Report for Matt Fasham
Approved stories35
Rejected stories (hidden) 8
Deleted stories (hidden) 5
SummaryReprehensible Swot

The arena was constructed of fifteen or so chairs in a circle. A luckless "volunteer" (or sometimes a stupid hard kid who wanted to demonstrate the full extent of their stupidness and hardness) would place himself in the playzone. Their task was to get out of the circle while everyone sitting in the chairs would try to prevent them from escaping by kicking them. An interesting variant involved the use of a long line of tables as the arena, with the chairs placed in normal working positions (but on both sides of course) and the volunteer crawling around underneath. This had the advantage that if a dinner miss came along everyone could pretend that they were just sitting down while they continued to boot the volunteer into oblivion. Dr Marten boots were particularly popular amongst senseless hard kids at the time, owing to their durability, weight and ability to withstand repeated impacts with no ill effects, hence the name "doccer kill". (cf sea of legs)

A home computer of the Spectrum generation, but made in Wales. The company that made them went bust quickly. Result: no good games, and a social problem akin to . But at least the Dragon had a proper keyboard.

Kid A: What's the ninth letter of the alphabet?
Kid B (pause while fingers are counted on): I
Kid A: What colour is the sky?
Kid B: Blue
Kid A: What's the opposite of on?
Kid B: Off
Kid A: Euuuurrrrr! You blew off!
You blew off! Hey everyone, [Kid A] just said "I blew off"! This works best if you run around doing it to as many people as you can, because it's only a matter of time before everyone has heard it. And if that doesn't happen, there's only a brief period in your life when you will be childish enough for it to be funny.

When said to a bearded teacher, will result in at least one detention. Come to think of it, you'd probably get a detention from a teacher without a beard, although they would probably look a little confused.

"Smell my cheese", the bully would invite. Cheese famously smelling delicious, you would eagerly bend over to the waiting fist, anxious to see if there is a tiny cube of fragrant cheese concealed within. As you get closer, you become suspicious. There's no cheese here... and then, the bully would punch you in the nose. A pleasing variant of this is when the bully adds "Smell my cheese, would you?" and walks off huffily, as though you've offended him mightily. You are the victim of another imaginary foodstuff. See also "You just drank my wee".

The natural conclusion of an unnattended blackboard filth escalation. The number of people laughing at the phrase will reduce steadily as the class matures, until it is written on a university blackboard, when only I laughed.

The words "Emergency Exit" at the back of a school bus could with careful use of a penknife could be amended to "Virgin Exit". All well and good, but the one time in five years that the bus broke down, everyone refused to use it.

Every Poppy Day the local branch of apprentice cannon-fodder, the army cadets, would be on parade in our school Assembly. They had to stand facing the school in their hot and sweaty army uniforms for half an hour while we got lectured on remembrance. We whiled away the time placing bets on which cadet would faint first; at least one was guaranteed to collapse each year. Extra points were gained if he bent his trumpet or shat himself.

A prat, wally, dingbat, prick or twat. A cunt. A short-lived insult that died out once we learned how to swear properly.

A band name vetoed by virtue of a French teacher's miscarriage. Other names that were also rejected on the grounds of poor taste were Abortion Bucket and Minge Wipers From Mars.

Readers! Have you been in a band that's main purpose was to fanny about and shock people? If so, tell us your band name. We'd love to know... - Log

The result of lighting a Zippo near the back of the head of a girl in the full grip of eighties-style hairspray overdose mania. The resultant blaze usually horrifies the hair-arsonist to the point where he instinctively tries to beat it out with his hands, thus ensuring that the unfortunate girl gets concussed as well as burned.

On similar lines (but not as rude, so resulting in less kudos points), is "Hairy Muff" or "Fairy Muff" said in place of "Fair Enough". - Matt Fasham
Excrement point Matt, truly excrement. - The Boy Tucker

A bizarrely popular insult for, ooh, all of one break time at least.

Teacher Teacher, I declare,
I can see your underwear.

A memorable opening couplet to a piece of junior school playground poetry. There was undoubtedly more to this rhyme, but I can't recall it. Anyone who can supply the missing lines will have my eternal gratitude, as its keeping me awake at nights thinking about it.

There's also some lines from a play (I have no idea what play, maybe a drama student can enlighten me) which go:

"Has the doctor seen her, Fanny?"
"Yes, and he said there was little hope."

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
    Kylie Minogue
  2. Count up the number of l, o, v, e, and s's in each name as follows:
  3. Add up the adjacent numbers, pair by pair, to get:
  4. Again:
  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.

