Leo was two years older than me and liked to take amyl nitrate so as to make anal sex easier. After one such session, he managed rather skilfully to curl an enormous turd around the seat of one of the toilets. This was a very traditional boarding school and since I was in the bottom year, as a "fag" I was called upon to remove the offending poo. I was able to do so successfully by using a silver trowel that the Queen Mum had used to lay the foundation stone to one of our school buildings. Eight years later my brother was at the same school and told me about the apocryphal "Legend of Leo's Log" little knowing that (a) it was a true story and that (b) I had been the one who'd had to clean up the foul mess.

Log says...Possibly this is made up. I don't care. A silver trowel! My sides are bursting with class outrage! Like an episode of Citizen Smith! Sadly this submission came anonymously but whoever you are, we salute you and your shitty past. You're head of ICI now aren't you?

This diagram, taken from the Silver Service manual, illustrates three of the most essential elements of waitressing.
1. Give the customer their food immediately upon their arrival.
2. While they are eating their food, show them the menu.
3. Everything is ten pounds.

Listen to this,
Too good to miss,
dum dum de dum dum dum


If you're lucky enough to have another trump in the tube, or cunning enough to clench mid-toot, then be sure to sing;

Here comes another,
Must be its brother,
dum dum de dum dum dum


Timing is essential if you're to pull this off successfully. You must be on beat.

This is in E major. Adjust the key to suit the size of your arsehole, and change to a minor key if you think you might shit yourself.

Dance, Dance,
Wherever he may be.
For I am the lord of
My dad's settee,
And I'll lead you now,
Wherever you may be
And I'll lead you all
In my dad's settee.

This never really made much sense, but I never questioned it and sang along with everyone else in assembly. Jesus was in charge of a piece of furniture and he could dance on it or fly around on it as he saw fit. Because that's what Jesus does.

The myth behind Ryan Byrne's testicular imbalance was that he had been involved in a car crash, and rather than bursting, or tearing, the bollock in question had “went up inside him”.

Needless to say, he went by various names. There was the inevitable “Womble” - which sounds like “one-ball”, you see. Yes, you saw. Then there was the less inventive, but much more informative “Ryan, that kid whose ball went up inside him”.


Cockfingers says...We've already got the gold standard for naming a man after his shoes. Thanks for whatever the fuck that was, though!

If you're going to insist on having a war about fish with a country as silly as Iceland, then you could be accused of trying to engineer a real-life Monty Python sketch. But the Icelandic Cod Wars were a real thing, not a whimsical Footlights jape. And the dispute over fishing rights had a very real impact in British schools. Namely, primary school boys would grab each others dicks and scream "COD WARS".

Popular yet confusing insult at our West Midlands primary school. Was it based on a huge misunderstanding about what "blow job" meant? Was it some kind of drug reference? Or just an accusation that your dad liked humping machinery? I'm still baffled.

[log]Here, let me help - it's a quote from the movie Short Circuit. Here's the clip, which also features the excellent line "this little fart of a robot is giving me the red-ass". By the way, if any of your friends said "don't get your mum wet after midnight," that wasn't a reference to two of the three rules about keeping a Mogwai. They said that because your mum is a massive slag.[/log]

They generally revolved around the indisputable fact that – like almost everyone in India – Ramish was some sort of king there. Unfortunately, his kingdom consisted mostly of ill-described mud huts, coconuts, bananas and little else. Also Tarzan was there sometimes.

Anyway, Ramish’s authority in his Indian kingdom was absolute and he regularly staged mass executions involving the coconuts. And he had exactly one hundred wives. Frankly, I’m not sure why he came back for double French in the afternoons. I probably wouldn’t have bothered.

The one thing we actually did know for certain about India is that all the elephants there have handprints painted on them. Therefore Ramish’s elephant was daubed with graffiti, mostly concerning his dad.

And rightly so, because his dad was a colonel in Ramish’s army and responsible for a genocide against whoever it was that Indians didn’t like. I think it might have been some other Indians.

Come to think about it, the genocide business is probably why Ramish’s dad moved to Darlington in the first place. It all finally makes sense.

Nottingham boasts a number of bands that sound like they were made up by schoolkids. Enjoy the melodic, Half-Biscuitesque strains of "Arse Full Of Chips" comes the wonderfully juvenile "Jesus Of Spazzareth".

What do Jesus of Spazzareth sound like? It is a noise that cannot be tamed and contained by microphones.

In Yorkshire in the 70's, we managed to have awards for the first ten places.

First the worst
Second the best
Third the royal princess
Fourth the King
Fifth the Queen
Sixth the witch of Hallowe'en
Seventh the Executioner
Eighth the Dirty Donkey
Ninth the girl
Tenth the boy

There's such an impressively deflating failure of imagination in the ninth and tenth positions that you kind of feel like you're letting yourself down as you chant them.

"You're a boy."

The first Indian kid at our school once mentioned that he went home for lunch. We naturally assumed that this meant he made the journey back to India during his lunch hour, every day.

The details of his journey (by the elephant, which he kept tied up in the bike shed) became increasingly elaborate and this was made all the more charming (or insulting, depending on whether or not you are Ramish) by the fact that we didn't know a single thing about India, or Indian culture.

[log]I love this, but I get the feeling I'd love it more if you told me about these misinformed fantasies. If you can remember any of the best, please share...[/log]

How are you supposed to know that a word isn't acceptable? If your dad stroked the hair gently around your mother's face, and cooed "gargle my balls in Listerine, you grotesque slag", you'd grow up thinking that it was a loving and romantic thing to say.

So when my grandfather called our battery powered stereo with Dolby and auto-stop cassette functionality a "wogbox", with no hatred or racism in his voice, we didn't bat an eyelid. "Slap some Paul Young on the wogbox," we'd yell out the windows. "Turn up the wogbox, I'm trying to dance over here."

