Ask your victim to hold out their palm.
"There's your house," you say, pointing at the centre of their palm.
"There's the garden," you continue, pointing slightly to the left/right of centre
"Where do you want the fishpond?" you ask.
Your victim will then point somewhere else on their palm, and you, in response, will cough up a massive great greeny, and, with unnerving accuracy, place the "fishpond" at their chosen location.

"Fixtures" was the name of the school diary which every boy was issued with. These would occasionally be lost or left behind, of course, and when you needed to look something up (e.g. dates of sports matches) you would, naturally enough, ask to borrow someone else's. And Freddie Messon-Gilpin would, naturally enough, lend you his in the middle of double biology. And you, sitting behind him, would proceed to draw enormous phalluses, complete with Jap's eye and cum-lines, all over it. If there was time, you could fill in all the space available for each day in the year, and he'd have to buy another one.
(Have you borrowed another person's book and filled in every available gap with cocks, spunk lines and women riding around in tanks with their tits out? We're starting a competition to find the most cock-saturated page of a standard exercise book. Tell Log if you think you've got Britain's most cocks on a page.

Turning on the gas in chemistry and putting a lighter to it. Obvious really. Best time was when Colin Stone lost his carefully combed and hairsprayed, nu-romantic fringe in a puff of foul-smelling smoke.

Maths+Mr Jones+Year Head+Welsh = GIT
For any of you who ever had a year head take you for anything (including a bit of a pratt), you'll know that at the bottom of their pile of pre-requisites for being a decent human being, alongside my F-Grade pythagoras homework, is a sense of humour...
T.V. teeth (big front teeth!), or Kevin as he was known, sat at the front of the class one morning, on a day when Mr Jones had got out of bed the wrong side, had an argument with his wife, stood in dog puke and probably seen the Taff's lose 150,834 - 0 to some crap rugby team at the weekend. Kevin on the other hand, had had 97 curries for breakfast. During a Maths test, (which i failed), a rather loud sound, a bit like the loudest raspberry you could ever blow, EVER, came from a desk at the front corner of the room (this is an important detail, as had the sound been from any other area, it could have been blamed on a number of us...but it didnt...and Kevins' face's impression of a baboons arse didnt do him any favours in trying to hide who made the sound either...nor did the fact that him and his friend Simon were wetting themselves). As the sound of class 3c's raucous laughter filled the annals of our large school, Mr Jones turned to the source, let out what can only be described as a yelp, similar to that made by a small dog when you accidentally run over it on your BMX, turned redder than 17 baboons arses and screamed "WHO DID THAT, SIMON WAS THAT YOU"?. Simon pointed at Kevin and snorted, which i found funnier than the gastric rumble, the girl behind me thought she needed a nurse to give her oxygen and my friend Steve was under the desk, crying, when, without instruction, T.V. teeth just got up out of his chair, eyes watering, still snorting and baboon faced and went and stood outside the classroom. Obviously thinking ahead, you'd believe. But to those of us left in the room, there was only one reason he did it and that was to escape a smell more rotten then waking up with your nose next to a windy dogs bottom.
Mr Jones, due to our guffawing, was about to explode. That is, until the smell reached him, at which point he coughed, or rather, CHOKED, and with a look of absolute disgust on his face, ordered Simon to open all the windows down one side of the class before uttering the immortal line... "What the bloody hell does that boy's mother feed him, for Christ's sake" (better in a pissed-off Welsh accent than on the screen, but imagine if you will).
The classroom collapsed, holding its sides and so did my great disciplinary record... we all got a detention...including Kevin... i just hope Mr Jones repeated his immortal line on the slip Kevins mother would have received!!

A highly effective defense against the attack of a trevor's fleas. The castle was constructed from sandwich boxes, "club" biscuits and anything else which could stand unaided as a section of wall. Bananas made excellent flea-cannons which were mounted on the the walls. Drink bottles and thermos flasks made the lookout towers. A small castle could be built around yourself, but the game was more fun when the entire table made a full-on flea castle which completely cut the fleabag off from the rest of us.

