lads too tough to be worried about retribution. Involved sticking your finger up your arse asking someone naive to "smell my finger" then wiping a brown stosh across their top lip.

The noise the whole class made when our form tutor Mrs Negus entered the classroom. The noise was (of course) the sound of her vibrators, of which rumour had it, she had a drawer full.

One of a near-infinite number of jokes based on the name Bruce Lee. Others include Bruce Tee (What kicks you in the face and holds your golf balls?), Bruce Me (What punches you in the stomach then walks away?), Bruce Pea (What mastered the one-inch-punch and is traditionally served with fish and chips?), and the slightly avant-garde Spruce Tree. See also scooby poo, wee-man and the masters of the pooniverse, and knowing wee, knowing poo.

An unexpected continuance of a bundy, or an uncle vesta, after a couple of moments to let everything cool down. The attack is resumed in an identical style, but instead of crying the name of the actual attack, you cry "brucie bonus", as the victim is very lucky to receive this extra salvo of pain.

Approximate French translation of “BURRRRN!”. Used when someone is insulted en français, as here:

Madame: Deuce, qu’est-ce que Père Noël va te donner pour Noël?
Deuce: Une voiture.
Madame: Ha. Bon chance.
Jacques: BRULÉ!!

Also useful when, during a project on French cooking, Charles actually does burn himself on a bowl of hot shrimp.

An expression of delight or surprise that originated with Andy Bain's impression of a 1970s funky wah-wah guitar, of the sort that would accompany Dirty Harry in a rooftop chase of bad guys.

In an attempt to engineer a bit of Beano-style slapstick, I filled a bucket of water and rested it on top of the Biology classroom doorframe - and sat back to await the arrival of Mr Blissett.
Unfortunately, things quickly went awry on Mr Blissett's arrival, as instead of seeing him drenched, class 3G bore witness to him being knocked out by a full bucket of water falling but not tipping, cracking his forehead open on the floor as he crumpled under the weight. The water handily spilled from the bucket so as to wash up the blood from the spouting wound in his forehead, and I earned a one week suspension.
Fortunately, Blissett was back at work a week later with only his sense of humour badly damaged.

Asian children will be greeted with this phrase, because all their fathers are bus conductors and this is what they say as the bus pulls away. Tomfoolery on the bus will be met with a harsh "bud bud ding ding, get off my bus please". Jim Davidson will confirm these facts.