A threat. The number would rise to increase the severity of the threat. Claims of a million, or even infinity bullets, were not rare.

Educational attack. Ask a boy the capital of Thailand, and before really giving him a genuine chance to answer, shout “BANG COCK!” and punch him in the twin-brains.

Using a combination of stealth and wit place as much school property (rulers/pens/paint/glue) into Barber's bag. Then at the end of the day as he leaves the room perform a citizen's arrest and reveal his crimes to the 'teacher'.

A craze that developed in the last year of secondary school, and one practiced only by a fully qualified minority of lovable thugs.

Barebacking involved grabbing someone, lifting the back of their top up, and then furiously slapping the victim's back. It was just something that occasionally happened to you - it was never a tool for singling out the weak, and it was never personal.

Unless you were Abdullah. He would get chased, entirely topless, across the playground, before getting body-slammed into a wall and punched in the spine for fifteen minutes.

[log]What other terms for specific kinds of fucking have been stolen by schoolchildren to mean acts of sexless brutality? Did your school use "double fisting" to mean two punches? Maybe you thought "rainbow kisses" were something to do with sherbet and ponies, or something. Let us know![/log]

Based on the Pepsi Challenge.
Participants are offered one cup of squash diluted with tap water, and one cup of squash diluted with river water that has just trickled through the corpse of a sheep.
They are then offered the chance to say which is the real "Barker '95". Their answer is entirely irrelevant.

The aristocracy doesn't come out well in the playground. Duke means shit. Viscount is a brand of cheap minty biscuit. And Baron was written on the tag that stuck out of my cheap, fashionless shoes.

No child wants to be a Baron. And those that do would be ill-advised to start that long journey by adopting a pair of cheap, aspirational labelled shoes. They do not command respect.

The stitching on my Barons formed a ridged lip around the top of the shoe. This rim would prevent water from draining effectively to the floor. This was noticed, and within seconds, I became Baron Fishponds. Baron Fishponds - the new-money peer who wasn't invited to top-tier social functions, because of his shit shoes.

A mentalist. Barrow Gurney was the name of the Psychiatric Hospital near Bristol, and became a generic term of abuse. The name was perfect - the natural face of the spastic being a happy gurn, and their primary mode of transport being the wheelbarrow. The second word should be drawn out: Barrow Guuuuuurney!

The sound that things of massive size make as they swing through the air. This could be used in narrative (... and she had massive collosal knockers going BARRRRRRN!), or as a sound effect in a commentary as the girl who is sick of you talking about her premature tits turns around to thump you. This can be more effective if you sing songs from War of the Worlds to the girl first.

A full eight hours of torture awaited poor Barry Hendy every day he arrived at school. Methods of torture included the simple swapping of his initials around to give a funnier name, claiming that after dark he was no longer Harry Bendy but CHEESE BOY (with no explanation offered), to the tireless Pushing Barry's Things on the Floor game.

When the PE teacher asked him if he was called Barry, he replied "Yes". She said "Yes what?" in that imperious manner of PE teachers, fully expecting him to answer "Yes Miss".

However, our Bazza replied, having had manners beaten into him by his parents, "Yes please". But he drew out the word "please" in a slightly puzzled tone of voice, which obviously meant he was unsure that this was the correct answer.

This was confirmed to him by the entire class, including the teacher, pissing themselves laughing, and Barry just pissing himself.

Barry Walker's finest hour was the hour when he finally learnt to tell a joke. The joke going round was "Knock Knock! Who's there? Spitonmish! Spitonmish who?" at which the teller hocked a greeny on to the victims Clarks commandos.

Barry's rendition of the joke was less interactive. He'd just say "Knock Knock, who's there, spitonmishoe," and never quite figured out why this brilliant joke ended up with him getting his shoes gobbed on.

My friend Andy Harrop went a whole year telling his Geography supply teacher that his name was Basil Clithopps, and would have gotten away with it too if it wasn't for the tiny matter of the end-of-year reports. We had told her that Harrop was in hospital "in a coma", information she didn't bother to check until July when the shit hit the fan and Andy was suspended.