Flea darts are basically grass darts which, when looked at closely, sometimes have little black creatures moving about in them. These, of course, are fleas.
Like the purple headed mountain and each little bird that sings, they were invented by God. He designed them to stick to schoolgirls' white socks, who would then walk briskly about a bit on the way home from school before thinking 'Ugh, a flea dart'. They would then remove the flea dart, allowing it to germinate, giving rise to a new flea dart plant.
Flea darts are harvested at the morning break, and distributed into peoples' hair throughout the day. They are generally thrown at girls because they have long hair, or boys with curly hair, to ensure maximum attatchment effectivity.
Once a person has been "infected" with a flea dart, it is best to spend the rest of the day running away from them, as fleas are highly contagious and make a convincing argument that the person is dirty and smells.

A boy called Martin had his life ruined by everyone, but it was OK because he had fleas. He accepted the fact he had fleas with good grace and consented to be dosed with flea powder (chalk dust) during most lessons. One of his brothers was in prison, but this might not be related.

How to tell if you have fleas
- If you smell of alsatian wee and chip fat, you have fleas.
- If you are poor, you probably smell of alsatian wee and chip fat. See above.
- If you bring your lunch to school in a bread bag, or get free school meals, you are probably poor. See above.
- If you sat next to Karen Bachelor in class, you now have fleas.
Note: Having fleas is worse than having nits or AIDS, because even a dirty haired gay would not bum a dog.

Game played after swimming at the local leisure centre during which you would put your towel over your head (like a yashmak), secure it in place by putting your swimming goggles on over it (thereby ‘concealing’ your true identity), and then run around the building shouting ‘The fleeeeeing Araaaaabs!’ until a member of staff got bored enough to tell you to piss off home. The bar was raised considerably when Neil Keouski neglected to wear anything other than the Arabian headdress, ran to the front of the building, and waved his cock at the receptionist.

A game played after swimming at the local leisure centre, during which you would put your towel over your head, secure it in place by putting your swimming goggles on over it (thereby concealing your identity), and then run around the building shouting ‘The Fleeeeeing Araaaaabs!’ until a member of staff got bored enough to tell you to piss off home. The bar was raised considerably when Neil Keouski neglected to wear anything other than the Arabian headdress.

Spit or the act of spitting, used extensively in Otley, West Yorkshire. Derived from the phlegmatic issue of more bronchial hacking.
fleg pole, a pole around which some students would grab onto and spin around, measuring their worth by the number of times they spin around before touching the floor. These poles, covered in fleg, become dangerously slippery fleg poles.
fleg pit, any lowered area with a balcony from which fleggers may fleg onto the occupants. Those on the balcony may tempt fleggees into the pit with the use of low denomination coins. See also jew bundle.

One of Brian's responses to 'Big Dave' during a verbal disagreement. Dave was three years younger than us but possibly weighed more than all of us put together.
In the same argument, Brian also said, "Your mum's so thick, she got run over by a parked car."

I would like to share this lovely homage to the '70s hit "Seasons in the Sun" Courtesy: Southfields Infant School, Peterborough.

We had joy, we had fun
Flicking bogeys at the sun
But the sun was too hot
And the bogeys turned to snot

The act of fighting whilst in the 'arms retracted inside jackets' official flid position. Often accompanied by Joey Deacon-esque 'Mmmnuurrr' (or 'belm') noises.

Flid flippers is the practice of hiding your elbows inside your shirt, rolling up your sleeves and poking your hands out of the them. The phrase "flid flippers" is funnier than the practice.)

Based on the hilarious thalidomide tragedy, in which pregnant women were prescribed a drug to treat the symptoms of morning sickness. Worked a treat, but it also caused the children to be born with a seemingly random collection of limbs. Easily simulated by pressing your wrists against your shoulders and flapping them like an eager seal. The links are therefore obvious - if you've demonstrated lower than average dexterity, you are a flid, and all your actions amount to nothing but flidding.

