Silent But Deadly, a popular type of fart. Whilst in retrospect volume was never inversely proportional to the actual stench produced, it was generally accepted that the silent ones were the worst, as our elaborate pantomimes after inhalation would attest. Common remarks in the immediate aftermath almost always included, "He who smelt it, dealt it" (q.v.)
Steven Jackson developed quite a penchant for getting good lungfuls of the expelled air, and giving a considered and expert opinion on the quality. We always listened to his judgement.
(The reason this has popped up again seven years on is that the involved party has asked for his friend's name to be changed. We don't think anyone should be passed up for promotion based on their deep, fruity inhalation of other men's farts. But unfortunately we do not live in an ideal world.)
The 'Schools Christian Assembly Team' who toured Derby, and possibly elsewhere, in the late 80s.

On the night before his death, according to the Christian scriptures, Jesus consecrated bread, wine and chocolate and gave them to his disciples, saying "this is my body", "this is my blood" and "this is my poo-poo". He commanded his followers to repeat this rite in his memory, and the Poocharist traditionally involves consecration of bread, wine and Walnut Whips by the clergy and their consumption by worshippers.

In Roman Catholicism the Poocharist is a cackrament, and the bread, wine and chocolate are thought to become the actual body, blood and ploppies of Jesus through transubstantiation.
Particularly vulgar and amusing variant on flashing by Greg, who would expose just his scrotum in public.
Sometimes this would be just casually doing normal stuff like, say, buying sweets at the shop with his scrotum hanging out of his flies as if he hadn't noticed, and sometimes it would be a full on run-up-to-the-granny-pull-the-old-sack-out-whilst-shouting-sack-attack-and-running-away-again routine. Endlessly hilarious and linked to several legendary tales.
A game involving a sharp pencil and extrasensory perception. Named, for some reason, after German worksheets of the same name.
Player A wields the pencil and thinks of a number between 1 and 10. Player B guesses the number. If B guesses correctly, the roles are reversed. If he guesses wrongly, A stabs him in the thigh with the pencil with a shout of "Sag Mal!" for being so fatuous as to suggest a wrong number. Over time you become spookily good at it. Or you end up with very sore thighs.
Improbable cash-in board game, linking ITV's top presenters with the true story of how the Spanish Armada foundered on the rocks around the coasts of Britain. Suprisingly, Mr Roberts deemed it of sufficient historical value that myself and Andre (its co-creators) were asked to play it on school open night in front of the bewildered parents of prospective pupils.
Our Home Economics teacher, Miss Munroe, would get the class to chant "salts and sugars are not nutritious" before the start of every lesson.
After school one evening, Miss Munroe was spied by Martin Jenkins gobbling off our sports teacher in the car-park of the local pub.
When she intoned her mantra in class the following day, Martin's reply of "what about the ones in Mr. Johnson's spunk, miss?" was enough to see her scream and run crying from the room. She didn't return to school.
A shame really, as we wanted to know if she'd gone against her own teachings by swallowing.
A speech synthesis programme on the Commodore 64 that provides me to this day with my comical "robot malfunction" voice. Oh, you should hear me. I'm such a one.
What may seem like a rubbish insult got me in a lot of trouble, because Sandra was a Jehova's Witness, as was the teacher in that class. Why they should be so sensitive about smelling like squirrels is beyond me; unless they, you know... bum them.
Liam Cornelius Kennelly, oblivious to the immaturities of his fellow 6th formers, loudly replied to Phill's claims that he was gay with the unforgettable line:

"Yeah, Phill, I'm really gay"

It was the addition of being "really" gay that made the admission even more shocking. Any gayness we had previously perceived in Liam was clearly only the tip of the gay iceberg.

