| Report for Tyrannosaurus Flex | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 7 |
| Rejected stories | 10 |
| Deleted stories (hidden) | 5 |
| Summary | Could Try Harder |
"Mr Books" was a character we created in French class to take the blame for any misdemeanours such as things going missing or paper darts getting lodged in the teacher's bushy hair. One day the class victim asked in a bemused manner "Who the hell is Mr. Books?" and was met with the response "He's a ghost", promptly followed by the phrase of the moment "He's your mum!". Unfortunately the victim in question's mum died in a car crash when he was young and was indeed a ghost. A deathly hush fell over the classroom until someone decided to get out a toy car and repeatedly drive it off the edge of the desk making crashing noises. Had the same impact as "At least my mum's not in a wheelchair".
A case of the name conceived for the torture being perhaps more impressive than the torture itself. An operation carried out with military precision each day for about a week without our victim learning anything from this forced training. Every time said victim passed from the shower room through our section of the changing rooms his towel would be swiped and thrown outside. To our delight each time everything would go according to plan and he would make his way outside to retrieve his towel only to be left naked and shivering in full view of the entire campus as his towel was deftly retrieved back through the window and another member of the "squad" held the door shut behind him.
A traditional torture introduced by an occasional brutal Japanese exchange student. Literally translates as 'electric massage' and consists of flooring one's victim holding his ankles and pumping hard with your foot against his crotch, much like a "pro" wrestling move. We were in awe of this technique when it was first introduced and named it "the baby", due to its similarities with the pain endured during childbirth. If boys could have babies through their cocks, presumably.
Victim is floored, arms out-stretched. Someone kneels on the elbow joint and the arm is pumped up and down. Often initiated with the question "Would you like leaded or unleaded?". Requesting "unleaded" possibly led to a less ferocious pumping but probably relied more on the benevolence of the initiator.
And I suppose if the kid started crying, you could all go "thar she blows!" and dance around clicking your heels and whooping, as though you’d struck oil like in them films. That sounds fun. Susan.
And I suppose if the kid started crying, you could all go "thar she blows!" and dance around clicking your heels and whooping, as though you’d struck oil like in them films. That sounds fun. Susan.
Having cricket shoes that looked like they had been handed down from your Victorian ancestors guaranteed you the nickname of bearded cricket legend WG Grace. If your name was Clive that is. An "accurate" replica of Grace's signature was then stencilled permanently on to both shoes and a new chant created of 'glasses, teeth and beard', continued indefinitely. The glasses and teeth bit were from Clive's own milk bottle and ivory features, the beard WG Grace's.
"Poo poo man" was the inspired nickname of a poor Chinese kid who was said to smell and was scrawled over virtually everything that he had. When my friend inherited this kid's desk he also recieved the monicker of "Poo poo man" and the rest of his stuff (well almost everone's stuff) was grafittied in this manner. An ingeneous Japanese kid tried to be economical with words by putting a squared symbol after the "poo" in "poo man", defying the logic of squaring words. After various incarnations the insult became "Poo poo man squared", thus loosing any meaning that it ever had.
The name given to those high-topped American trucker caps with mesh at the back. Became all the rage for a while. Name derives from the fact that all Mongs wear these caps. All the time. (As indeed do cancer patients).
The classic "Damn seagulls" mong cap, replete with hilarious fake bird poo, would be worn for mong-acting sessions, moaning "Damn seagulls" in a retarded voice and swiping at imaginary seagulls.
The classic "Damn seagulls" mong cap, replete with hilarious fake bird poo, would be worn for mong-acting sessions, moaning "Damn seagulls" in a retarded voice and swiping at imaginary seagulls.
The monicker given to one of my friends out of pure jeleousy when he managed to land himself a gorgeous half asian sixth form girl friend (we were all 13 at the time) who had huge tits. He reported to us matter of factly that she had given him a tit-wank in the sixth form kitchen. Actually the name sounded kind of cool and was earned more through respect as I was in love with the girl too.
The catchy abbreviation of "fuck my filthy ring!" which can be shouted very loudly without teachers knowing what is going on. This acronym could be found scrawled onto virtually every desk in the school. No-one really addressed what to do if ones request to FMFR was actually taken up.
A laborious ritual gone through at the beginning of every class when the teacher asked us to copy notes from the blackboard. All would insist that they could not read what was on the board without their "reading glasses", which then had to be carefully constructed out of an A4 sheet of paper and hooked over one's ears before the class could go any further. If making reading glasses was not an option then all would insist that the board was too far away and they had to use "binoculars" made from their hands to view the board. This kind of more subtle mental abuse exercise became very popular as the teacher could do nothing but wait and then probably later go back to the staff room and sob quietly.
