Our sixth-form common room was deliberately made a joyless, bleak environment in a thinly-disguised effort to make us spend more time in the library. More out of desperation than anything else, some bright spark brought in a dartboard to make it more livable. After approximately fourty minutes of showing the girls how bad we are at this non-sport, it was commandeered by the teachers. Coincidentally, the staff room got a nice new dartboard that day.

A very similar thing happened with a picture of Isla Fisher from Home and Away.

An activity which quickly and efficiently establishes a solid social heirachy in junior schools.
While in a queue, someone offers a favoured / feared classmate who is further back to go in front of them. "Generous", you could argue until they swap their immediate places which offends the person originally behind the place offerer. This person then importunes a person even nearer the front to let him have his space (then swap).
Everyone quickly twigs what's happening and starts offering (and swapping) or imploring (and swapping) queue places until the process is stopped mid-evolution by a bewildered teacher, or in rare instances when everyone is happy in their place (or too scared to complain). This queue will turn out to be a perfect snapshot of the class's social heirachy running from HARD/POPULAR to SOFT/UNPOPULAR with all shades represented between.

The one sentence that my brain saw fit to remember from years of German lessons. Translation - That is my tortoise.
See also Mein Hummer fonctionniert nicht.

When we were immature cretins in year 9 we thought that it would be a funny idea to start our own religion, but we couldnt be arsed so we scrapped it. We then resurrected it again in year 10 and realised that we needed someone to concentrate our religios frustration on, the lucky sod was 'DAVE', dave was a normal enough guy except he found it funny to just to stupid shit a lot of the time. We found out from the huge porn database that is the internet that you have to have 25000 followers to qualify as a religion. The Religion Of Dave wasnt really a religion i suppose but more of a shit excuse to shout out 'DAVE' at times of silence during class, the teacher would normally just glance up the first time but then would start targetting random innocents the second. Curiously though, Dave was never targetted. Our french teacher bore the brunt of the abuse (she is ill at the mo, poor bitch) she nearly had a nervous breakdown last year because dave was becoming too irritating for her. Dave's buggered of now, but we have a new patron saint of educational disruptment, Pascal, more will be added, as will ricks fishing friends.

'Burty' must've become pubic at about the age of 6. In 2nd year seniors he was known as 'Bearded Jake' due to his full beard and burners. I can't remember how this started, but for a good 3 or 4 years he was followed to school by the moronic (but cock shootingly hillarious to a 14 year old) chant of "Burty Bunkle. The Man From Uncle". His mate Darren was really council, but carried a briefcase to school. I couldn't work out whether Darren lived with his grand-parents, or his parents were just in their eightees.

David Chamberlain was one of life's unfortunates. Bad luck clung to him like some weird poo-like body odour. Without further ado, I present the life of Kidderminster's unluckiest schoolboy:

On the year 8 French trip, whilst emerging from the shower, he ran and jumped across Andrew Carter's bed. He lost his towel and slid onto the floor, leaving behind a 12 inch fudge strip, which the deputy head made him remove with a bar of soap. He was forever known as "the skiddy from Kiddy" after that.

On the year 10 Spanish camping trip he shared a tent with my mate Pete. Pete returned to the tent one day to find Dave in his sleeping bag, violently masturbating. Unsure of what to do, Pete ran and got a group of girls to laugh at him. Except Dave wasn't burping the worm, he was severely dehydrated, and was in fact on the verge of death. Which only makes the whole thing funnier, of course.

In sixth form his dad died and he dropped out to become a drug addict. We next heard of him a couple of years later, after he tried to rob a post office with an iron bar. The elderly man who ran the place beat the shite out of him. This made the local paper, although later on Dave claimed it wasn't him.

He's now married to his Auntie (goes on a lot in Kidderminster). I got invited to the wedding, but couldn't be arsed. Shame, as his mum went beserk and a riot erupted. Police vans and riot gear, the whole lot.

Second-eldest son of a headmaster, inflicted upon Toll Bar School between 1985 and 1990. The originator of many anecdotes involving puddings, spunk and vodka. Here are some of his crimes;
Getting pissed on a fourth year trip to Stratford, knicking a traffic sign and singing 'On a Clear Day You Can See My Penis' outside the girls' dormitory at midnight.
SUSPENDED FOR TWO WEEKS
Bringing ice-cream to school for his packed lunch. Ice cream melted in his bag, ruined his books.
GOT BOLLOCKED
Bought a frozen dessert from Tates for his lunch, tried to defrost it by putting it under his armpit, ate it.
GOT STOMACH CRAMPS
Jacked off into a 35mm film canister as a love gift for Natasha Holmes. She ran off.
TREATED WITH WARY DISDAIN FOR SOME WEEKS
Got smashed on vodka in the 6th form, puked up neat vodka through his nose onto his pudding at lunchtime, continued eating it.
GOT THROWN OUT
LAST SEEN SELLING CUSTOMISED CLIPPER LIGHTERS AT CAR BOOT SALE

Wanted to become an embalmer and gave his mum a box of tissues for Christmas. And his Dad a can of peaches. Trousers were too short. Recently in the national press for having the world's largest collection of milk bottles, which he keeps in two specially made sheds. Didn't like girls - once we asked him out and he said 'unhand me, woman!'. Similar to Mark Gardner who also recently achieved national press coverage for keeping too many reptiles in his parents attic.

I forget her name, but she would have been quite attractive if
(a) She didn't bear a disturbing family resemblance to David.
(b) She didn't constantly stink of cat piss.

Did you swim with David Wilkie? No. Thought not. If you had swam with David Wilkie, you'd be wearing your badge.