John W. achieved school-wide fame in the sixth form when he was spotted through a badly-curtained bathroom window having an energetic wank. Of course, indiscreet masturbation is hardly that unusual at boarding school, but two factors elevated John's performance to the status of School Legend:

1. In an impressive display of coordination and efficiency, he was brushing his teeth with his other hand.

2. He frequently paused in his manipulations to slap his cock energetically against the basin.

John was dubbed Basin Basher for the remainder of his school career, and "Arm & Hammer" toothpaste suddenly became hilarious. The event was immortalised in the following song (to the tune, vaguely, of Do your balls hang low?):

Is your name John or Jason,
Do you bash it on a basin,
Do you cover it in Colgate for better lubrication?
Does it give you satisfaction,
Does it get a big reaction,
Do you use Double Action for better foreskin traction?

The beauty of the final line is that John was a quiet, earnest student: the image of him diligently evaluating toothpastes until he found the one with optimum sensual enhancement was entirely plausible.

A file with a surface texture between coarse and second-cut. Invented with the sole purpose of allowing twelve year old boys to swear in metalworking class.

An impromptu celebration, where colleagues took part in such activities as 'knee kicking', 'gobbing in hoods', and 'throwing people down the stairs'. I stabbed my mate Andy with a compass in maths.
He got sent out the class for screaming in agony, but still asked me to be his best man in later life. Although he was soon divorced, mind.

French word for imbetween, amusingly also West Indian for homosexual. Brightened up my French lessons anyway.

Racist song, presumably sung by Africans to Indians. Shame on your batty, 'Cos your batty smells of curry. Let me smell (sniff sniff) Bloody hell!

A weeble-shaped physics teacher with a voice as camp as John Inman. His trials included, but were not limited to;

• Simulation of gas leaks by blowing through a bic biro, leading to regular evacuations of the class.
• When told to stand outside, it was essential that you actually went and stood outside the school and wave at him through the window.
• Whistling in class until he ordered the whistling boy to get out. Then, every boy would stand up and stand outside the school and wave through the window.

Baz Bucklow has since died of a heart attack.

Ultra lame girl group formed to counter "The Freds" (where everyone in the group was called Fred) and the less-cool "Hermans" (same deal). No girls were in either club, so they decided to counter with "The Be-Yourselves," which was laughably pathetic, really. One guy hawked up a bunch of snot onto a piece of paper, wrote "The Be-Yourselves" with an arrow pointing to it, then showed it to the head girl of the group. She cried.

What fun it must have been to write your name in shit on the toilet wall of infant school! And yet how sad that you spelled it "bean" instead of "dean".

A simple game. Push all the desks together in the middle of the room, close all the blinds and doors, and jam chairs in all the gaps at the sides of the desks and stuff.
Nominate the beast and give him a heavy ruler. The beast begins captured under the desks. Everyone else (the beastkeepers) would try to stop him escaping by holding the desks down, all the chairs in the way, and so forth.
When the beast finally did escape, he'd run around hitting everyone until we got bored.

It may not sound like a good idea, but when I did it, nothing happened. Probably because, living in Bromley, there were no gangsters.

Game played with two teams of four or five. One team would pick a password or phrase, and then peg it off. The other team would hunt down the opposing individuals, catch them, and beat the password and shit out of them. Two matching passwords from two (usually badly hurt) individuals, and the game was won.
Often phrases like "fuck your mum" were chosen by the running team - knowing that the weakest and saddest members of the team would get caught first. The only way they would therefore be able to stop the beating is by shouting “fuck your mum” at the attackers, which obviously sounded more like a spirited defiance, and left you five times likelier to get your nose broken.

As God is all-powerful, the reason for anything bad ever happening to anyone has to be because God wants them to suffer - this is plain logic. All got a bit out of hand when a lad called Tim Tranter died of a heart attack and someone shouted that it was because "God Hated him." Come to think of it, that was last week. How distressing.

The justification for being He-Man when an impromptu Masters of the Universe game broke out. The key would be made of lego, which would mean anyone could have the key given 30 seconds.

A game / pastime for seven year olds based loosely on the Ghostbusters phenomenon. Find a girl and drag her the field to show her a bumble bee on the grass. She would become scared. Sensing her fear, we would shout “Beebusters!” and jump with both feet onto the bee.
Having been saved, the girl was then allowed to go back to doing handstands against a wall.