Something bestowed upon unlucky pupils who forgot to bring a required book to a language lesson. The accumulation of three B warning marks (or any kind of warning mark, for that matter) got you a language faculty detention. This rarely happened due to the embarassment experienced by everyone yelling "Beeeeeeeeee warning maaaaaaaaarrrk!" at you every time you forgot to bring in your French exercise book.

"I'm B A Barraccas and I'm shaking my knackers can you hear me?"
Does anyone know the rest of this ditty??

B.A.P was a term used in our school which was mainly used towards a certain skinny individual called Paul. The B.A.P therefore was an acronym for Blow Away Paul or just BAP for short. :)

Credit must be given to Dov Skipper for his valiant efforts to avoid the dreaded BCG jab.
As we all remember, there was an initial jab which would inflame should the antibodies in question already be in place. For a fortunate few, this meant no actual BCG.
Dov came up with the idea of artificially inflaming his test jab. So he spent a week attacking the test spot on his wrist with an arsenal of pencils, drawing pins, fingernail etc. The result was not so much an inflamation as a gaping Richey Manic style lesion.
The nurse wasn't convinced that he was already super-immune, and that his massive trauma was the product of really fucking kick-ass antibodies.

The victim (let's call him Ian, for argument's sake, it was always an Ian) would be asked "Do you have a BHI?"

A positive reply would be met with the ear-splitting declaration "Ian has a baldy half-incher!"

Negative replies would be met with the slightly less offensive "What, so you don't have a big hairy invader?" On the whole, we preferred the positive response.

Mr. Badman, our games teacher, not only had a glass eye, but was devoted to the talent of Billy Joel. One afternoon's games session was called off due to a mix of rain and apathy on our parts, and we were forced to pack into the Biology Lab and watch Billy Joel's greatest hits on video for over an hour. Despite offerering to run laps in the rain in our pants, we were forced to sit and watch this sickening filth until our brains poured out our noses.

I went to school at what was the sad, tattered, skull-fucked remains of a Christian Brothers school, and Brother Kelly was the head. The only one of that paedophile clique still around... He used to walk around whistling, a huge fat fucker of a man, he was. When I was 12, our teacher wasn't teaching us enough, so we got BK every Tuesday instead. He'd drag you out to the front of the class for Maths all morning. If you got a question wrong, you got punched. If you were in his way as he went to punch a student, you got punched. If you got a few questions wrong, you'd have your head smashed into a wall. He also had a strap. And a banana.

Being fortunate enough not to land in dear Brother Kelly's form class, I heard only rumours of what went on. But one thing we all saw was a plastic banana. Like a dog's toy. Lying on his desk. He used to staple it. Full of staples it was. I don't know why. I don't want to.

If you did something wrong that didn't merit an extra five pages of the dreaded Two Grade, you got the strap. Simple. Six times across each hand with something that no-one ever did describe. My friend had it done to him because he kicked a girl in the shins after she'd stolen our entire collection of helicopter leaves. There was supposed to be a gang you could join at the main school which consisted entirely of people who'd been strapped. Like a bondage Mile-High club. It didn't exist. Lying fuckers.

This stood for 'But Not Really Though' a phrase which was the curse of our early comp education. The abbreviation was shouted out in a crap Spanish/Italian accent, with emphasis on the 'R', after the declaration of an obvious lie which the victim had fallen for, hence:-

'Hey Simon, that fit new sixth former wears stockings - I've seen 'em!'

'Cor really?'

'b-n-ARRRRR-tee!'

Oh how we laughed. It was a rural comprehensive - go figure....

A song recited to the tune of the Trio chocolate bar advert and directed towards Simon Lock, because he smelled.
"B.O, BEEEEEEEH-OH,
I want your B.O and I want it now,
Not one, not two, not three squirts under the armpits,
Lots of Insignia (tm) to get rid of that smell"
The singing of this song would gain me a detention and I would have to read the poem out in class before formally apologising to the aforementioned smelly kid in front of everyone.

A smelly person. You don't have to be huge and black, but it helps.

stands for Beat On Dave.

Beat On Dave was an sport invented by myself and a friend during one lonely breaktime and it has served us well over the years. It has grown and blossomed and taken form and since the invention of video phones has really come into it's own.The rules follow thusly:

- Choose your Dave. Dave can be any particularly spasticular child of your aquaintence. but they must be known to you. In our case it was a dear round ginger boy made entirely of spheres. over the course of a week, accept them into your social group, never really as a friend, but as a hanger on who you know but not really talk to.

-Dave must NEVER know about B.O.D.
- involve your friends, let them know that you are setting this kid up for a fall, let them know that as soon as they hear the words "B.O.D" or "Beat On Dave" that it is up to them to seek and bollock upon dave until they either cry, beg or repeat various humiliating untruths about themselves to the whole group. if this action is not performed then something terrible will happen to their mother....allegedly.

-remember...Dave must NEVER know about B.O.D

- then one fine and sunny day utter the immortal words of "fancy a B.O.D?" to a nearby conspirator. the order for a B.O.D must then be spread by word of mouth, note passing or text message to all other conspirators. then the hunt is on!

we've gone though many daves in our time, but the first was always the best, to this day the memory of the bloodcurdling howl of "BEAT ON DAAAAVE" wafting accross the playground and the sight of a small wobbly ginger boy pegging it into the distance persued by a mob of screaming thugs, has me creased up with evil childish mirth.

good times.

