The drain in the middle of our playground always used to always have a layer of slimy mud-crust swilling around it.
The dirtiest person in the school was deemed to own this drain - after maintaining this ownership for several weeks, Leslie eventually had the swamp named after her.
If you were pushed into her swamp, then you were forced to marry Leslie. This made you one of Leslie's Lezzies - if you were a girl. Boys just became her regular husband, which made them gay. Because even skiddy boys' bums were cleaner than Leslie's toxic shock factory.

The name of the mythical hairdresser where Miss Harris had her hair cut very short.

Lessebo is a locality and the seat of Lessebo Municipality, Kronoberg County, Sweden. It had 2,623 inhabitants in 2005.
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It's also the name of the IKEA sofa that your mum likes to sit on when she's making out with Sandy Toksvig.

In true Derek Bentley style, the school hooligan did, and instead of handing over the hat cracked my mate Chris's head on the playground.

Another example of highly encourageable simple children. Timmy Long was a special needs kid at our primary school who would, if you chanted "Let's Go Timmy Long!", start to run around the playing field in ever decreasing circles, until he reached a point where he would be spinning in a circle.
As a finale, he'd collapse and have to be taken home.

The female equivalent of bum chums. Apparently, let's be friends sounds just like lesbians. Doesn't it.

A series of GCSE revision books. Owning any book in the series was an admission of being an overenthusiastic gaymosexual bumdoctor.

Kid A : Lezbie friends. Kid B : Homo you don't. There's lots more but I can't remember it.

Logic employed by people who compenstate for their lack of intelligence with a need to be obeyed.
Librarian: You've all got to move, you're blocking the fire door.
Me: But we're the only ones here.
Librarian: But it's dangerous, you're causing an obstruction.
Me: The door is locked anyway!
(I demonstrate by trying the handle)
Librarian : But I have the key in my drawer.
Me: You're only here two days a week! And what if you die in the fire?
Librarian: Just get on with your work and try not to block the door.
Us: Okay...

A lamentable attempt at a catch 22 (qv), clearly thought of in a couple of bored minutes. You were asked "Do you lickadickaday?", to which you would obviously answer no unless you were the most pathetically retarded person in the whole world ever. I guess they thought concatenating all its constituent words would confuse the victim. The result of an affirmative answer is obvious, but if you answered 'no' they'd claim that "lickadickaday" was Latin for breathe. Which failed to be particularly cutting, but it's debatable whether this was because no-one in their right mind would believe this, or because "ha ha, you don't breathe" doesn't really cut it as an insult.

Frank's girlfriend was on life support. She was in a coma for two whole school years, yet somehow sweet Frank stayed faithful.
One day some people asked if they could go and see her. No they couldn't, because she'd died over the summer.

At the age of 5, I was taken out of class and made to wait outside the headmistress's office. While I was there I was told that I had been seen looking into the girls' toilets.

I burst into tears as I stood on a white square on the chequered floor (something we had to do when we'd been naughty, perhaps to highlight our stained souls against the whiteness of tile). A teacher walked up and asked me why I was crying.

"Because I didn't do it!" I said.
"But if you didn't do it, why are you crying?" she replied, stonily.

It was at that moment I realised that the world was fundamentally unfair.

Safety lessons with Mrs Burge in primary school were a riot of incomprehensibility. We learned that if someone touches a live wire their muscles will be paralysed by the force of the electrical current and they won't be able to let go. She got Kevin to pretend to be electrocuted by the lightswitch (eyes rolling, tongue lolling, zzzt! zzzt! noises).

Obviously you can't touch Kevin to push him away from the switch, or zzzt! zzzt! - you're frying too. You need something that won't conduct. Plastic. What's made of plastic? A lunchbox!

Mrs Burge then took my Thundercats lunchbox, complete with Marmite sandwiches, and used it to nudge Kevin away from the switch.

Fucking *weird*.

The sweep of sudden good behaviour that settles over a class when a routine session of pre-teacher misbehaviour goes horribly wrong. Within seconds, everyone will be sat, books turned to the correct pages, in absolute silence.
A good example being when a game of indoor football knocks a cup of full coffee onto the fifth years' coursework.
Time stopped, the camera swept around the football, there was an extreme close-up on a droplet of coffee, and every child lifted into the air, and flew back into their seats.
The teacher, when he arrived, would see two things; the culmination of the fifth years' secondary education rendered useless, and a class of 30 really well behaved twelve year olds.
We thought the two things would pretty much balance out.

