The name for a child so fat and ungainly that when he falls over, a quick-witted bully has the presence of mind to shout "timber", then pretend that the ground shook.
Technically an insult, should you carry the name into adulthood, you'll be surprised how many people assume you have a gigantic cock. Thanks, that bully!

Tightly knotting the Lord Anthony parka sleeve of the victim, before excreting generously into the chamber you have created. The bell rings, "Atkins" puts on his coat in a hurry to out-pace the bullies...... and hey presto.... log-jam!!

Name of a chocolate bar which appeared briefly in the mid eighties. It was intended to resemble a log with bark-like markings in the chocolate but did in fact bear closer (and thus more amusing) resemblance to a poo. Only more disconcerting than someone eating a Logger and getting chocolate all around their mouth was the Fruit and Nut version of the Logger which was, quite frankly, only one small step away from a Sweetcorn Logger in terms of unappetizing confectionery. The use of the word Logger as a slang term for a turd may or may not have preceded the appearance of this in shops. I forget.

He'd been on holiday for a fortnight. As he entered the school hall, he felt all eyes turn towards him. "He's back", "Look over there!", "Just by the doors" went the whispers across the cavernous expanse. Then the chant started, low at first, but buiding into a cacophony of hurled abuse. "Log-ger, log-ger,log-ger" was shouted as he was chased around the entire school grounds, in tears.
His crime?
The dirty bastard had shat in a urinal.

Irrefutable logic is a supreme irritant for physics teachers - particularly the histrionic shouting type who never actually carry out a threat. Notably, Mr Linton.
Spotting me chatting in the corridor with a friend, who he'd also just chucked out of the class, he shouted 'Alexander, I thought I told you to stand outside the staff room! Why are you in the corridor?'
My response? 'Sir - I'm not standing INSIDE the staff room, and since I AM standing, I can only conclude that I must be standing OUTSIDE the staff room.'
Impressed with my scientific reasoning, he screamed in my face for a few moments before meandering away, muttering threats.

A computer program used in tandem with a small semispherical grey robot called a "walker". Users would enter commands into the computer, and using the magic of technology, the little grey shit would bleep and draw a sqaure on the ground.

The fun, however, usually came with typing in the commands. It only understood simple words such as "move" and "right". Any other instruction would be greeted with "I do not know how to X". Being 7 years old, this was BRILLIANT:

"I do not know how to fart"
"I do not know how to smell"
"I do not know how to boobies"

When a conversation reaches a natural break, suddenly exclaim "Look...!" while pointing enthusiastically. They will naturally turn to look without actually listening to what you're pointing out. Typical examples (I've used with success) include "Look! An arse!" or the slightly cleverer "Look! My finger!"

I was twelve, she was in her thirties, she taught R.E. and we were in a storeroom alone together collecting textbooks. And it wasn't me that said it. So much for Catholic morality.

The lost property office was open some ridiculous hours; Tuesday evenings and for half an hour on Sundays. Therefore, a worthwhile trick to play was to steal someone's blazer, shorts, skidders, or whatever and simply hand it in to lost property. It would be much, much, harder for the owner to reclaim his belongings from lost property than from a more conventional hiding place e.g the top of a bus shelter (next to the single green flash (qv) which was always to be found there) or the Longford River.

At first sight, Louise Elliot is not the most profane name that could be given to a child. Parents with the surname Elliot could generally feel comfortable that naming their baby daughter Louise will leave her safe from ridicule from her peers. It's just ordinary, isn't it?
In the hands of a master japester such as Stephen Foster, however, every single syllable is ripe for scatological sarcasm. And thus your child shall forever be tarred with the monicker Poo Wees Smelly Butt.
I've no idea what Stephen Foster is doing now, but if there's any justice in the world he should be editing books of babies' names to warn parents about just this sort of thing.

Writing tragically poor poetry to a girl you fancied at school would be one way to guarantee five years of bullying. Not having the wit even to do this, one lad at our school sent the object of his affections one of his pubic hairs through the post instead. With love letter attached. Which didn't work, obviously. He's now a policeman. Equally obviously.

