As a six year old, I was blown away by the amazing film Indiana Jones: Raiders Of The Lost Ark.
At that age, I was oblivious to the stigma attached to Nazism, but was somehow subconciously affected by the film's sensitive portrayal of the Nazi war effort and the beautiful colours of their regalia.
The next week in class, we were asked to design a hot air balloon. My balloon was perfunctory, adorned with the usual childhood scribble. The picture was completed with a toothsome couple in leather jackets and milkbottle glasses, saluting to the people below.
Oh yes, and there was sign with a giant swastika on it, jutting out of the side of the basket.
I was really pleased with my effort. The teacher, however, was disgusted. And at the end of the year, when all our work was traditionally returned to us to take home to our proud parents, my nazi balloon masterpiece had mysteriously gone missing. My guess is it's either in my permanent record (providing a silent warning to employers that they have a potential Nazi sympathizer on their hands), or my teacher has it framed on her wall at home. In her secret Third Reich bondage dungeon. The filthy bitch.

My vote for the best Joey in the school was Paul Smith. Unlike his namesake in the fashion word, our Paul would wear a smeggy parker every day, even during summer and would walk around saying "indicator mash potato" whilst moving his arms in the same way as car windscreen wipers. No one ever knew why, or the correlation between why he was saying indicator when in fact his arms suggested windscreen wipers. Perhaps just that it rhymed with mash potato. He also used to hang around with bus drivers. This made him happy.

Ineffectual racism is crap, because it leaves you looking both morally repugnant AND bloody stupid.
Bullied to the point of "the rage" (q.v.) by a sikh boy, I decided in my desperation to retaliate by being racist, as I'd been told that this was "the very worst kind of all abuse".
Alas, my chick-pea eating, Greenham-common-supporting upbringing got in the way, and all I managed was a rather oblique comment about "things having a rather dark complexion."
He just looked a bit perplexed. However, he must have brooded about it nightly for a long time, because after not seeing him at all for four years, he suddenly approached me and threw me down a stairwell.

The inventors of Infra-Red Remote Control watches allowed the disruption of many an Apaches video.
Adjust the volume.
Hopefully, the television will be before on-screen displays of the volume, so it would just seem like a mechanical glitch. The teacher will be concerned, but not enough to stop the video.
Pause. Resume.
Timing is everything. First, quickly stop-start the video to let everyone know something is amiss. The second time, not too long after the first, and only resume when the teacher gets out of her chair, leaving her hovering in mid-air, unsure which way to go. Then leave it for a minute or two, until everyone thinks it's working again, then pause and leave it until she actually gets to the video before you hit play. Then hit pause the second she sits down. When she gets back to the video, move to the next stage.
Fast Forward / Rewind
Convince the teacher that something is seriously wrong by pressing something on your watch immediately after she presses something on the video. She presses play? Hit rewind. Continue until she is hopelessly flustered, and fetches another, more male, teacher.
Resume Normal Service
When the other teacher is in, you obviously let the video run normally. You should also complain that this video on the Bayeux Tapestry is really interesting, and it's frustrating that you can't seem to watch it in the manner the programme makers intended. The other teacher will leave, perhaps rolling his eyes at the flapping woman in his wake.
Tear Her Soul Apart
No mercy. The second he has left the door, bombard the video with everything you've got. The look of pained helplessness and growing panic on her face will inspire sympathy in only the gayest of children.

Where lots of arguments end up.
- You guffed!
- Yeah well you guffed twice.
- Yeah well you guffed times a hundred!
- Yeah well you guffed infinity times!
- Yeah well you guffed infinity times plus one!
- You can't have infinity plus one!
- Yes you can!
- Alright, you guffed infinity times two times!
- Plus one.
- Infinty squared!
- Plus one.

The well-established method by which you evaded catching cooties. A simple stabbing mime, and you're footloose and cootie free for up to an hour.
This also works when playing it. You can not become it by injecting yourself, thus becoming immune to being caught. This is roughly equivalent to simply "not playing".

Similar to Andy Graham Disease. So-called game whereby nasty little middle class fuckers would stab each other with their forefinger "giving" each other 'Katie Burgess Fever'. The 'injection for life' bit, of course, meant that you couldn't give it back. Oh, how I laugh now when I go back home and see all my old school chums (who I'm led to believe make up the majority of this country's single mother/unemployed paedophile demographic) with their shitneck existences, and tell them all about my own, pretty damn near fucking perfect life. See? You do get over it, you really, really do.

On top of a French teacher who told us that "he was going home to beat his wife" at the end of every lesson, our English teacher was asked his opinion of gay men during the discussion of a Shakespeare play. His response of "men, women, tried 'em both, much the same" was so witheringly put that we could only stare helplessly at him.

Along the lines of "rubber balls and liquor", this gag relied on someone being excited enough by mystery to agree to saying 'Inspector Fanny' after everything you say. After securing this agreement, you say;

Who put you in jail?
Who let you out of jail?

And inevitably:
What did you do when a girl came around the street corner?