One of the many synonyms for 'twat'. After a while, the regular insult exchange evolved into:
Kid A: You're an eef!
Kid B: Eef what?
Kids A+B (singing): Eef I was a rich man...
They would then continue to sing any of the rest of the words if they could a) remember them, and b} be bothered.

Regarding the Monty Python Bok - I also remember the 70's-style tits and bums on the hardback cover. However, I also seem to remember that the central part of the photo was the spottiest arse in world, which reduced the wanking potential of the photo considerably.

Well you live and learn... having checked via the online percentage calculator I can rejoice that my Kylie percentage is 82, not 18. If only I had known that 15 years ago I might have been spared many lonely hours of 18%-related ostracism.

By the way, Log, while it may be true that 90009 gives a perfect 99%, there can't be many people who fit that category. I suppose that if Liam Lyall Slimshall met Sarah Sally Sandra Mississippi, there would be love at first sight, if they bothered to sit down with a calculator, but if there's a real life couple who qualify I will not only eat my hat but also yours.

The jinxee, during the jinx, has the lifeline of escaping the curse of silence by anticipating what the jinxer is going to say and saying the same thing, negating the original jinx. This is more difficult when jinxed because you can't feed questions which might produce predictable results, and if you get it wrong, you get punched. The consequence of this rule is some pretty surreal conversations between the non-jinxed as they try to avoid saying anything that could be remotely guessable. This is also abusable by the original jinxer;
What do you call those people who make bread? Oh, now I remember, and I'm going to say the word after three. 3. 2. 1.
Jinxee, being stupid, says baker.
Jinxer says 'Jeff' at the same time and punches jinxer.

Below Viscounts, below Penguins, Bandits, way below Caramacs and as far as you could possibly get from Yo-Yos, were the carob-coated grass and rabbit tod monstrosities that I had to suffer, thanks to my mum's membership of a wholesale wholefood wholly-shit co-op. I was not spared ridicule in the dinner room.
Carob - the chocolate replacement invented by angry vegans to ruin middle-class childhoods.

Well, it seems that you can't believe that someone called Gayvid Dadd got off so lightly...
"Sums up the Welsh, that. You get a manna-from- heaven name like 'Gayvid Dadd', and the best you sheep-shagging lackwits can come up with is 'sounds a bit like God'". (sane man)
Bit racist, Sane Man, but a point fairly made. Matt Fasham takes the baton...
"With a name like Gayvid Dadd, I'm amazed that anyone bothered to take the piss out of the fact that his name sounded a bit like 'jod' or 'god'. That name is already so pregnant with potential humour that it has burst right out of its maternity dress like a huge beached whale crashing through a tarpaulin. Unless, of course, Gayvid wasn't his real name. Maybe it was David, and had already been corrupted. Hadn't thought of that. Even so." (Matt Fasham)
I thought I'd check for Gayvid Dadd on the internet, and the only result outside of this website is this photo, titled "Gayvid Dadd Is Possessed by Satan".

So there you go. We have a Gayvid Dadd (or a David Gadd, which seems depressingly likely), whose only bullying - it would seem - was to be called "God".
Are YOU a Gayvid Dadd? The LotP team would like to talk to you. Please get in touch immediately.

In a similar vein to (C)anal (S)treet, I lived near a lane called Pollock's Path, with bredictably hilarious results.

Classic reply to the belligerent "what are you staring at?"
Also consider, "dunno, the label's dropped off", "dunno, but it's staring back", and "a cunt".

Our football burst one breaktime. Someone had the idea of taking out the deflated inner balloon through the burst seam and replacing it with some large stones.
We then 'accidentally' rolled the ball over towards a group of older bastard kids, knowing that they would try to kick it over the fence.
And it worked. Honestly, it worked. One of them took a good run up, had a huge hoof at the ball, shouted out loud, and hopped off on one leg in considerable pain, and probably saying "ooyah!"
I have never since experienced such complete satisfaction at the entirely successful execution of a plan. We strutted around like five little George Peppards for a week.

We had a woodwork/metalwork teacher who would announce, when he entered the workshop at the beginning of a lesson, "Open a window. This place smells like the inside of a Turkish brothel". Every single damn time.

I can only assume that he frequented the kind of Turkish brothels that reek of sweaty teenage children, swarfega, wood shavings and oxyacetylene torch gas. In which case, he must really have loved his job.

(Also nice that he distinguished from the smell of the outside of a Turkish brothel, a smell which must have tormented him until he finally plucked up the courage to go inside.)

