A group is defined as much by those who are outside as inside. When, on the first day of school, Sam and his father pulled up in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, both wearing driving goggles, we all knew where the boundaries were set.
The state of apoplexy of any child called Clive, given enough goading. 4
There is a global game of cock smack going on right now, and if you have a cock, you're playing. To initiate a round of cock smack, you must first warn your target with the phrase "you know the rules - cover your jewels". For obvious reasons, the warning phrase is often shortened to "Yehnehtheruhcuhyuhjuz". Then, smack them in the cock.
Smacks range from the full cock-punch, to the more advanced and surprisingly debilitating bell flick.
Smacks range from the full cock-punch, to the more advanced and surprisingly debilitating bell flick.
A phrase for erection that is so widely considered to be funny amongst me and my friends that I will brook no argument on the matter.
An exclamation that left circulation after the rather obvious homosexual - and pornographical - implications were realised. Curiously, by Mike Cox.
Richard Snape was an unlucky child. He'd been 'blessed' with simian looks and intellect, a name that rhymed with "ape", but neither the brawn nor courage of his hairy counterparts.
Every music lesson was sheer hell for the poor lad; the top three classes of the junior school used to share a weekly music lesson, which involved the deputy head thumping the piano whilst we all sat in rows mumbling to various 'classic' singalongs. The exception to this was "Let's All Go Down The Strand", in which the "HAVE A BANANA" refrain was sung as rousingly as possible with all eyes falling on Richard.
Last time I saw him he was working in a 'budget-conscious' shoe shop.
Every music lesson was sheer hell for the poor lad; the top three classes of the junior school used to share a weekly music lesson, which involved the deputy head thumping the piano whilst we all sat in rows mumbling to various 'classic' singalongs. The exception to this was "Let's All Go Down The Strand", in which the "HAVE A BANANA" refrain was sung as rousingly as possible with all eyes falling on Richard.
Last time I saw him he was working in a 'budget-conscious' shoe shop.
If you're going to insist on having a war about fish with a country as silly as Iceland, then you could be accused of trying to engineer a real-life Monty Python sketch. But the Icelandic Cod Wars were a real thing, not a whimsical Footlights jape. And the dispute over fishing rights had a very real impact in British schools. Namely, primary school boys would grab each others dicks and scream "COD WARS".
CHI-yuld molestAH!
Code name: Eben-STEIN!
He is the UGliest!
Man you've ever SEEN!
People who have traditional child molesting faces should not become teachers. People who lack the self-awareness to look in the mirror and say "Christ, I don't half look like a paedophile, what with my furtive, sad eyes, sneering lip and pattern baldness" should not be pitied for their treatment at the hands of children.
When the above rhyme fades, simply boybott lessons and sit in your squads, singing;
Gotta be, gotta be,
Domino's... Buffalo Wings
Code name: Eben-STEIN!
He is the UGliest!
Man you've ever SEEN!
People who have traditional child molesting faces should not become teachers. People who lack the self-awareness to look in the mirror and say "Christ, I don't half look like a paedophile, what with my furtive, sad eyes, sneering lip and pattern baldness" should not be pitied for their treatment at the hands of children.
When the above rhyme fades, simply boybott lessons and sit in your squads, singing;
Gotta be, gotta be,
Domino's... Buffalo Wings
A US term for any mother who decided to have a child later on her life. Particular pleasure should be taken from the fact that the child is more likely to see his mother die long before yours, affording you many years of actual "dead mum" jokes before you have to deal with the trauma yourself.
"How old's ya Mom?"
"48"
"Hahaha, Coffin-Mom"
"How old's ya Mom?"
"48"
"Hahaha, Coffin-Mom"
A simple game in which two gamblers toss 10p coins (pound coins for flash bastards) at the wall. The one which lands closest wins, and keeps both coins.
The blackjack or baccarat of the playground casino, these contests were risky games of skill which had to be held away from the eyes of staff, which is where the illicit smokers would also gather.
This, combined with the fact that it was usually only fairly hard kids who played, meant the whole sleazy scene had the tough, edgy tension of a Scorcese picture.
The blackjack or baccarat of the playground casino, these contests were risky games of skill which had to be held away from the eyes of staff, which is where the illicit smokers would also gather.
