The baffling french output of Darren Brown, who refused to learn any other French words than "C'est". To make it up to a full sentence, he added the English words "with relish". This, he said often and plenty, and did not limit to French classes.
Defensive self-mockery. Should you fall over, or make a fool of yourself, this 'confession' will hopefully reduce external piss-taking. However, there are no guarantees.
"Cack" was our word for excrement - solid, liquid, cold or still steaming. Immortalised in the nursery rhyme,

Doctor Foster went to Gloucester,
In a shower of cack.
The dozy twat forgot his hat,
And it all ran down his back.

At least on this journey he was spared the indignity of stepping into a puddle of shit that went right up to his middle; although this must have been before that occasion, considering his oath never to return to Gloucester at the conclusion of that episode.

In fact, considering his adverse reaction to just getting his legs wet in the classic rhyme, you'd imagine a faecal downpour running over his head and face, before trickling its moist brown path along his spine would have caused a much earlier embargo on Gloucester-going, that might have spared him the unfortunate puddle incident.

I bet he liked it, the Hippocratic scatwizard.
A game in which you cak yourself.
The game of Cak requires a cricket ball to be thrown into the top of a conker tree, under which the cak players wait keenly for it, risking a skull-splitting thunk on their head.
Conker trees magnify the noise of the ball smashing into the branches, you can even feel it through the ground. Plus they're teasingly difficult to see through when in full leaf. Your ideal Cakking Tree will provide a throwing route up through the branches while also acting like pinball machine when the ball tumbles back down through the foliage.
This fearsome game was played regularly by about 10 of us for 4 years at school. And no-one died.
Martin K. got 'bonsed', as he was nonchalantly eating a sandwich. He failed to heed the cry of "cak", and he paid with his forehead. This marked Martin?s retirement from the game. The game of Cak.
Another innovation was the 'no looking up? round. This meant a steely-eyed battle of wills and terror rush where the sounds from above make you taste the adrenaline like metal.
Teachers would not stop the game of Cak, because they didn?t want to believe what we were doing. When one teacher asked what we were up to, possibly thinking we were terrorising a squirrel, we simply explained that it was "festive". He seemed happy enough with that.
Mr Thomas and Callum Savage developed an unhealthy rivalry. Mr Thomas took us for registration, music, and PE. The genuine wrestling match in registration was entertaining, especially since Callum appeared to be winning. The music room fiasco where Callum broke a Maraca by hitting Mr Thomas with it was even better. By far and away the best was the time Callum was bowling in softball (they're not soft, by the way) Mr Thomas stepped up to have a go, batted the ball stright back into Callums face, knocked him out cold and broke his nose. Kudos to Mr Thomas for finding the only accidental way to really hurt the boy.
Calypso Cups - fruit drinks packaged in brittle plastic containers - were the perfect size to place in a blazer pocket, and thus in exactly the right place for someone to punch, causing a whale-like spurt of sticky liquid up the owner's blazer. Pocketing the Calypso Cup is a beverage faux pas you make once, and once only.
No sooner had the Biafrans and Ethiopians all been fed with cheeseburgers and said "thanks the West we couldn't eat another thing", the Cambodians started starving too. So Blue Peter wheeled out the thermometers again, and did what Blue Peter did best - distilled an involved tale of tragedy into a single word insult.

"Cambo" wasn't used to insult the thin kids. The pot-belly of malnutrition made it look like those poor, poor children had been walking like Pac-Men, greedily scoffing air.

A Cambo was therefore a child so desperate for food that they will eat air or sand in addition to their already huge rations of chips and Aztec bars.
Started by Camel (Thomas Wells) who, after two years at our primary school was taken out, ostensibly to be educated at home. To become a member of the club you had to be "Humped" by Camel himself or any other member of the club. Humping involved a strange bumping of Camel's chest onto your back while he shouted "HUMP!" God knows what it looked like to the bemused teachers and fourth years who stood watching us being chased around the playground, all of us wanting desperately to be humped but at the same time all being vaguely aware of the sexual connotations and knowing it was very wrong. Once initiated into the club your role was to hump any non-member in sight. You also got to go to club meetings where Camel would point out Camel Land on his map of the world and issue strange, coded orders. This is probably how cults start. Camel left our school not long after his club died out, due to a lack of new members to hump.
What will eventually happen if someone writes Caramel Tart on a chalkboard in the school canteen. I laughed for pretty much the rest of the week.
Roll-front wooden lockers were a gift to the catarrhal terrorist. You spend half an hour hacking up phlegm then select a locker. You slightly raise the front and then carefully dribble extremely glutinous phlegm - the Camel Yocker - into such a position that the locker front, when lowered, rests in it. Any subsequent raising of the locker front produces a glistening, nauseating curtain of yocker strands, preventing access to the locker's contents. If you were really lucky, you could distract the locker's owner at exactly the right time. He would then reach in without looking, pushing his hand through the napalm-like yocker waterfall.
At primary school there was a phase for building 'camps' along the edges of the playing fields. Pupils would dig out little trenches for toy cars and figures to play in. There were a lot of jealous reconnaissance strolls along the fields to check out the size and complexity of rival camps. Two of us had one along the back, and we planned to dig with tiny sticks under the train track so that we could run away to the Mysterious Cities of Gold. We didn't get very far.
During the height of the inexplicable Blockbusters mania of the eighties, it became a common "dare" in the class of a teacher - first name Robert - to ask "Can I have a 'P' please, Bob?" when you needed to go to the bogs. Sometimes you'd even get away with this. Unlike the perennial antagonist, Marty Halford, who once got a bit too excited, and asked "Bob, can I have a wank?".
A Tamil refugee came to our school. We found out that his parents had both been shot and spent many happy hours holding coins in front of his face saying "can you see it shine..." then under our breath we would add " the bullets..."
Decorative pastel coloured hoops strung onto elasticated string.
  • Gasp one of the sweets between your teeth.
  • Hook thumbs under the elastic and pull forward making it taut.
  • Bite.Half for you - yum yum - and the other half goes flying at respectable speed into your target's head.
For extra targetting, go boss-eyed and use your nose as a crosshair.
Fond memories of primary school soggy boggies (q.v.) ensured that this habit died hard, and so many a breaktime in the first year of secondary school was spent rolling bits of the school-forged chocolate slab cakes into balls and throwing them at the polystyrene tiling of the canteen.

