One of the boy's in the year above mine once tried to fend off the arse of a very flabby fourth year which was being pushed towards his face. Apparently his right index finger disappeared well below the knuckle. He was henceforth known as "ringer" or "ring-a-ding-ding".
In my youth I had a knack for starting daft crazes. My two favourites were:
1. Object Breaking: This consisted of breaking pencils with your head; starting with one, and steadily increasing the number of pencils until you couldn't break any more. This craze ended abruptly when one young protege rendered himself unconcious attempting to break a thick piece of plywood stolen from wood tech.

2. Noseology: The study of how far an object can be inserted up one's nose. The most popular items were Lego bricks, which were removed on every occasion by the school nurse with a pair of tweezers. In attempting to put my school mates to shame I managed to trap a kidney bean in my sinus which my sister informed me would grow into my brain and slowly kill me. Luckily, I sneezed it out a few days later. PHEW!
The art of jumping into someone's back when they weren't looking. However, soon after the point of take off (approx 3-4 feet away from the target), the 'riser' was required to turn 180 degrees, sticking out his backside as he did, with the intention of planting it firmly between the shoulder blades of the recipient.

Correctly executed, the initial stages of the riser bear a remarkable similarilty to the approach of the High Jump, with its curved run up and hilariously elongated stride.

Noone got hurt until one day someone inadvertently bent down to pick something up, and Simon Gotch broke his wrist. We were all more careful after that. Well, a bit.
During English, Mr. Shaw was distracted from teaching us Shakespeare long enough to tell us about his fierce hatred of all rodent-kind, particularly squirrels. "Little plague-rats with fluffy tails," he proclaimed darkly. The next day, Kristin brought in a somewhat larger-than-life plastic facsimile of a squirrel, which was immediately christened Roadkill, and given pride of place at the front of the classroom. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Shaw instituted the practice of leaving small gifts (pencils, jewellery, money, sweets etc.) on Roadkill's 'altar', which was mandatory before every test 'if we wanted a good grade'. Songs and psalms were soon to follow. So whenever anyone tells me a depressing anecdote, I can usually top it with 'my English teacher forced me to worship a squirrel.'

How Mr Shaw got from hating squirrels to worshipping the infernal beasts as his masters will presumably never be known - Conor

An educational grey dome with wheels, that boasted a thrilling array of colourful buttons. Basically, a Big Trak that couldn't carry apples or make "pew pew" sounds at a bemused dog.



Was never quite well-known enough to form the basis of the following conversation to wind up travellers:

"I'm from the Roma community"
"Oh cool! Where are your gaily coloured educational buttons?"
"No, Romani"
"Don't be silly, Roamers don't have knees"
"*sigh* I'm part of an Indo-Aryan people, traditionally normadic itenerants, living mostly in Europe"
"MUM THE ROBOTS TALKING WEIRD AGAIN"
Looking back, I'll always feel sorry for poor Robert Ryan. Always a reclusive, loner bully-magnet, he thought he was experiencing the worst of it when, aged 13, Pokemon cards were discovered in his jacket. He wasn't.
See, he chose to do accountancy - only so did every waster in the year. He happened to sit at a row of tables beside three girls - each one called Laura. All through the class, he'd hear the chant "Robbie is a Laura" sung by those in the back rows. Eventually, this worked it's way around the whole year and everywhere he went he was greated to the same chant. Someone even made an "I Am A Laura" badge, presented to him on his birthday in assembly.
Poor fella.
Replying to Robert's comment that our experiment was giving of a smell like apples, our Scottish chemistry teacher piped up, "Well, I wouldn't mind some of your apples, Robert!" This was greeted with a stunned silence.
Plastic ‘boomerangs’, in the shape of a T with a robot drawn on them, were popular at my school for a time, and were naively considered by the teachers to be harmless enough for indoor use. This craze went on for some weeks without incident, until one day when I watched Martin Bradshaw, in a manner not dissimilar to the ape who plays with the bones in 2001 – A Space Odyssey, looking first at his boomerang and then at the back of Gareth Gurd's head. A hefty throw and the crack of impact followed, and then the madness affected us all. Before long, the floor was littered with the crying and injured.

The boomerangs were banned that day, and the craze was swiftly replaced by football stickers. Martin tried his best to hurt Gareth with these, but sadly failed.
A popular experiment in rocket ballistics

Apparatus
Lab stool (with hole seat for easy lifting)
Ruler
Pyrex beaker / test tube
Any two chemicals
Method
  • Inform classmate you are going to demonstrate 'rocket science'.
  • Seat classmate on lab stool at desk.
  • Place chemical in beaker.
  • Count down from 10 as you prepare to add second chemical.
  • On 'zero', accomplice jabs ruler upwards through hole in lab stool.
Result
We have lift off.
Derived from the true-life Rocky Mountain spotted fever. Basically a game of tag where you simply smacked someone and yelled, "You've got Rocky Mountain Fart Fever!" I invented it as a one-off joke, and was gratified when the fever spread throughout the class for an entire recess.
With a head composed of my middle finger and legs forged from the other four (yes, that's counting the thumb, you pedants), Roger the Dinosaur was the absolute smash of Bronte School's Class 6S... until it was bettered when Mark Anderson offered to chew ink cartridges for 20p. A feat which I have still not been able to top, ten years on.
Gommel was an insult meaning spastic. Rommel was a German general. Gecochtes Ei is German for Boiled Egg. "Rommel the Gommel and his Gecochtes Ei" is just... funny.
Dada-ist alteration of the phrase "Front Windows Do Not Open", as seen on the top deck of the school bus.
This possibly belongs more in, or may even have been lifted directly from, Roger's Profanisaurus, but it's still a good phrase for pissflaps.
A short-lived obsession at high school was the fear of Dalek invasion, and so we set out to identify the one Dalek-proof room in the school. Worryingly, the school was built on a slope, and so there was Dalek access through ground level doors on every floor.