A simple mathematical method of working out people's attraction to each other, far simpler and cheaper than all that sodding about with dating profiles like they do nowadays.
If someone wanted to calculate my percentage attraction to, say, Kylie Minogue, they would proceed thus:

1. Write out on a piece of paper:
   Matthew Fasham
   Loves
   Kylie Minogue
   
2. Count up the number of l, o, v, e, and s's in each name as follows:
   1,1,0,3,1
3. Add up the adjacent numbers, pair by pair, to get:
   2,1,3,4
4. Again:
   3,4,7
5. Again:
   7, 11
6. And finally, the percentage that I love Kylie Minogue, 18%.
   This depressingly small percentage, if calculated in a school classroom, would be taken as conclusive proof of gayness.Additionally, as the percentage works both ways, I now know that my hitherto dogged pursuit of Kylie is doomed to a loveless failure.

The unfortunate act of, whilst attempting to create a winning skier, over-estimating the optimum penis angle, resulting in a shower of piss coming down on your own head. The most admired skier practitioners would gain respect by pushing the envelope and coming dangerously close to a Lucozade but still managing to win the competition with dry hair.

The elements of a lunchbox are all subject to a scoring system that any child can appraise in seconds. As adults, we may need help with a table.

	Sandwich	Crisps	Snack	Drink
5	Deep filled, fresh, with two or more meats on wholegrain thick sliced bread.	Rippled or otherwise textured luxury snack.	Proper Chocolate Bar. Mars, Twix.	Can Coke or equivalent
4	Real, unprocessed meats on Mighty White.	Monster Munch or other highly flavoured crisp.	Mid-range chocolate. Penguin.	Carton Ribena
3	Standard cheese or processed ham on standard white bread.	Ready Salted Walkers	Budget chocolate. Ace, Taxi, Blue Riband.	Pouch Capri Sun
2	Elements of sweatiness. Sandwich droops when held by the edge.	10p Red Mill snack - Tangy Toms.	Fun Size Chocolate. Interpretable as an insult.	Tupperware Beaker Robinson's Cordial
1	One Kraft Single between two unbuttered slices of a 7p loaf.	None	Two squares taken from a 500g bar of Dairy Milk. Fruit.	Tap Water

Your score, coupled with your social standing, will determing your treatment. For instance, a score of 12 is recommended for victims; any noticeable variance from the absolute average will result in unwelcome attention. For popular children, the higher the score the better. In a geek-friendly environment, fruit may actually be considered acceptable. To be honest, it's a more complicated issue than this arena allows for, and to be even more honest I'm totally bored with the subject. Bye bye.

My friend Crystal did a very similar thing with a slit cow's heart, and actually succeeded in making three of her classmates sick. Mostly because the undrained blood would spurt out every time "Mr. Weebles," as he was called, would complete a syllable.

After being humiliated in Biology the week before, by having a migraine at the same time as disecting a heart and therefore appearing to go green and spew at the sight of said bodily organ, I was forced into reaffirming my hard man image. This was accomplished by tying several bits of thread to the following week's dissection subject, a windpipe and lungs, and parading it around the class. Whilst the initial ability simply to make it move towards unsuspecting girls at high speed and making them scream was good enough, it got better when said lungs took on a personality of their own. Now totally out of control, Kermit The Lungs (patent pending), began performing dance routines across the benches whilst singing "We're moving right along". The show came to an abrupt halt when Kermit noticed the biology teacher now standing staring and, instantly, reverted to being 'just a pair of lungs' dangling innocently from thread! In a travesty of justice Kermit was allowed to remain whilst I was removed to the confines of the 'quiet room'.

The lurgie corner was the corner right opposite the bin (which once had a wasp nest in it). If you stood on that paving stone, you automatically had the lurgie. Obviously. Even the teachers never went into that corner.

A small Tupperware tub of tomato sauce, in which you may genteely dip your exquisite sausages before gnawing daintily at the end, is both a sign of high civilisation, and rock-solid proof that you have "made it".

An early work from self-styled Tim-Rice-of-the-playground Colin Clifford, about his good friend Colin Black:

Colin Black, Colin Black, Went to Vietnam and back, with a knick knack paddywhack and napalm up his bum, came home mad and killed his mum.

Colin Black didn't go to Vietnam, and remains innocent of matricide.