I played this game regularly, although we called it 'Poiling People's Pames'. Our code was truly unbreakable.

The two most laddish lads in our year were Alastair and Mark (whose surnames I can't bring myself to reveal as I'm still a bit scared of them - old lynchings die hard). Both, in keeping with the times, wore those heavy lineny shirts, their ties as small as possible and with as much tucked in between their shirt buttons as possible, one gold earring, school trousers generously cut with many a dart at the waistband, and Kickers. You get the picture. Both were (looking back) suspiciously well-coiffed; Alastair with his blonde, rock-hard flat-top la Bros, and Mark with the tight spiral perm he sported for much of the fifth form and lower sixth (perhaps, with hindsight, an indicator of things to come). They were inseperable.
To be clear: they weren't from the pikey/charver/radgie school of bullies - no, those were confined to the B stream and mainly restricted their murderous attacks to unfortunates from own kind. Alastair and Mark were the middle class type of bully, whose style of misery-infliction was made infinitely worse by their middling intelligence, which allowed them to systematically destroy the self-esteem of their chosen victims in a way that others deemed hilariously funny, and even their victims came to believe themselves rightful targets of what was usually a heady and unpredictable combination of evil hilarity and utter disdain.
As is not unusual between the ages of 13 and 17, their favourite targets for vilification were anyone deemed to be a 'hom'. For these unfortunates they reserved their worst and most sustained mental bullying campaigns. There are some, guilty of nothing more than being good at art, whose lives were made an utter misery, and who still live in the shadow of being made to feel like so much shit on this gruesome twosome's shoes.

Which makes their current state of complete gayness all the more startling.
There are those who will say, quite rightly, that the signs were always there - the hair, the earrings, the inseperability, the protesting waaaay too much about suspected gayers. But at the time it was completely inconceivable that they might be secret bum-chums. They went out with half the female population of our year. They were always getting sucked off in French or on the back seat of the coach. They were, in short, horrible, chauvenist, unreconstructed 80s spivs.
News of their subsequent volte-face came about via FriendsReunited, and rarely has an entire ex-school community been so awestruck. There was anger, there were tears, there is laughter still.
But one has to wonder: did they really know all along, in which case their treatment of other woofters, real or imagined, is all the more unforgiveable, or did they discover their prediliction for bum-love only in later years? Will schadenfreude intervene and cause them to be vilified as they vilified others? Will they discover an activist streak and become vocal protestors for gay rights? And when exactly did they first exchange sex wee*?
* Got to be the ski trip. It all makes sense now.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by the Golden Cockerel Hymn Book, on the cover of which was a photo of a few kids singing merrily and holding copies of the Golden Cockerel Hymn Book, on the cover of which was a photo of a few kids singing merrily and holding copies of the Golden Cockerel Hymn Book.

Was it? Blimey.

In Secondary school we had little 'planners' to write our homework assignments in, and on the front they had the name of the school, Penglais School.
Obviously with Tippex you could easily erase the 'G', the 'L' and the 'A', to make 'Penis School'. One gayer even amended his to say 'Penis Cool', which predictably earned him a severe beating.

As in "who just waved an eggy banner?" A fart.

School bully and all round fat cunt Rebecca Stubbs was flattened by me applying my maypole ribbon across her overdeveloped chest as we danced around the Maypole. Kudos lasted only until break time when I had to hide.
Sadly, despite the limited opportunity for premeditated assault, Maypole dancing was the only Pagan rite tolerated by our school. My requests for a wicker man went entirely unheeded.
What about Morris dancing? A dried pig's bladder upside da bitch's head wouldda been DOPE - Mansh

An expression of delight or surprise that originated with Andy Bain's impression of a 1970s funky wah-wah guitar, of the sort that would accompany Dirty Harry in a rooftop chase of bad guys.

Feel good college kids are always at intersections collecting money for cancer research. They have signs that say: "Help kids with cancer".
Feign disgust at the ambiguity, and say "What? You want to help kids using cancer? What the hell kind of sick fucks are you? Just going around, giving kids cancer? Jesus Fuck, man, you're as bad as the "AIDS Cures Fags" bastards! You want to go to the funeral of some kid who died from leukaemia with a banner reading "LIAM TAYLOR - FIVE DAYS IN HELL, ETERNITY TO GO"? You FUCKS!"

Also called spit backs, for plainly obvious reasons, you idiot.