Connecting steel rulers across the terminals of the batteries of those lab packs. These rulers were then used as swords, which let off* an impressive flash of voltage whenever they connected.
If anyone's ever connected two 3ft steel poles to the mains and fought with them, I'd love to hear their stories. I never had the balls.
*Hurrr... let off...

If you see a limousine, or indeed any very expensive car, shout "Hi Dad!" at it, implying that your father is the very wealthy person being driven in the limo.

If you're in the company of someone who uses the "Hi Dad!" line, retort with "I didn't know your dad was my dad's driver!"

Assuming, of course, that you don't go to a school where being the offspring of gypnak pikey dolescum is considered fashionable.

The exponent gently draws an exclamation mark on the the victim's spine, reciting "Line, Dot". He then digs his index fingers into the kidneys and twists them violently, creating the desired electric shock effect.
Can backfire if the victim turns around in surprise just as the attacker is doing the electric shock bit, leaving the attacker with his hands on the victim's hips in an awkward and obviously homosexual clinch.

Listen to this,
Too good to miss,
dum dum de dum dum dum
*trump*

If you're lucky enough to have another trump in the tube, or cunning enough to clench mid-toot, then be sure to sing;

Here comes another,
Must be its brother,
dum dum de dum dum dum
*trump*

Timing is essential if you're to pull this off successfully. You must be on beat.



This is in E major. Adjust the key to suit the size of your arsehole, and change to a minor key if you think you might shit yourself.

Any member of a Suing Club could threaten to sue someone if they did something you didn't like. A lot of eight year olds believed it when you threatened to sue them, and would even believe that you can get their parents taken away, their house removed, gain custody of all their toys, and force them to live in a cardboard box.

In Kindergarten I had a teacher from the Netherlands. Her main method of punishment consisted of sending the perpetrator to "The Litter Box".
This was a large kitty litter box (large enough for a small child of 6 to fit inside entirely) filled with cat litter and small spoonfuls of peanut butter. You were forced to clean out the tray with a scooper and place the peanut butter "turds" into a baggy. Obviously, the class watching you shuffling little nutty faux-browns around was humiliating, unless you reclaimed control by gently licking the peanut butter, and maybe popping it into your mouth.
Sadly, as this was Kindergarten, no-one thought of that.

One afternoon, after casually discarding a crisp pack on the playground in front of our Dickensian characature of a caretaker, Cyril exploded with "Oi!, I don't wanna see any little reindeer". Unfortunately, Cyril had not been dropping acid as we all had hoped but rather more mundanely hoped not to see any more litter round here - shame.

Living In A Box's eponymous hit. A useful song for when words like gypo and fleabag lose their effect. Can be used in conjunction with "Uptown Slag, she's been living in a paper bag," by Billy Joel.

The unwelcome erection in the changing rooms. Said in a high-pitched squeal with emphasis on the "lob". An erection was treated with the same level of confusion, fear, and disgust as if a lobster had, indeed, walked into the changing rooms with a towel wrapped around its waist, and started whistling.

Looking at the locker in the sports changing rooms one fine day, I remarked that I thought I could just about fit in one if I curled up very small. Someone expressed disbelief, so I smugly clambered into the locker and curled up. Doubting Gitface said it only counted if the door could shut fully, so with a big smile on my face I pulled the door shut. He couldn't believe his luck. Normally locking someone into a locker took several strong men and a couple of bruised or broken limbs; in this case, all he had to do was flick the lock shut and go to lunch. Pride stopped me from trying to attract attention until several minutes after everybody else had left.

In an amazing year of Indiana Jones-esque escapades, my friends and I would booby-trap each others lockers quite freqently using all sorts of house-hold items. Being the top of the top in Science class, which was in the middle of a Mechanical Effeciency unit, I rigged up six cans of whipped cream, two blasting-cap cherry bombs, and a big fake gun with a "Your Gay!" flag that pops out of the front to go off as soon as my buddy opened his locker.

Unfortunately, the cherry bombs blew the binding of the whipping cream cans, sending them flying into the hall. And maybe some of you don't understand how much six cans of whipped cream is.