When I was eight years old, my life up to that point had been so sheltered that I had never heard the word 'cunt'. The national curriculum was shit in those days.

This spell of innocence was broken when I took an afternoon's trip to the local disused railway line, to look at nature and that. An old bridge crossing the line was under repair, and the contract work was being carried out by a local firm, 'G E Raynault'. This name was advertised, as is traditional, by a hoarding. Only their advert had been subverted by someone I can only describe as a wag.

They'd added, quite simply, "... IS A CUNT".

Was this the case? I don't know. I was eight years old, and had no experience of what I now know to be a litigous engineering firm that checks its Google results. I doubt the graffiti writer knew, either: the handwriting didn't look like it was written by the kind of person who'd had high-level dealings with industrial contractors. It was just someone who knew what I had just learned: that adding "... is a cunt" to any proper noun is an amusing and edgy form of free expression, whether it was true or not.

It was a life-changing experience.

Part of the increasing efforts to render teachers impotent. If a teacher were to lay even a single finger on any person in the class this would be met with a chant of "G.B.H., G.B.H., G.B.H." by the pupils, each letter punctuated with both fists banged onto the desk. Hopefully, the repetitive mantra-aspect of the chant (not to mention the mob rule aspect) would worm its way into the teacher's confidence, and make them panic. One famous and long-lasting rendition of this 'anthem' was when our Geography teacher, 'Clicker' Clark, grabbed my arm and punched me in the back. I probably deserved it.

A friend having an argument with a ginger haired girl said "ill do you for G.B.H" she then replied "you don't know what that means", and he said "yeah i do, Ginger.Bicky.Head. Classic.

It stands for greasy bum sex, but when you ask someone whether they like G.B.S., they don't know that. You should not tell them this until they have openly said that they like G.B.S. in front of many people. Including their parents, who will be shocked and disappointed at their son's hitherto undiscovered fetish.

Group Home Girls. They lived down the street; about 5 or 6 at any given time, and they all joined us for an hour-long yellow bus ride to public school. Each girl was considered a "danger to herself and others", which aparently meant smoking cigarettes, mild drug abuse, alcohol consuption, and teen pregnancy. These girls generally came from the city; thrown out by their parents into the rigidly christian-run group home for "young women". G.H.G.'s were better known as "skanks", but to those of us fortunate enough to spend a hour together everday, breathing diesel fumes and fighting for the seat with the heater under it, they were simply the G.H.G.'s.

I think a collective internet cry of "WTF!!!!!" is in order here

Good old Martial. She isn't a racialist, you know. And just how does someone grab your breast bone without cutting you open, eh?

You would hear a cry of Galamar! in the distance then before having time to escape a group of asian kids would descend upon you grabbing your breast bone and digging their ethiopian fingers into your chest really hard whilst chanting 'chocky dar,chocky dar'

At primary school there was a boy called Tom who had orange wee. During toilet breaks, we'd line up at the trough-style urinal with Tom at one end and the rest of us at the other. The idea of the game was to repel Tom's orange wee with normal yellow piss for as long as possible. The game ended when Tom declared that his mum had taken him to see the doctor and he wouldn't be pissing orange any more.

I'm sorry, I know this isn't a playground law at all, or indeed anything to do with this, but I've just found what I think is absolutely the worst online game imaginable and I simply couldn't think of anyone else to share it with.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/shropshire/competitions/2003/10/bobbing_for_apples_game.shtml

Red rover- shit

Get Down Bulldog- a classic. Like Rugby but without focus. Or a ball

Kiss chase- Only good in a unisex establishment obviously. Sad lack of acceptable totty rendered this one swiftly obsolete at Carleton Park J&I.

Digging holes behind the wall with matchbox cars- why? Some sad bastards spent whole terms at this one.

Slaughter Corner- Magical,ultimately fatal, fighting game.

The nicknames given to the morally challenged identical twin sisters two years ahead of me. The challenge was to go up to one of them and ask "Which one are you? Gang or Bang?" and run away. Apparently (in an amalgam of their supposed sexual exploits and an old urban legend)either Gang or Bang, after having inadequate sex in a tower block refuse room, proceeded to have "sex" with said room's door handle until it was unwittingly opened by an unsuspecting pensioner. Needless to say Gang (or Bang) fainted and was rushed to hospital

One particularly bored lunchbreak a gang war broke out. One of the school wags had stolen a box of chip forks (the pointless little wooden chip eating implements), and after a football-match-based-argument, the said pupil formed a gang called the Chip forks (I was Chip fork number 9). His rival, not to be out done, formed a gang called the Hoopies (I don't know why they were called this). Hoopies would catch Chip forks and draw large H's on their foreheads with the indelible markers. Eventually, over a number of days, the whole school became divided into Chipforks and Hoopies, and registration after lunch was brightened with the sight of a sea of Blue H's on foreheads (long before Red Dwarf existed). Great days...