I mean, even gay people don't admit to being "really" gay, unless they're taking part in some kind gay mating ritual of one-upmanship. Heh. One up man's shit.
The form of Satanism which consists of nothing more than memorizing the Lord's Prayer backwards and drawing pentagrams on our New English Bibles.
Has anyone ever come up with a satisfactory name for that paper device thing kids (girls mainly) made to do fortune telling? You'd fold the paper in a certain way to make a pyramid thing you could stick your fingers in. Then you'd approach your testee and ask them, say, their favourite colour. "B-L-U-E" you'd spell out and do something complicated with the paper. The paper thingum would now look a little like vulcan handfanny (q.v). The testee would pick a number from one of the flaps, lift the flap, and it would say something like "You love Luke Goss" or "Your tits smell."
If you have any idea what the fuck I'm blathering about, please write in. You are probably a girl and probably owned a mood ring when you were young.
Shower-time practice of stretching the scrotum out with both hands until it is perpendicular to the body, causing the genitals to resemble the titular item. Accompanied by a cry of "Sausage on a plate!!"
Most commonly seen in lunchtime rugby practise. Does not go down so well in french lessons.
The distinction between the French words "saucisson" and "saucissez", acording to the Tricolore books, is that one was a "continental" sausage. I have not heard this expression since I was eleven, and any requests for continental sausage in the Co-Op have met with a stony indifference. It did however, form the basis of a bilingual song; "continental sausage / continental sausage / continental sausage / je suis!"
Our German textbooks were narrated by a talking sausage. Enterprising young men - ie everyone - would draw a line across and a line down, ensuring German was taught to following years by a cock in lederhosen.
A slogan of the insufferable Paul Gittens, a smug little shit and would-be intellectual. He announced his cod-theory that atoms were made up of tapered, cylindrical sub-particles. Appropriately, he was bullied thoroughly, but this only seemed to bury him in ever more smarminess. There seemed like no way to break him. Eventually, we staged Save Our Tactons Day in which the slogan was chalked onto every available flat surface. He finally cried when someone threw a rugby ball at his head - an inspired irony given the ball's tapered, cylindrical shape.
"Say Red..." says someone.
"Red", you say innocently.
"You wet your bed!" they say to hoots of laughter.
"Say Blue..." they continue.
"Blue." you say, slightly suspicious this time...
"You done a poo!!!!!!"
The more we said "moist" while she was talking, the more increasing was her frustration.
"I know what you're doing!" she told us.
So did we. We were saying "moist" at her.
A game devised in Year 11, and something of the antithesis of the more subtle game, "fuck". It basically involved going up to Mr. Stove, our Science teacher, and saying the word "fuck" to him.
e.g: "Sir, I'm not sure I understand this equation for measuring acceleration. Fuck."
or "Mr. Stove, can you tell Andrew to leave me alone? Fuck."
"Fuck" had to be said clearly, and could not be disguised in the middle of a sentence, or as part of another word. Not saying "fuck" once you had made your approach resulted in a beating. Mr Stove never reacted in anger. In fact, he hever gave any signs of giving the tiniest shit.
New pet adopted by Mrs Reeve's class following the sad demise of the elderly Bobby. Tragically killed on his first time out of the cage after being trodden on by promising ballerina Victoria Robinson.
For a role-play exercise in German class, the pupils had to stand in front of the class and display their new-found knowledge of airport vocabulary. After a short terrorist-and-bomb-style exchange, Sean Wensley and Michael Lancaster shouted "Schnell! Schell!" and ran out of the room. Sean never came back to the class. After that, we had no more role-plays.
A headline which appeared in our local paper following the announcement of the closure of our tiny catholic boy's school. The paper reported that the parent/teacher pressure group campaigning to keep the school open had spoken directly to the Pope, who was said to be 'gravely concerned' about the situation.
So concerned was the Pope, that he immediately cancelled all his pending engagements and flew to Droitwich Spa in his private jet, to jolly well give the local authorities what for.
Then the chairman of the pressure group woke up - and the cat was hungry.
A much maligned effort to encourage children to eat school dinners in the mid 90s was the 'School Dinners Are Cool Dinners' advertising regime. It didn't work. I got a T-shirt with the slogan on it which didn't fit my portly frame and thus was burnt and deposited in a corner of the music room.
In the grotty little Northern town where I had the misfortune to attend primary school, I formed my dislike of public urinals.
The Toilet building was outside the main school - making it a favoured excuse for leaving the classroom - and was clearly developed some time after Norman the Conker had finished with Robin of Sherwood or something. It had a small open area at what I guess would be 4ft high or so, directly above the urinal trough.
This was vaguely reminiscent of the arrowslits in a Castle; something which was not lost on the minds of the older boys, and walking past the building too close became a piss-soaking lottery for the unaware.
However, this was nothing compared to the risks of going inside when a novice was making their first attempt at glory...
A breed of civil servant who will look at a school with raw sewage on the playground thanks to overflowing drains, take into account the asbestos, make notes on their clipboards about the aging buildings that would disintegrate slightly in winds, nod sagely in response to the draughty prefabricated huts that had slowly replaced our regular classrooms, disappear forever and give the school a flying pass. In short, cunts.
"You'll never guess the rank shithole I passed today, dear."
"Oh do tell me dear, was it so very filthy?"
"Perfectly squalid! If the sewage doesn't kill them, the untreated asbestos will!"
"Ha ha! Oh, darling. I do wish we could go in there and kill them with our bare hands, though."
"Me too, my sweet. But until that day, we can only hope a roof tile stoves in one of the little bastards' heads."
In junior school I had a school medical where a man made me run round the gym naked. No one believes me and thinks it's some kind of strange fantasy, but it must be true as I remember dropping a mini skip and a jump in and no one fantasizes in that much detail.