However, we soon found a safe room, which was half way up the main flight of stairs, and therefore inaccessible to Daleks. Ironically enough, this was the room that had been allocated to the disabled students.
My discovery was that the friction caused by climbing ropes in the school gym was rather pleasurable, giving you that extra incentive to climb all the way to the top, even though your arms are about to wither and drop off. Unfortunately it all ended in tragedy one day when I actually orgasmed and ejaculated all over my PE shorts. Changing back into school uniform was a delicate operation that day.
Rosie and her brother, James, lived on a farm on the outskirts of a village near Derby. The school bus took us past their farm each day, a collection of ramshackle, rusting, corrugated iron sheds, some of which fell over if the weather was bad.
Because of their ethnic origin, it was widely acknowledged that the sheds were in this state because Rosie, James and their parents ate too much curry; first year R.E. dictating anyone from India ate curry and first year biology dictating that eating curry led to guffs-a-plenty.
To keep Anglo/Indian diplomatic relations healthy, an enterprising group of us took to throwing our sandwiches out of the bus window as we passed the farm, figuring that Rosie and James' bowels needed all the normal food they could get. When Rosie, who at the time was too young to attend senior school, began to wait at the bottom of the drive when the bus went past, the rain of uneaten lunches turned into a downpour.
The sheds were still ramshackle, though, and when it was eventually pointed out that Rosie was actually waiting for her brother to get off the bus, the sandwich throwing stopped. Our generosity turned to anger and we just threw whatever came to hand - text books, eggs, and even water balloons were popular for a while, but no-one managed to top Kevin's inspired "Do-it-all Painting and Decorating Guide".
Looking back now, the most tear-jerking thing about the whole sorry story is that *everything* we threw from the bus would be gone the next day. Their farm might have been a shithole but those Indians certainly kept their drive clean.
The hypothetical slut-mother of Ross Foal that formed the basis of a year of South Park-esque abuse. This peaked with the presentation of a framed picture of Ross's Bitchy Mum to Ross himself. The next year the theme of the abuse was "why is Ross so deformed?"
Rough books had a more coarse, more absorbent, and ultimately chewier consistency, and were never intended for handing in. This made them perfect for putting in your mouth, gobbing onto your ruler, and flicking at whatever the fuck you like.
This involves walking up to a girl (one you've never met before) in front of your mates then you proceed to hold her shoulder and tell her she is the most repulsive person you've ever seen. After this, you hold on for as long as you can. The rougher she is, the harder it is, and the more enjoyable the ride.
Kudos comes from both the duration of the ride and the harshness of the insult.
(As adults, a sexier version of this game arises, in which you say someone else's name in bed while you're inside the sex hole. After that, see how long you can stay inside. However, it's worth remembering that having your cock in a non-consenting sex hole is tantalisingly close to rape)
A measure of distance, speed or power.
"I kicked the ball so hard it went round the world and hit you in the back of the head," and so forth.
Boasting that your cock is so big it encircles the globe is likely to backfire, as any pelvic thrusting on your part will lead to inadvertant penetration of your own arse.
Roy Bird was a fat, ugly smelly kid in our year, who defied all convention by not being treated with disgust. In fact, we was almost popular.
It was considered to be an honour if you were chosen to be Roy Bird's special helper. At dinner time, he would randomly select an individual from the group clamoured around him, by method of getting another group member to spin around, eyes closed and point to a person.
The winner got to accompany Roy in tasks such as aggravating the school retard, and collecting cigarette nubs from behind the 6th form block.
(Out of interest, Google Roy Bird, and you get... gasp! It's Fred West! A bit.)
1: After every question i ask, say "rubber balls and liquor."
2: okay.
1: What did you eat for breakfast?
2: Rubber balls and liquor.
1: What did eat for lunch?
2: Rubber balls and liquor.
1: What are you going to eat for dinner?
2: Rubber balls and liquor.
1: What are you going to do to your girlfriend tonight?
2: Rubber balls and liquor.
The idea of kid #2's having a girlfriend with a set of testicles, and kid #2's confession of rubbing and licking them proved to be an endless source of absurd merriment.
Write YES on one side of a rubber and NO on the other. Ask it a question, then flip it for the answer. Be wary, though, of what you ask, particularly the potentially devastating 'Am I gay?' If you get an answer in the affirmative, you are doomed forever. The rubber oracle never lies.

Mind you, if you are so sexually insecure as to feel the need to ask that particular question, you're probably gay anyway. Again, doomed.
Written on a white sticker and stuck on the front of drawers and filing cabinets in school. I think it was started by one of the German exchange students, but it carried on appearing for about a year. That's it. Simple but perfectly funny. I always liked the charming spelling.