Mid-80,s sticker craze featuring Chuckie-looking 'kids' with punny names, e.g. 'Electric Bill' was a kid in prison clothes being zapped on an electric chair. Each person had a GPK equivalent. I was Cheeky Charles because I had a fat face, so people would come up to me and puff out their cheeks. Being 'Shorn Sean' (bloodied face, oozing spots) led to your face being scraped with a ruler. They were eventually banned from my Catholic school as it was decided they were Satanic in origin.

What Mr Field, science teacher with a speech impediment, bollocked Jason Butchers for doing in the toilets. He meant gobbing, but poor ginger Jason wasn't the sharpest tool in the box and hadn't a clue what he'd done wrong (neither had anyone else). Mr Field then bollocked him for looking mystified, which goes to prove a fundamental rule of school existence: teacher fucks up, you get the blame.

A little-known martial art involving combat with the gardening implements in Ross's garage. The higher belts could only be achieved by hitting Martin Phillips with a spade.

Plagued by rumours of an illicit affair with the rowing coach, this fat sod extraordinaire had in fact taken offence at being called "soft" (which he was, in great quantities) and successfully petitioned to get his rowing coach fired.

This resulted in the increase of the frequency and vehemence with which "SOFT COCK!" was screamed in his flabby face.

"Hard" for your rowing coach or a big soft poof to your peers? What a fantastic Catch-22.

Mums! Looking to traumatise an entire coach-load of schoolchildren on a school trip? Want to ensure that your child will be stigmatised and shunned for the remainder of their school career? May I suggest that you provide a packed lunch containing a garlic sausage and Branston pickle sandwich?
It really works! Your child will be socially fucked for weeks!

Short for Gary-Baldi. An insult directed at anyone who either through hard evidence or simple malicious rumour was judged to be devoid of pubes. Accompanied by tight mouthed squeaking noises like those you would get if you rubbed a spotless plate.

Scrawled into the desk at which I sat my Italian GCSE, worn and faded with time but still legible, was the legend 'Gary Lineker makes my tits erect'. I have never been able to fully appreciate why this might have been.

On school camp in the third year (Conwy, Wales 1988) it was discovered that Gary Ferguson was the only lad in the year who did not yet possess a healthy compliment of pubic hair. Later adjusted to accommodate Simon Barrow, who was also a bit sparse, to Barry-baldy.

We had several science labs equipped with long wooden benches which sported gas taps to which Bunsen burners could be attached. Inevitably, once the teachers back was turned the gas taps were turned full on and ignited resulting in satisfying jets of flame reaching several feet. Alternatively, a length of rubber hose could be attached and the other end placed in the swotty kids blazer pocket. Once full of gas the pocket bomb was ignited resulting in a spectacular fire ball.

All harmless high spirits.

Played on the school bus, as soon as you spotted a van belonging to British Gas you would shout at the top of you voice GAS VAN and then evry one would start to beat each other up, this would last until we got board or the driver threw us of the bus.

Mick

Every time a Gas Van (or BT Van) is spotted, the quickest child would shout "Gas Van" and punch a mate as hard as he could on the arm. If nobody else saw the van, a reversal beating ensued. Verification is required, to avoid children just punching each other for no reason. Which would just be stupid.

Gavin Jones' Dad was a handicapped. His eyes didn't work and he had to be led everywhere by Guide Dog. Some of the more gossipy 3rd years had already started rumours about Gavin's dad's relationship with his four-legged friend, when, one Parents Evening, those rumours were given a massive boost of credibility.
Being next to each other in the register meant Gavin and I had adjacent time slots that fateful evening. Nervous with anticipation about my forthcoming report I'd headed off to the toilet. Pissing roughly in the direction of the urinal was Gavin's dad. Sitting faithfully by his side, lapping gently at the golden stream and the contents of the ceramic bowl was his dog. Gavin's Dad's dog was drinking his piss.
Looking back at the incident now, I think I'm fully justified in my telling everyone I could that not only did Gavin's Dad's dog drink Gavin's Dad's piss, he was actually sucking him off in the toilets.
I was justified, wasn't I? The filthy, dog-bothering pervert.

Gay just means stupid - there never seemed to be any real implication that you were actually gay if someone called you gay. Pete Beal's Banana Bowl was another matter.
Teacher : What is the capital of France?
Elaine : Is it Calais sir?
Darren : Sir, Elaine's being gay!

After having discovered your site today and wasted most of it reading entries (on company time) I can only conclude British kids are suspiciously preoccupied with gayness. Little closet faggots, all of you, eh?
In my country (Sweden) we were never called "gay" just for being athletically challenged, interested in arts or books, or generally not fitting in. They beat us up, don't get me wrong - they just didn't call us gay while they did it.
(Two things, anonymous gay Swede; the fact we talk about it means that we're not scared of gayness. It's you lot, the Swedes, who are gay-scared, and that means you're super-gay. Arguing with the logic of this only makes you gayer, so just shut up, bend over and take one from big butch Denmark.
Secondly, the reason this website has a lot of gay references in it is that I'm a gay, and I'm pushing my agenda with a view to attracting burly doormen. Are you a burly doorman? If so, please get in touch. I'm Log, and I'll do anything for Dairylea.)