My love of this gag led to me writing "You will Inspector Fanny" on a bit of scrap paper and giving it to another kid I'd been playing the joke on, just to relive the finest moment of the joke. He passed it to the teacher, who proceeded to ask me if I knew what a fanny was.

Witty response to come back with when labelled a 'bitch' at school:
'A bitch is a dog, a dog barks, bark is part of a tree, a tree is part of nature, nature is beautiful, so thanks for the compliment.'
Can be altered slightly for other insults too; 'a twat is a fanny, sweet fanny adams, adam and eve were in Genesis, so was Phil Collins, so actually you're calling me Phil Collins, so thanks for the compliment.'
And if it's any consolation, a fucking cunt must be an attractive cunt, otherwise it wouldn't be fucking.

"Your mum crocodile lady, your dad crocodile" - cuss produced by Nozrul, a Bengali kid when half-heartedly bullied. Also: "Your name Mr Snake" and "You Bloody".

The name of our 6 a-side football team. Cheered on by cries of 'Come on Yermam!'. We were copied by the rip-off team 'Inter Bed', who were, of course, shit.
And one of them had a mullet.

A sport common to most schools in the world is the violent rivalry between nearby schools. However, our version had a twist, because the nearest school to us catered for those with special needs.
At least once a week we would be visited by about thirty misguided children in varying states of spackerdom, angling for a punch up during dinner.
This was even more entertaining because, frankly, they could barely manage being outside unsupervised, let alone display dazzling unarmed combat skills. So they pretty much got hammered very time. They never learned. Which is probably why they were in a special school in the first place.

In one Year 6 computer lesson, we were told to search for various things on Ask Jeeves. At the time I believed that if you input a question - any question - it would come up with a straightforward answer. I inserted "Why is Tom Scott so fat?"
My computer froze. I bashed away at buttons. It didn't work. Rather than simply turn off my computer, I ran around the room persuading classmates to insert the same question into the search engine. Nobody's computer froze except mine. I then tried to persuade the teacher that it must be some massive international problem and it was just a coincidence that the one person out of the 6 billion on Earth whose name was stuck in the search engine was in her class. She said she believed me.

The idea of inverted nipples is commonplace, although I'm not sure if anyone has ever seen any. Surely it would involve little holes. And they would have to suck in milk. And this never, never happens.

We've all heard reports of the games exam invigilators play. Paper chicken, for example, where they anticipate which child will want paper next, and try to give it to them just before they put their hands up. If you see an invigilator standing behind the ugliest, most furiously-writingest child, this is what he is doing.
My father taught at the same school I attended, and a few months ago he told me that he had stood next to the most unpleasant kid in the year, and silently waved an eggy banner. I had never before felt so much love for my father as right then.

To get Jim suspended from school, squirt water from a teat pipette into your eye, then scream, throw the teat pipette to the floor, and tell the teacher that Jim squirted you in the eye with iodine.
If this works, consider telling your parents that your maths teacher slid his index finger into your arse.

Method of choosing the 'it' for games such as 'British Bulldog' and '49 save all'. Someone (usually a bossy girl) would start pointing at people on each syllable of 'ip dip dog shit, you are not it'. The chosen one, relieved, would leave the circle. With only eight syllables, it shouldn't have been too hard to fix, but to my knowledge no-one was that clever at that age.

In Biology A level we were learning about mitosis - cell division - which has 5 stages called interphase, prophase, metaphase, anaphase and telophase. There was a rather unfavoured girl in the class called Michelle who was not exactly attractive, nor did she have a high level of personal cleanliness. I devised a mnemonic to remember the phases of mitosis. It have never forgotten it. I Porked Michelles Anal Tract. Nice.

Well that's rubbish because it misses out cytokinesis at the end. The one I used was "Is Paul Molyneaux a Twat? Certainly!" Paul thought that one up himself, so it wasn't really cruel.

A "making disability fun" story.

Phil Wardle had something wrong with his spine. The problem was such that eventually he had to wear a kind of plastic corset. This encased his upper body- front and back - from his waist to just below the arms. Obviously it was worn under his shirt so it couldn’t be seen. When he first had it fitted, he would go and wind people up by calling them a twat or applying a sharp and exceedingly painful dig in the ribs with his fingers. The reaction of most people to this kind of provocation was to issue a punch in the stomach. Unfortunately for them, this was exactly the response Phil was hoping for because it resulted in a scene like that out of Superman 2 when that bloke in the diner punches Clark Kent in the stomach and nearly shatters his hand.

Me and a group of friends asked a dinner lady what was it like to have sex - we were ten.
She responded by saying, "well, you know when you pull your foreskin back in the bath whilst washing? It's like that over and over."
From the blank look she received from all of us, it became apparent none of us knew how to wash our dicks properly, let alone have sex.

Offered as an answer to the question "If you got mugged on Orpington high street, what should you shout to get help?"

Something I; (a) should not have asked Justin after his mum had died of cancer; and (b) should not have repeated to my mum when I enquired why Justin had run away crying? I was only about 5 or 6 so give me a break.

Stock phrase used by a teacher to calm down a hysterical class while simultaneously consoling the unfortunate child who has just peed her pants at the age of twelve.