'This bloke woke up one morning, and, you know how you sometimes wake up with a bonk on?'

'Yeah'

'Well he did, anyway he decided to have a bath, but he couldn't get rid of it, and you know how your bollocks start to ache if you've had a lob on for a while?'

'Yeah'

'Well, his did, so he decided to have a wank. Anyway he finished but he had a problem cos, well, you know how spunk floats in the bath?'

'Yeah'

'OH MY GOD YOU WANK IN THE BATH YOU MASSIVE BATH WANKER WANKER WANKER WANKER'

Contemporaneous with Garbage Pail Kids, and probably confined to our school. The fluff was a small strip of synthetic felt that lived in a matchbox. Everyone had them, and some of the more adventurous kids made whole cities for these little cloth-strips at home. No one know how this craze started, but it lasted for about a year.

Ask the victim if they want to get high and see amazing colours. They usually say yes, and so the game shall begin. Place the victim (who, it must be said, has to be a very trusting victim) on their knees and hold a towel in front of their face. An accomplice would then pull the towel up while you pushed on either side of their nose with your palms. Once the towel is removed, ask them if they can see the flying colours. Obviously, they don't, so you try again. This time, however, press your arse against the victim's nose and teasingly drag the towel away. It might help if your accomplice presses their face forwards. It would seem a terrible waste to go through all this effort if their nose didn't go up your arse.

An esteemed colleague of mine developed an aptitude for graphic design at an early age. He spent the entirety of the second year drawing dildos with wings in French text books, which we had to find. These were known as Flying Talbots. I believe "Where's Wally" owes substantial royalties.

Every lunchtime, at about 1.10pm, a strange white foam used to emerge from the bottom of the pipes. Children used to play with it - run around the playground with it on their faces in winter pretending to be Father Christmas, or in summer, an ice-cream to fun and fool your friends with.
I now realise that this was the cooks emptying the sinks of all the greasy, fatty, food-encrusted gunk. This, added to a dash of Fairy Liquid, would cause giant clouds of this foul-stinking dirt. Everyone from Hillbrook School will probably get cancer from this by the age of 40.

Fog, The

Book by James Herbert and most peoples first experience of breathing takingly, eye poppingly, gobsmackingly, hardcore pornography. (If you are 11)

Fog, The could be read in public with total impunity, as it’s cover in no way belied the graphic, frank depictions of adult lovemaking that could be found within.

The only problem with Fog, The was Herbert’s use of sex as metaphor. Herbert explores the idea of sex as celebration of life, with death as the great disclosure, revealing the lonliness and horror of life’s seedy underbelly with the literary device of contrast. ("In the midst of life we are in death", and so on.) To demonstrate life’s rich tapestry of light and dark, pleasures and woes, sex is used to throw death into sharp relief, and vice versa.

This means that just as a sex scene was getting to the really filthy bit, the character would chop off their own cock with a pair of gardening shears, or throw themselves into the sea on top of a load of corpses after a big lezzing session.

Most psychosexual dsyfuntions can be attributed to early childhood exposure to Fog, The.

(See also: American Psycho, Judy Blume’s Forever)

Favourite television programme of Mark Foster, who would constantly ask me if I'd seen the most recent episode and then look at me in disbelief when I told him I'd never heard of it. It was about a year before I realised he was talking about "The Fall Guy" which, of course, I watched all the time.

(At the time Mark was receiving regular speech therapy)

it's almost good enough to be legit, but it has that certain random quality that makes it all mine...

At lunch time each child would pick their country I myself always picked Malaria as my country (I was never good at geography) and everyone would decide upon a victim who needed 'aid' and we would proceed by shouting FOOD PARCELS! and throwing our heavy rucksacks at him/her until they cried.