After a few weeks of this entertaining but artistically somewhat naïve practice, postmodernism set in when someone stood on a table to carefully attach a slice of cucumber onto the most recent crop of cake-based ceiling adornment.

The next day, the cucumber was still there. Days turned into weeks turned into months, and still it remained, clinging defiantly to the ceiling.
To our surprise and joy, it was still there when we started our second year the following September.

We made a pilgrimage to this spot after our last AS level exam, and lo and behold, there it was; brown, shrivelled, twisted, shrunken, but still recognisable as our very own slice of cucumber.

Our last AS exam was in May 2002. If anyone reading this is currently at Poynton High School, could you see if it's still there? If you enter the canteen from the main entrance, it's slightly away from the far right corner, the one with the heater thing on one wall and the windows/fire exit on the other.
Writing the name of your favourite band on your yellow canvas bag? Cool. Liking the Cure? Really cool! Decorating your bag with a lovingly rendered Cure logo? Kool and the fucking Gang!
However, make sure you finish the logo, and don't have a break half-way through the word, otherwise someone may write a crude "NT" after your lovingly crafted "CU". Well, they did to me, anyway.
This originated in the first year of high school. When Tej tried to drink a Capri Sun behind his bag during registration, we squeezed the drink thus making him 'down it' all in one go.

From then on, anyone seen enjoying the said drink was subjected to the Capri Sun Challenge.
A rank of sadness attained by those who have ever said "actually, I'm a dark elf". Higher ranks can be attained by being good at chess or having a basin haircut.
My friends and I will never be the same again after seeing a porno aged about 13 in which some filthy woman used some sort of vice like tool to open her own fahita wide up, until it was some rancid mockery of a flesh grotto. At our age, we just wanted to see boobs. We certainly didn't need that.
Scabby Queen
This is basically the game Old Maid. The "scabby" element comes from the punishment for losing, which is a number of scrapes to the knuckles with the whole deck. The number and violence of the scrapes is determined by cutting the cards (red = soft taps, black = full-blooded whacks, value of card = number of hits).
Convincing a gullible child that any card they draw is worth 20 and concealing a credit card in the deck prior to administering the scrapes will ensure maximum bleeding. If you're a schoolkid with a credit card, that is.

A 2-player game that saves all that fucking around with Scabby Queen rules. Player One cuts. Player Two gives Player One the appropriate number of scrapes as hard as they fucking well can. Player Two cuts. Repeat until either player can�t take any more.
There are arguably no real winners in this game. However, if the player administering the scrapes drops the deck of cards, the other player is entitled to give them fifty-two scrapes. I only saw this happen once, but it resulted in a hand that looked like it had got stuck in a bacon slicer.
Like Morrissey and Sade, this chromosome-laden girl was a constant source of mystery at school. Kept behind for a number of years, the six-foot tall behemoth lumbered around the playground stamping her foot and drooling. One way to pump up her wrath was to describe cruelty to hamsters, the one form of creature that she seemed to empathise with. Telling her that you had "raped a hamster until it popped" or had enjoyed "hamster pie for dinner" soon turned her into a raging fiend. There was a dark twist in the tale though, as after some nameless crime had been committed, and every bag in the class was searched, the soon-to-have-a-breakdown caretaker found a dead hamster in Carmel's bag. It was like seeing Jill Dando assasinate someone.
The online CASCAiD form with be back online momentarily.
This was developed by some group of genii in partial homage to the film "Fight Club"; the procedure went thus.

1. 10 to 20 to all the blokes in the year (excepting all the poofy ones who had girls for mates) would stand in a large circle (clothed, naturally.)
2. The members of the circle would throw whatever small change or trinkets they could muster into the centre of the ring. The amount of money (or cool stuff) would slowly pile up.
3. After some time, an enterprising and daring member of the circle would decide the amount in the pile was enough to offset the risk; he would get on the floor and try and grab it all.
4. And everyone would jump on him.
For the next thirty seconds the situation would degenerate into a writhing, screaming free-for-all, a mosh pit without the music or the kindness. If you were quick, you might make a profit of 10 to 20p every game, and only get your hand crushed a couple of times.
A sock on a cats head is officially the most hilarious thing known to humanity, as the cat in question will automatically go into retarded-driver-reverse mode and shuffle slowly backwards, bumping into things and making odd growly noises. The fun is spoiled, naturally, when parents arrive.
Although this board condones no form of animal cruelty, cats are the excepton. They SO reckon they're IT.