A game to be played to enliven fucking boring school trips to Sellafield. When speaking to the Sellafield staff who show you around, subtly insert the word 'orifice' into as many questions as possible.
'So, where are all the orifice workers here?'
You will quickly discover that it is actually quite difficult to shoehorn many orifices into casual conversation. When you discover this, you can take the 'Dan Wakefield Option' of simply handing back your visitors badge at the end of the trip with the words 'Thanks, orifice'.

Salt'n'Shake Crisps. The victim would be held down and forced to admit they were gay. Whatever the response, the little sachet of salt would be emptied into their mouth. Quite right too.

At first glance, this might seem a less painful act of torture than the other entries for this subject. However, if one considers the pain experienced by regular recipients of this punishment in later years, due to heart attacks, strokes, osteroperosis, gastric cancer and other ailments brought on by an excessive salt intake, it can be seen to be particularly vindictive, cruel and cleverly planned with an eye for the long haul.

Unusually-shaped signs have been specially designed for the River Uck so as to provide no quarter to schoolboys with pen or paint in their hands and a gigantic letter 'F' in their heads.

However, the ever-so-diligent local council failed to recognise that the smutty minds of their schoolkids are not so easily thwarted; our roving reporter provided this photograph of a nearby town sign which shows that they still have some way to go before they can entirely eradicate filth from the streets of East Sussex.

When I was at junior school, a friend and I stumbled across a patch of playground tarmac that had a bag of crisps enthusiastically stamped into it.

We approached the margins of the stamped crisp zone, and nervously trod on one crisp each.

As soon as we did so, a squad of prefects leapt out of hiding and dragged us off to the headmaster. They told him that we were the culprits of the entire crisp-stamping episode.
We lost a day's playtime. It is because of this that I can empathise with the Guildford Four.

Why they had prefects at a junior school I have no idea. They were abolished by the time I got to the final year, so I never had a chance to wreak proxy revenge on younger pupils.

After falling out with a friend in 1982, I decided to write "LAWRENCE MEDWAY'S HOUSE IS THE ARGENTINIAN HQ" in big letters on a wall.
I think I was hoping that the shame would drive him and his family from the village, but only after he admitted that he HAD stolen the light sabre from my Darth Vader miniature figure. The cunt.

Yes, and the ability to flatten puny 12-year-old kids into the mud with rugby tackles is not really a valid demonstration of your sporting prowess, Mr Rich. You fucking evil hairy gorilla.

Does your school have nylon carpets? Do you have shoes? If the answer to both these questions is yes, then you have the basic ingredients for a static attack.

1) Shuffle around on the carpet for a while, keeping both feet on the floor at all times.
2) Approach victim. Preferably someone who hasn't been watching you shuffling around. Keep feet on floor as per stage 1.
3) Touch victim on earlobe or neck. Listen for sharp 'crack' and smell the sound of electricity and burning hair as your victim writhes on the ground in agony with smoke coming out of their ears.

In reality, stage 3 will be a disappointing "Ow!", but it does hurt. A bit.

More advanced static attacks can involve jumping off the ground and touching the victim in mid-air. Tests to determine whether this increases the amount of pain experienced by the victim have so far proved inconclusive.

The electrical capacitance of the average kid has yet to be accurately calculated, leading to the theory that if you shuffle around on your feet for an entire lunchtime, you will store up enough power to cause your victim to explode. Early experiments suggest that this theory could be fundamentally flawed, but further developments are eagerly awaited.

Scabby Queen
This is basically the game Old Maid. The "scabby" element comes from the punishment for losing, which is a number of scrapes to the knuckles with the whole deck. The number and violence of the scrapes is determined by cutting the cards (red = soft taps, black = full-blooded whacks, value of card = number of hits).
Convincing a gullible child that any card they draw is worth 20 and concealing a credit card in the deck prior to administering the scrapes will ensure maximum bleeding. If you're a schoolkid with a credit card, that is.

A 2-player game that saves all that fucking around with Scabby Queen rules. Player One cuts. Player Two gives Player One the appropriate number of scrapes as hard as they fucking well can. Player Two cuts. Repeat until either player can�t take any more.
There are arguably no real winners in this game. However, if the player administering the scrapes drops the deck of cards, the other player is entitled to give them fifty-two scrapes. I only saw this happen once, but it resulted in a hand that looked like it had got stuck in a bacon slicer.

Thanks to all those avid readers who wrote in with this link, which would seem to prove Jim Clack right and Conor wrong.

I'm sure that Conor will issue a full and grovelling apology to Jim the moment he reads this.