If you remove the ink tube in a Bic biro pen and blow through the bottom, it makes a very high pitched whistling noise.

If you do this whilst your deaf teacher's back is turned, she will think her hearing aid is broken and fiddle with the knobs on it.

What are they, volume or something? Fuck knows.

It doesn't really have a name as such but was more a bizarre phenomenon which occurred several summers at School. We had a large field with a small woods that we were allowed to play football and amuse ourselves with every break time. Now break could last for over two hours as we had a benign and much loved headmaster who would allow morning break to carry into lunch time (this was a payback from having to sit inside and sing along to his piano when it rained). Since we had so much free time imaginations were given full reign. Kids would start to collect acorns, twigs, stones and pretend to run shops and trade with each other. If this was not strange enough someone even created a primitive fruit machine out of a funnily shaped half of a tree trunk base. These shops became jealous of each other and would occasionally attempt raids for disputed pieces of woodland booty. My involvement was that as a boy we would often be asked if would guard against raiders, spy, or even carry out raids ourselves. The politics that became involved were scary considering we all between five and eleven. That, and none of the merchandise had any real value, or was even desirable.

The somewhat remarkable ditty, "Mr Fisher" was devised by an unknown pupil from S1 and went something like this:

Dear Mr Fisher,
I was feeling pretty canny,
I tried to fuck your daughter,
But I couldnt find her fanny!

When I found her fanny,
It was hairy as a sock.
Dear Mr Fisher,
I couldn't find my cock!

When I found my cock,
It was hairy, long, and thin,
Dear Mr Fisher,
I couldn't get it in!

When I got it in,
I wiggled it about,
Dear Mr Fisher,
I couldn't get it out!

The true conundrum lies with the subtext. Initially it seems that the author is boasting of his sexual adventures, but maintaining a respectful distance by addressing the recipient as "Mr Fisher". However, this rapidly declines into a litany of sexual dysfunction. Perhaps the author is requesting assistance or even the physical presence of Mr Fisher, to see what the actual problem is.
More importantly to the boys, this raised the hither unforseen concern that 'it' could get 'stuck' 'in there', and no amount of wriggling could get it out.

During a terrible spate of robberies plaguing the school, we were assembled by House Master Brian Shakeshaft for a briefing on the latest crime. We were told that the police had been informed and that the culprit would be found.
The crime? Stealing a plate of cupcakes and leaving nothing but some crumbs and a note reading 'Ha ha! I stole your cupcakes!'
Mr Shakeshaft's solution? Amateur sleuthing.
We were called individually to his study to write out a cleverly concocted phrase that would allow him to trace the perpetrator through his guilty handwriting.
The phrase chosen? 'Dear watertank has a life of about fifteen years.'
The whole episode was so mind-boggling that we hardly even believe ourselves when we recollect it. I can only conclude that the cupcakes were what tipped the scales after years of real brutality and substance abuse cases. Presumably police assistance was no longer required after Brian's detective work, as we heard no more on the matter.

The trick was for a nominated individual on the outside of the group to feign interest in some aspect of improving their game, and get Mr Dearling to give them a one-to-one coaching session with his back to the rest of us. This was the cue for the rest of us (frequently numbering in excess of 30) to do a runner. I was never there to see his face, but I imagine by about the third time it got rather tiresome for him to look round and find everybody had vanished.

Imagine, if you can, a PE teacher called Mr Dearling. This in itself is bad enough. Imagine further that Mr Dearling is very deaf in both ears. (You're getting it now, aren't you.) Thirdly, imagine that, due to his hearing aids, he can't hear anything said to him in a high register. Fourthly imagine how easy it is to scream without opening your mouth very wide. Finally, imagine a school gym containing fifty adolescent boys, running around in a big circle, screaming at the top of their lungs with Darling standing in the middle of it all completely oblivious. And, if you want to, you can imagine fifty boys all being put on detention when the headmaster bursts in.

We had a kid in our school whose older brother died of a heroin overdose. But he had to leave because of two songs; the re-worked intro to Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep ("Where's ya brother gone, where's ya brother gone…") and "Staying Alive" by the late, great Bee Gees.

Tut, the insensitivity of youth. Everyone knows that if someone’s brother dies of a heroin overdose (it was big in the Eighties) you must perform the entire rap from Grange Hill’s "Just Say No!", preferably at the memorial assembly, or, simply rework the lyrics from the Flash Gordon theme into a cautionary message. "Smack! Ahhhhhhhh!" –Susan.

A book held by Satan, containing a list of all the names of the hell-bound, and breifly held by my friend Richard Gray, in year 6.

Curiously enough, my name was the only one to appear in the book, before the Devil had got bored and filled the other pages with squiggles.

Overweight, possibly asthmatic boy runs wheezing across the playground with a look of terror in his eyes. Just before he can reach the relative safety of the canteen, the pack of ten or more lads descend upon him and take turns to fart without restraint on his face. Next time a kid from the year above asks him if he'd like some chocolate, he'll say "no thanks".

In one primary school assembly we were solemnly told that every nine seconds, someone, somewhere in the world, dies. The next week saw the playground filled with the eerie sound of small children chanting "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, somebody's died, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, somebody's died," usually whilst skipping.

I was at school in the days when pupils were allowed to do things in chemistry lessons that might kill them. Now, of course, fatalities are only accepted in PE lessons, or in the janitor's house.
On one occasion we were told to measure out a quantity of some very volatile and noxious substance. No-one told us how to do this, so I decided that a mouth pipette would be approproiate. For those mercifully unfamiliar with chemistry, here is a man using a mouth pipette. Note how unsuitable it is for sucking on noxious liquids.