This, combined with the fact that it was usually only fairly hard kids who played, meant the whole sleazy scene had the tough, edgy tension of a Scorcese picture.
At one point during the moral and sociological evolution of our class, superiority over others suddenly came down to one thing and one thing only: the girth of your shit. Ludicrous Pythonesque exaggerations flew thick and fast, but Big Dai Morgan's solemn claim that he'd laid one as thick as a Coke can while out camping the previous week was both horrifying and oddly believable.
Paul Colbert's brother was variously in the army, navy, or government, and would get you if you didn't leave him alone.
Daubed on the wall of the gym in 3 foot high letters at some unknown point in the school's history. Whilst being erased (quite soon after appearing, one assumes) the letters were still clearly defined, even from 300m away at the other end of the school field.
Strangely, any camp commandant had left by the time I joined, but house head 'Uncle' Beresford seemed quite willing to fill the role. Canteen food was perhaps the most obvious remnant of this hushed period of the school's history...
Strangely, any camp commandant had left by the time I joined, but house head 'Uncle' Beresford seemed quite willing to fill the role. Canteen food was perhaps the most obvious remnant of this hushed period of the school's history...
Colin was star of an late 70's educational video about and the horrors of kidney failure and the wonders of dialysis. He was a fey child, a girlishly slight frame setting off a girlishly soprano voice. (Blimey - he sounds like antique-hunting pre-teen James Harries... - Log)
Colin's jim-jams were paisley, had flared sleeves and pointed collars. Colin looked away, biting his brave bottom lip as his mother stuck a sharp needle into his arm.
As if this wasn't heart-breaking enough, Colin's chirpy closing speech to the camera distilled into fifteen words what dialysis means to so many; "I love being on my dialysis machine, because then I can eat crisps and pop."
Colin's jim-jams were paisley, had flared sleeves and pointed collars. Colin looked away, biting his brave bottom lip as his mother stuck a sharp needle into his arm.
As if this wasn't heart-breaking enough, Colin's chirpy closing speech to the camera distilled into fifteen words what dialysis means to so many; "I love being on my dialysis machine, because then I can eat crisps and pop."
The rallying cry of dedicated onanist Dewy Gibbon, as he attempted to initiate a group wanking session. Dewy Gibbon was - unsurprisingly - the most unpopular and bullied kid in the school.
Come on my face, come on my fucking face. Use the latter if the former doesn't produce results.
In the now well-established "skill = african bum disease" way, if you admitted to coming hard, then you fancied men. I was worried for a good year that when I finally started having sex, then a futuristic spunk cube would plop out of the end of my penis, that my partner would then have to eat.
"How stupid you are" - a phrase inexplicably listed at the back of Tricolore, despite never being used in the book. This happy find made its way into letters, postcards, and essays on pets and family. Miss R tolerantly overlooked this habit, placing a pair of red brackets around the phrase and ignoring it. I like to imagine this perpetuated a belief that randomly insulting a Frenchman is correct and acceptable BUT ONLY INSIDE PARENTHESES.
Just one example of what adolescent sex hair isn't called.
I can't remember if there was a conscious decision to force school epileptic Simon Tyler to have the computer with the flickery screen, but he did the business that afternoon - a shakedown spectacular that made Mr Gratland sweat like fuck because he didn't know shit about first aid.
An intense and moving game for two people. One to stand with their back towards the other, who would recite the following whilst rythmically punching him in the back:
'Mummy's dying, Baby crying
Concentration!
Concentration!
Feel the knife (punch) in your back, feel the blood dripping down (mimicked with fingers)
Concentration!
Concentration!'
This could carry on for up to about half an hour with varying additional verses. By the end your back would be numb and covered in bruises, but more significantly, your soul would be damaged beyond repair.
'Mummy's dying, Baby crying
Concentration!
Concentration!
Feel the knife (punch) in your back, feel the blood dripping down (mimicked with fingers)
Concentration!
Concentration!'
This could carry on for up to about half an hour with varying additional verses. By the end your back would be numb and covered in bruises, but more significantly, your soul would be damaged beyond repair.