Our housemaster (OK this is a public school story) was called Brian Shakeshaft and if that wasn't funny enough one day he decided to act as a modern day Sherlock Holmes to discover the fiend who has nicked some kid's cup cakes and left a note saying something along the lines of "Ha ha how about that you fucker". Unaware of the crime we were all called into the library for interogation and made to write out the phrase "Dear watertank has a life of about ten years", thus boosting the reputation of this already well astablished fruitloop. Presumably this bizarre mantra included all the letters that the cupcake ransom note did. Was the criminal ever caught? Who knows, but it gave us a new phrase to scrawl over virtually every piece of school property.
We first became aquainted with this new piece of vocabulary when Major Thomas stormed in to our study to find "Nobby" James deprived of most of his sports kit save a pair of skimpy shorts bound to a bed with school ties hostage-style. His brief repremand was simply "Stop fornicating and do some homework!" Not only had we escaped what can only be described as a potentially very embarrasing homoerotic situtaion but had also gained a new word of the week. And yes this was obviously public school and because of this no doubt Major Thomas had seen it all before.
Never under any circumstances laugh at the Latin number six as your sexual orientation will be called into question. The common response from stone faced Latin teacher was "What sex are you then?" We had no idea how to answer. Luckily all Latin teachers are now dead like the language.
Rupert Baynham spent an entire month when he should have been studying for A-Levels making an Evil Edna costume for the school Halloween party. The costume was not for himself however, but for the mildly retarded girl Helena who he tortured at any given opportunity. The genius of the design (and hence the man hours required) lay in the "hidden compartments" later to be filled with Camembert cheese (only the finest would suffice). The cheese was left to "mature" on school radiators and the costume was gratefully received by the girl thinking it a peace offering from Rupert. One extra feature were ropes inside, ostensibly to "help keep the costume on" but in reality to bind Helena fast inside the costume, preventing escape and causing hideous rope burn. Time well spent.
With the use of this little rhyme a child can be turned into a multi-purpose vending machine.
"Milk, milk, lemonade
Round the corner chocolate's made
Put a penny in the slot
Out it comes plop plop"
How coins are inserted depends on the customer's interpretation of "slot". I always assumed that girls would make the best vending machines.
"Milk, milk, lemonade
Round the corner chocolate's made
Put a penny in the slot
Out it comes plop plop"
How coins are inserted depends on the customer's interpretation of "slot". I always assumed that girls would make the best vending machines.
Yet another joyful urban myth that left children agog, the Mars Bar Party was briefly the talk of every town.
This Roman-esque orgy of an event involved lots of women willing to pop Mars Bars (lower rent Taxi or 5-4-3-2-1 parties were relatively scarce) inside themselves, to be eaten by the lucky boys in attendance. If there were enough women, some boys might even get two Mars Bars - yum!
A well-developed fantasy given our age; very few of us had sticky dreams by this stage. The one function this urban myth briefly served was to cause any girl seen eating a Mars Bar to be instantly labelled an orgy-crazed cock-demon, in so many words.
This Roman-esque orgy of an event involved lots of women willing to pop Mars Bars (lower rent Taxi or 5-4-3-2-1 parties were relatively scarce) inside themselves, to be eaten by the lucky boys in attendance. If there were enough women, some boys might even get two Mars Bars - yum!
A well-developed fantasy given our age; very few of us had sticky dreams by this stage. The one function this urban myth briefly served was to cause any girl seen eating a Mars Bar to be instantly labelled an orgy-crazed cock-demon, in so many words.
During a terrible spate of robberies plaguing the school, we were assembled by House Master Brian Shakeshaft for a briefing on the latest crime. We were told that the police had been informed and that the culprit would be found.
The crime? Stealing a plate of cupcakes and leaving nothing but some crumbs and a note reading 'Ha ha! I stole your cupcakes!'
Mr Shakeshaft's solution? Amateur sleuthing.
We were called individually to his study to write out a cleverly concocted phrase that would allow him to trace the perpetrator through his guilty handwriting.
The phrase chosen? 'Dear watertank has a life of about fifteen years.'
The whole episode was so mind-boggling that we hardly even believe ourselves when we recollect it. I can only conclude that the cupcakes were what tipped the scales after years of real brutality and substance abuse cases. Presumably police assistance was no longer required after Brian's detective work, as we heard no more on the matter.
The crime? Stealing a plate of cupcakes and leaving nothing but some crumbs and a note reading 'Ha ha! I stole your cupcakes!'
Mr Shakeshaft's solution? Amateur sleuthing.
We were called individually to his study to write out a cleverly concocted phrase that would allow him to trace the perpetrator through his guilty handwriting.
The phrase chosen? 'Dear watertank has a life of about fifteen years.'
The whole episode was so mind-boggling that we hardly even believe ourselves when we recollect it. I can only conclude that the cupcakes were what tipped the scales after years of real brutality and substance abuse cases. Presumably police assistance was no longer required after Brian's detective work, as we heard no more on the matter.