Wogbox. To this day, it's a word that's frequently leaps into my mouth. I'm painfully politically correct by nature, and I hate that I'm not supposed to say it. It's such a great word. "I'm not racist, but wogbox Wogbox WOGBOX. Wogbox." Thank you.

Me and Tony Jenkins were sliding down the old grassy slope known as "Ballas Hill". It was called that because it was made up of the ballast from the ships which had visited Llanelli to take on coal from the local collieries.

[log]That's very interesting but you've called your story Bloodshot Buttocks, and when you've got a title that magnificent it behooves you to get on with it. I'm a busy man and I demand my bloodshot buttocks.[/log]
We were using bits of corrugated iron we had found as sleds, and we were going higher and higher up the hill to gain more speed each time.

On what would turn out to be the last run of the day, I was in the lead - but I fell off my sheet after hitting a bump. Tony came down after me, slid over my sheet, and screamed.

Skimming over my sheet had had an effect on his buttocks not unlike taking a large ham slicer to them. He lost two large round chunks of buttock muscle, and his bum ended up looking like two bloodshot eyes staring out of his shorts.

[log]Is Tony Jenkins reading this? Can we have a look at your buttocks please? We tried looking you up on Facebook but we just got some sex pest from Kentucky[/log]

A non-racist version of Hello Pakistani featuring the inexpensive adventures of Mrs Smith's hole. And a jam roll.

Hello Mrs Smith
Can I have a penny whiff
of your hole
(sniff sniff)
Jam roll
(sniff sniff)
Does it smell
(sniff sniff)

To score a point in the Guff Game, you must comply with the following procedure:

Bellow "Witness! Witness!"
This is to let people know that you are on the verge of a potential guff. Witnesses will flock eagerly to your buttocks, crouching to properly appreciate the incoming guff.

You assembled team of witnesses will provide feedback on whether your guff meets the gruelling standards required for a point. If it's exceptionally noisy, or the smell makes someone gasp "fucking HELL", you're in.

No scores are kept, but success can be measured in the size of a crowd. If you shit yourself in someone's ear, your peers will not attend your anus so readily.

A group of boys sits at a table while a girl goes around under the table giving blow-jobs at random. The object of the game is to keep a straight face.

Cockfingers says...You know what? This didn't happen.

Nicky was a hulking child of Eastern European lineage who had the physical structure of a 38-year-old dock worker and a thirst for violence that simply could not be quenched. His entire secondary school career was spent in the position of the undisputed tough of our year - a tenure that was peppered heavily with savage beatings and a management style that could be characterised as an iron fist inside a steel glove.
Like all repressed peoples living under a totalitarian regime, a creative outlet for dissent will always be found. Our's was through the underground communications network of scribbles in the back of Auf Deutsch textbooks. 'Nicky is a gay ape' being the most profound entry into the history of people's resistance.
Like all tyrants, Nicky too ended up on the ash-heap of history as shortly after leaving school he promptly stabbed someone. Say what you like about Stalin being hard, but I'm pretty sure he never killed anybody.

For those intrigued, Track 21 of Anal Cunt's It Just Gets Worse album should read "Hitler Was A Sensitive Man"

Love, from the people at Earache Records who don't think this should have been censored.

We used to say "you wank cats" as an insult, until someone invented the retort "yeah, but only on Sundays!" Though the details of the case were not reported, it quickly became common law that restricting your cat-wanking to the Sabbath was a reasonable defence.

For a short period in Year 6, a few boys discovered and promoted the practice of making a pile of sherbert in one hand, blowing it in someone's face and saying "black magic, man!" in a Jamacian accent.

If they'd just used a bit more French language and Catholic
imagery, it'd basically have been voodoo.

Hello Mrs Murphy
How's your heart and soul
I tried to ride your daughter
I couldn't find her hole

At last I found her hole
Covered by her frock
For fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
I couldn't find my cock.

At last I found my cock
as straight as a pin
For fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
I couldn't get it in

At last I got it in
And waved it all about
Fot fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
I couldn't get it out.

At last I got it out
All sloppy and sore
For fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
your daughter wanted more.

This is kinder to the daughter than the original, giving her a nice frock instead of a hairy fanny, and enquiring into the "heart and soul" of Mrs Murphy before regaling her with the tale of fumbling, wild-eyed sex with her daughter.

It also enjoys a certain level of exasperation with the voraciousness of Mrs Murphy's daughter, who seems unsatisfied with someone sticking it in, panicking, and pulling it out again.

A child stumbled across a delicious-looking brown slice. Licking his lips, he reaches out for the slice, only to be hindered by a ghost.

"I told you once, I told you twice,
Do not eat that Marmite Slice"

The boy shrugged. A ghost who falsified the number of warnings he had given with such brazen indifference to the intelligence of his audience was hardly to be trusted. He picked up the tasty brown slice and devoured it greedily. The ghost seemed unimpressed.

"I told you once, I told you twice,
I wiped my bum on that Marmite Slice"

The child, noting that the number of warnings now tallied with reality, saw that he had misunderstood - the first rhyme was, in fact, a prophecy: and what he had just eaten was not Marmite Slice at all, but an ethereal stripe of ghoul turd.

"Wait a minute," the child said. "Why did you call it a Marmite Slice, if it was ghost shit? And since when did ghosts expel corporeal waste? And who calls Marmite on toast a Marmite Slice? What the fuck is this, ghost?"

The ghost shrugged. "You ask a lot of questions for a boy with shit in his mouth."

Written on a toilet wall at school was the legend "Dai Cooney hates hard work". It was only some time later did we realise that he'd probably written it himself.