Dewy Gibbon, the dedicated onanist, ended up in the same class as me at sixth form college. In a unilateral bonding session, he decided to tell me more of his one-man sexploits.
He told me that he enjoyed wanking wearing a condom, as it was 'practice for the real thing'. But you had to be careful, as johnnies didn't always flush away down the loo.
His dad once found one of Dewy's spunk filled rubbers floating in the bog, and to spare his son's blushes, he fished it and put it in the bin.
Unfortunately, Dewy's mum then found it and demanded of her husband an explanation. To save his own skin, Dewy's dad grassed him up and Dewy had to face his parents, and explain that he wasn't having sex, but just poshing it around the house at every possible opportunity.
But it doesn't end there. It should, but it doesn't. Dewy went on to say that we couldn't be sure that he hadn't left floating johnnies in his grandmother's house.
I don't know what's more disturbing;
- an old woman poking at a floating, spunky sheath
- the fact that Dewy, on hearing that he was going to visit his grandmother, had grabbed a condom and said "this calls for a wank!"
He told me that he enjoyed wanking wearing a condom, as it was 'practice for the real thing'. But you had to be careful, as johnnies didn't always flush away down the loo.
His dad once found one of Dewy's spunk filled rubbers floating in the bog, and to spare his son's blushes, he fished it and put it in the bin.
Unfortunately, Dewy's mum then found it and demanded of her husband an explanation. To save his own skin, Dewy's dad grassed him up and Dewy had to face his parents, and explain that he wasn't having sex, but just poshing it around the house at every possible opportunity.
But it doesn't end there. It should, but it doesn't. Dewy went on to say that we couldn't be sure that he hadn't left floating johnnies in his grandmother's house.
I don't know what's more disturbing;
- an old woman poking at a floating, spunky sheath
- the fact that Dewy, on hearing that he was going to visit his grandmother, had grabbed a condom and said "this calls for a wank!"
A class of 15 year olds were waiting for French. The teacher had a reputation for a certain gayness; hand gestures, vocal lilt, being a French teacher - all conspired to colour him gay.
Gays being fundamentally unreliable, he was late for one lesson, presumably having been distracted by the new handbag shop in town. Five minutes into the lesson he burts through the door, huffing and especially puffing, and pants "Sorry, lads. Cock up my end."
Gays being fundamentally unreliable, he was late for one lesson, presumably having been distracted by the new handbag shop in town. Five minutes into the lesson he burts through the door, huffing and especially puffing, and pants "Sorry, lads. Cock up my end."
I didn't see David Widden from the age of 8 to 15. When I did see him, I amused myself by following him around and saying his name.
He was fucking bricking it after a while, and the look of confused terror on his squinty-eyed little face still makes me laugh.
I should really get a life and something more interesting to do, but only if David gets some decent eyes first.
He was fucking bricking it after a while, and the look of confused terror on his squinty-eyed little face still makes me laugh.
I should really get a life and something more interesting to do, but only if David gets some decent eyes first.
Just as we were wondering why there had been no submissions referencing Blighty's favourite break-time competitive game, along comes this nostalgic tale-with-a-twist from Rayner. If any readers over the age of 60 would care to respond, feel free, and send us a picture of you in your school cap and shorts - Conor
Every autumn, we would bombard the local horse-chestnut trees with missiles in order to amass huge collections of the shiny brown nuts. These would then be stored in shoeboxes or biscuit tins until they all grew stinky black mould and our mums threw them out. Conkers would never, ever be played.
I can only assume that conkers were collected because of vaguely-remembered stories from Grandfathers of playground games of yore. In those days, they would sometimes pickle or bake their conkers to harden them.
On the one occasion Conkers was actually played, the vinegar-sodden little fuckers would disintegrate after about three blows.
Every autumn, we would bombard the local horse-chestnut trees with missiles in order to amass huge collections of the shiny brown nuts. These would then be stored in shoeboxes or biscuit tins until they all grew stinky black mould and our mums threw them out. Conkers would never, ever be played.
I can only assume that conkers were collected because of vaguely-remembered stories from Grandfathers of playground games of yore. In those days, they would sometimes pickle or bake their conkers to harden them.
On the one occasion Conkers was actually played, the vinegar-sodden little fuckers would disintegrate after about three blows.