Someone who has been circumcised. Effective, because people generally wonder what the hell the person's getting at. The punchline, "I've been cut off", generally pleases.

Someone who is too poor to have a phone and so has to use pay phones. Feel free to add that the phonebox is actually their home.

Gentle nickname for the first girl in my year at secondary school to have an unfortunate perm. Despite its softly, softly approach to cruelty it still made her cry. Perhaps perming solution makes you weak...

Pronounced [bei:n], make sure your jaw juts out in an underbite, lips parted into a grin/grimace, arms open in operatic stance, and let the sound emerge in kenneth williams style fruity sonority, and you have it: baaaiiiiiiiiinnnnne!

As in Baine, the surname of a particular specimen who went to our school. "Baiiine" was a retaliatory phrase as a response to years of sexist comments we had to endure from Gareth. His name became an exclamation of frustration, anger, joy, desire ... in fact, any emotion that needs a gutteral primal noise to express itself. At first we just started saying it during conversations when frustrated, but it mutated into a greeting, and then eventually, taking on a life of its own, the only word we would say to eachother when passing on the corridor.
Some of our favourite "Baaaaaiiine" gems are:

"I'm 'ung like a mule, me"

"I saw two lesbians getting off with eachother on the bus - I had a right boner"

"SAS! wicked!"

And at a chace meeting years later he condescended to tell me i "used to be fat" but now i'm "actually quite fit" - cheers gareth! Baaiiine!
Ladies, beware - this man has no brain. In fact, at school he offended so many women with his chauvinistic nature and misplaced machismo that it gave us no choice, and hence "baaaiiiine" was born.

Babb listened to Radio 4 and collected stamps. Despite this, his fate was only sealed the day he missed the bus on the sixth form university open-day trip.
Instead of running, or walking off swearing, Babb, chose to skip contentedly behind the bus. He only fucking skipped. For long enough for everyone to see.
Subsequently, when you had a conversation with him, there were people queuing up to do a Babb behind his back. From that day, Babb was cursed to never have another conversation with anyone who wasn't laughing at something that wasn't quite him.

A radio 4 listening, stamp-collecting, cardy wearing fifites throwback, Babb put even David Pleat to shem when he missed the bus on the sixth form University Open-day trip and skipped bizarrelt after us as the bus pulled away. Subsequently when you had a conversation with Babb, there were people queuing up to do a 'Babb' behind his back, leading to much suppressed mirth.

Baby Babylon was the name Andrew Karkutt gave to an appealing BusyBody character. BusyBodies were like chunkier, friendlier Lego people, with infinitely more convincing hats. Baby Babylon became the mascot for a range of cleaning products, which involved shouting "there's shit in my trousers" then whispering "Baby Babylon"

He was later joined by The Poo With The Flaxen Hair, who had this theme tune;

The Poo with the Flaxen Hair,
The Poo with the Flaxen Hair,
They seek him here, they seek him there,
The Poo with the Flaxen Hair.

Then there was Megaslap, just about the only thing I could draw. Here they are, the pricks.
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Our Elementary School, (ages 5-12) put on a "Garage Sale" and we kids were allowed to bring old toys and other items to school and set up a table. We could buy, sell, or trade with other kids for their old junk. The previous Christmas, a certain doll was popular. Baby Thataway crawled! Simply insert a few large batteries into the doll's, well, butt, and flip a switch on her back, and the little blonde darling crawled all over your mom's kitchen floor.
You all know what happens when you leave batteries in things too long; they leak icky stuff.
Two of these dolls were for sale, and they both had nasty brown stains all over the rear part of their pink clothes.
I remember the equally nasty looks from those snotty little girls as I made comments on their hygiene.

Abusive chant directed at me by class bullies for daring to wear an iron on "Fighting Fantasy" transfer on my jumper. The chanting started in a normal voice, but was gradually replaced by a mock-spastic voice and finally stopped altogether when one of my tormentors decided it would in fact be a better idea to spit on me.

When I was in Secondary School there were a spate of sick baby jokes that when around which kept us amused for a while.

The two I still remember are:

What is red and white and can't turn round in corridors? - A baby with a javelin through its head.

What is red and white and spins at 12000 rpm? - a baby in a blender.

There were many more but I have forgotten most of them.

Now this is humiliating, but I’ll plough on regardless, but please bear in mind I was only 7.

Four of us formed ‘The Baby Pack’. Where we all squatted down and wandered round hunched up pretending to be baby’s with super powers acting as vigilantes of the playground, breaking up fights, retrieving lost footballs and making sure no one was hiding behind the duck or chicken huts.

All the while talking to each other in baby talk.

We were fucking weird.

Occasionally we did this as ‘The Young Ones’ instead. But I had to be ‘Mike the cool person’ and he was boring, so I didn’t like that.

Oh…oh…I just remembered. We had various camps around the school, which we called ‘Alpha, Beta, Charlie, Delta’ and then didn’t know the rest of the phonetic alphabet, so they went on to things like ‘Eagle, Football, Golf (that was just lucky that it was correct), Harry….and so on’

There are many uses for the sticky red wax that covers those babybel cheeses, mainly throwing. When romoved and rolled into a ball, it becomes quite hard and heavy, and if rolled even more it becomes soft and sticky. You now have a perfectly sized piece classroom/playground/lunch hall ammunition. When hard it will hurt when thrown, producing an audible smack if it hits someone on the side of the face (as I once found out, but not the hard way), and when sticky it will stick to walls, windows, ceilings etc., sometimes remaining there for years.