I put the end of the pipette in my mouth, then woke up surrounded by flames, smashed glassware, and my jeering classmates. And not one teacher rushed to offer me an out-of-court settlement of sixes of millions.

Our computer science room was full of Commodore Pet computers. Well, I say full. It had three. But it wasn't a very bit room.
A playground urban legend amongst had it that there was a command you could type that was shrouded in mystery, and fashioned by the devil himself. When executed, this command would destroy the computer. This command was called the death poke.
This command was POKE 59458,62.
To make our crime untraceable, Pete wrote a small program that waited for someone to press a key before exploding. The rules of he-who-touched-it-last would then apply. Then, Pete asked Mr Samuals why his computer wasn't working.
Mr Samuals stared at it for a while, then tentatively tapped at the keyboard. And the dread poke was activated. We all stood well back - actually I think we leaned back - to avoid the shards of glass.
The display was reduced to a single line. A mild inconvenience, but no-one was picking sizzling electronics out of their face.
A quick double-flick of the on/off switch later, and the eerie reign of the death poke had ended.

to be laced, or planted. In context : "You'll get decked if you snitch - Holmesy may be a Trevor, but he's no scrap spastic."

A band name vetoed by virtue of a French teacher's miscarriage. Other names that were also rejected on the grounds of poor taste were Abortion Bucket and Minge Wipers From Mars.

Readers! Have you been in a band that's main purpose was to fanny about and shock people? If so, tell us your band name. We'd love to know... - Log

Steve was the best ice cream man ever. He was pale, but his ice lollies were cheap and tasty and he had the coolest afro that I've ever seen. Unfortunately, Steve let us down big style when he left for Australia and was replaced by a new ice-cream guy...Dino.
The guy was Italian and scary. The ice cream tasted weird and we told him Steve's was way better. He smiled and winked and told us that HIS ice cream was better because "It's full of the stuff that little girl's need and little boys know about" He laughed and handed over his "ice cream".
The guys loved him and used to rush out shouting "Deeeeeeno! Deeeeeeeno!" thinking that this guy was just the dogs bollocks...the girls used to avoid that side of the playground altogether and Dino eventually disappeared once a girl in Year 10 claimed that he tried to grab her. We never got a new ice cream man. Thank God.

A nasty mob would encircle the 'special' kid in our class, all mouthing silent words. Convinced that he had gone deaf, his agitation would increase rapidly. Five minutes was normally sufficient to produce one of the desired reactions - either he would burst into tears and attempt to escape the circle, or curl into a foetal ball whimpering softly.

At this point, we would all repeatedly scream "DEFFO!", which, rather than reassuring him that his hearing was fine, would instead induce a near cardiac arrest, and, on a good day, cause him to piss himself.

Primary: Sextus plays with his dog's bone.
Secondary: Anus means "grandmother".
Sixth form: Eheu (a ho) means Alas; Euge (pron. "you gay") means "Hooray!".
Postgraduate: Pedicabo ego et uos irrumabo means "I will sodomise you and ejaculate in your mouth".

One who is physically and/or mentally inept.
It took me years to make the connection between calling someone a Delve in a stupid voice whilst violently slapping the back of my hand/head and Swanwick Delves, a school for the mentally handicapped a few miles away. Div.

A traditional torture introduced by an occasional brutal Japanese exchange student. Literally translates as 'electric massage' and consists of flooring one's victim holding his ankles and pumping hard with your foot against his crotch, much like a "pro" wrestling move. We were in awe of this technique when it was first introduced and named it "the baby", due to its similarities with the pain endured during childbirth. If boys could have babies through their cocks, presumably.

Any child whose brain is full of der. 'Der' can cause you to do stupid things. The word der, and its variant der-brain (or bwain) was pronounced "duuuhhhhhhhh" in a mong voice at a length directly proportionate to the idiocy of the addressee. Usually used in response to someone acting like a div (q.v.), it was the voice of scorn descending on the unfortunate transgressor. More effective in choruses of 10 kids or more.

Grafitti on the back the back seat of the 423, 424, and 426 buses from Bradford to Wakefield. Penned by either an agrieved ex-con who couldn't afford a car or Derek, who was bragging.

Mr French was brought in to teach us when some other teacher decided to go and let off a baby, or something. Mr French was told that one of the class's recently deceased Nan was hidden in the store cupboard, and if he didn't believe us, then he should open the cupboard to see.
For about 40 minutes he refused to entertain the idea, until he finally decided to shut us all up, once and for all, by looking in the cupboard. An earlier raid of the drama rooms and a cleverly disguised 3rd year slumping to the floor ensured that Mr French screamed like a bitch.
You can't expect children to take you seriously after you've screamed like a bitch.

Clearly just Technical Drawing rebranded with a pretentious London-artwank-college name.

When placed at a new desk the first thing you'd do was check what the graffiti was on the desk. Our school was tolerant of graffitti as long as it didn't contain swear words. One day me and my gang of friends decided to write 'Fuck Me' on our desks. Unfortunately someone else was spotted writing 'Graham is a prick' or something on their desk at the time. The teacher came over and went berserk. He said he was then going to walk down each aisle to check if anyone else had swore on their desk. Quickly we decided to try and amend what we'd written. I came up with 'Fookey Meou', others came up with other stupid variations. Unfortunately one of us missed the point of the exercise entirely, and amended his to 'Fuck me mother'. Our enormous laughter at this foolishness brought the teacher over right away. We all got the ruler.

In the 80s people who couldn't afford Nike, Ellesse or Fila would always buy the next best thing and yet STILL think they were 'with it', the next best thing being Diadora (or Kappa). However, to those in the know, these people would be known as 'Diadora Scrubs' and may as well be wearing sandals made of poo.