I bet you don't even know what David Wilkie looks like. Well, he looks like the guy on my I Swam With David Wilkie badge.
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No, I haven't got Sports AIDS. Jesus, you're so jealous.

David 'Davvy' Wilson famously shit himself in physics, yet strangely this became an unspoken taboo among social circles; ' Don't say owt, it's shan.' Clearly a prime ribbing opportunity fallen by the wayside. Even the hard lads didn't mention it. Bizarre.

Our physics teacher had the nickname of davie dottle. Dunno why, just something that had been passed down through the years. We even had a cartoon strip deticated to him called Davie Dottle and his brown bottle. Referring that he drank brown ale. Hillarious.

On our estate there was this gang of hard lads who were made up of kids from broken homes, and the like. The comically fuckwitted Davie Dunn was one of these lads. One day, they were all skiving school and watching Enter the Dragon, while Davie decided to play with cat in the next room. The day after, the cat had kittens. Turning a blind eye to the logic of a human/feline hybrid conceived and born in just 24 hours, Davie Dunn became notorious as the man who fathered a litter of kittens.

An act of testicle exposure, whereby the male unzips his fly and hangs a bollock out the front of his trousers. He then holds it in one hand and asks any nearby female if she wants to see / stroke a newly hatched chicken.

In days of old,
When men were bold,
And women weren't invented.
They drilled big holes in telegraph poles,
and walked away contented.
I think the implication is that they fucked the hole in the telegraph pole. Otherwise it's a pretty weird way to get your kicks, drilling holes in telegraph poles then walking off.
For those of you who didn't know that women were invented after telegraph poles, here is the first ever telegraph conversation.

This came in strange bottles that had a curved tube on the top as shown here.
This meant that it was possible to hide a bottle in your trouser pocket with just this tube/nozzle poking out. It was then hugely satisfying to wander over to year-retard Duncan Sharp and, whilst pretending to examine his chemistry experiment, slip the end of the nozzle into his pocket and squeeze the bottle. A casual escape was possible as it took a good few seconds for the water to soak through his pocket. After retreating to a alibi-friendly distance you could look on in mirth as Duncan suddenly became aware of a cold, wet patch spreading through his y-fronts and down his trouser leg, mystified as to where it came from.
We did this to him every lesson until he realised what was going on and shouted at us whenever we came near him. We then had to move on to the rest of the class until the 4 water bottle abusers were almost permanently alone at the back of the class as noone would trust us to be near them.

These bottles are also good when the nozzle is removed as you can then put them against a desk, punch them and then watch as a centimetre thick, metre long jet of water arcs across the room (like one of those jumping fountain things in Disney World) and hits your friend at the next desk full in the face. It is also funny when said friend is asked by the teacher why he is soaking wet and he is forced to reply "I spilt a beaker of water. Yes, over my head".

Slang word for a person of non-specific mental and/or physical disability, or an insult. Unsubstantiated claims about a local spacker called Alan Deacon (who alledgedly screamed things about turtles during the night) gave us this short-lived insult, and for a while the commonly used tongue-in-lower-lip spaz impression was known as 'doing a Deacon'.

Matt Foster's beautiful response when asked by knock-kneed celtic cunt of a bus driver, 'Jock', if his Mum lets him put his feet up on the seat at home.

There came a time, at some point in the fourth year, when every pupil was innoculated by the school nurse with the tuberculosis vaccine. This was a very painfull injection that she adminstered towards the top of the left arm, and often resulted in a visible ring shaped pustule, swelling of the skin and many, many tears before bedtime. Needless to say those weak swollen arms were like a red rag to a bull. Within hours the popularity of the game 'deadarm deadarm' (which must be pronounced with the start of the pink panther theme in mind) had reached epidemic proportions. Swift to react, teachers soon declared that anyone caught administering deadarms would face immediate suspension. This, in turn, led to hundreds of shouts proclaiming AAHHH TB whenever a fellow (disliked) pupil was (usually innocently) standing nearby and any teacher was within reasonable earshot.

short lived 4th cult of knuckle punching your neighbour in the tricep causing him to put his hand and say to the teacher.
"Sir, he's given me a dead arm"

A game you play with a young sibling or friend. Say you have 4 people in a room, three of you pretend that the other person died. They will laugh but if you play long enough they start getting really upset. All you have to do is pretend like you are crying and miss him or her.

Get your victim to repeat what you say, but increase the number. First say, "I saw a dead frog on the road and I 1 it." The response is "... I 2 it." Repeat until your victim is forced to say "... I ate it."

A sharp knee on the side of the thigh just when you're least expecting it.
Done well, this gets you right on some 'karate merchant' nerve point and makes it impossible to stand upright for what feels like weeks.
I was bloody glad when this craze died out between primary and secondary school.
It was replaced by 'head butts' when the song of the same name hit the charts.

Hilarious parody of the song 'Live it up' by 80s nobodys Mental As Anything.
Sung to a recently bereaved child thus: "Hey there you with the Dead Mum, go back to my place and dig her up..."
It didn't really rhyme, but it usually caused the unfortunate child to cry and/or explode in violent rage at the injustice of the universe.

As large a group as possible would gather round deaf-child and speak animatedly in mime to each other. Frustration growing, he would tap people and ask them earnestly "What are you saying? What? What?", his voice growing weaker and more pathetic to everyone's great amusement. On really special days, when the gods were smiling, deaf-child would frenetically adjust his farcically over-sized ear piece, and with astute comic timing, everyone would begin shouting at the top of their voices, pretending not to notice his confused squirmings. This may seem cruel, but he was a pikey little bastard.