Take one bald woodwork teacher with a penchant for choccie biccies and no lock on his desk drawer, and fifteen peckish kids after a hard second break's football. See also Derek Slapski and the case of the missing Thermos Flask, the case of the Glue Gun Massacre and the case of the Vanishing Workbenches.

Mr French was brought in to teach us when some other teacher decided to go and let off a baby, or something. Mr French was told that one of the class's recently deceased Nan was hidden in the store cupboard, and if he didn't believe us, then he should open the cupboard to see.
For about 40 minutes he refused to entertain the idea, until he finally decided to shut us all up, once and for all, by looking in the cupboard. An earlier raid of the drama rooms and a cleverly disguised 3rd year slumping to the floor ensured that Mr French screamed like a bitch.
You can't expect children to take you seriously after you've screamed like a bitch.

Clearly just Technical Drawing rebranded with a pretentious London-artwank-college name.

When placed at a new desk the first thing you'd do was check what the graffiti was on the desk. Our school was tolerant of graffitti as long as it didn't contain swear words. One day me and my gang of friends decided to write 'Fuck Me' on our desks. Unfortunately someone else was spotted writing 'Graham is a prick' or something on their desk at the time. The teacher came over and went berserk. He said he was then going to walk down each aisle to check if anyone else had swore on their desk. Quickly we decided to try and amend what we'd written. I came up with 'Fookey Meou', others came up with other stupid variations. Unfortunately one of us missed the point of the exercise entirely, and amended his to 'Fuck me mother'. Our enormous laughter at this foolishness brought the teacher over right away. We all got the ruler.

In segregated Catholic schools, a male teacher educating a female class can be embarrassed with increasingly graphic questions. Sometimes they even embarrass themselves.
Upon drawing a cute little picture of a man walking his dog on my desk, I was astounded when Mr. Nally became furious, calling my doodle foul, and obscene. I timidly pointed out that it was just a guy walking a dog.
"Oh that's a leash!" Mr. Nally said with relief. Then I realized he thought I had drawn a guy pissing onto his dog. That's Catholics. Everything's evil to them.

In the 80s people who couldn't afford Nike, Ellesse or Fila would always buy the next best thing and yet STILL think they were 'with it', the next best thing being Diadora (or Kappa). However, to those in the know, these people would be known as 'Diadora Scrubs' and may as well be wearing sandals made of poo.

A piece of graffiti which was scrawled on almost every wall, lampost, garage and fence between our school and Phil's front door. The perpetrator simply found the name Phil funny and its genius lay in the fact that it never specified what Phil would actually do if you dialed his number.
In spite of this ambiguity, it didn't stop Phil's parents sending him out into the dark and rainy night to scrub it all off.

Very old teachers - it was rumoured - wore adult diapers. To test this theory, hold your breath as the teacher walks past your seat; if you can hear crinkling, then they are wearing diapers.
If you can't hear crinkling, they must be wearing some new space-age diaper where they've fixed the crinkling issue.

http://www.lyons.mcmail.com/playgroundsongs/d.htm

An exhilarating game of chance that may have inspired the seminal novel 'The Diceman' by Luke Reinhart.

We had two big squishy rubber dice in the playground, and the game was played by assigning a particular dare to each number (for example running round the back of class 4, which wasn't allowed, or chucking a stone at a dinner lady.)

Alternate versions played included 12 people coming up with one BIG dare (like knocking on the headmaster's office window) and each taking a number in the lottery of doom. No-one ever refused to do something once the dice had decreed it.

I can't see how the relatively consequence-free 'knocking on the headmaster's window' is a bigger dare than chucking a stone at a dinner lady - unless Sam's headmaster was, like, a demon or something.

OH MY ACHING SIDES

The uncreative nickname given to Richard Booth, we were 8, and using swear words was fun. Before long it was just shortened to Booby.

Draw a dick on a Rizla and stick it to your tongue. Suffused with saliva, the Rizla will go transparent, giving the highly realistic impression of having a dick tattooed on your tongue. This may be accompanied with gleeful shouts of "Dick on Tongue!".

Some unknown wag had carved the words 'The Dick Seat' onto the back of one of the chairs in our French classroom. As if controlled by some higher force, the location of the dick seat could never be reliably predicted from one lesson to the next. It was, of course, accepted without question by everyone that sitting in the dick seat would make you a dick. In some kind of ghastly parody of Musical Chairs, you therefore had to get into the lesson as early as possible to ensure that you secured a normal chair.
The seriousness with which this was treated was such that even the entrance of a teacher wasn't enough to put a stop to the titanic struggle between two boys having a tug-of-war over the last remaining safe seat at the start of a lesson.
I still check the back of every seat I sit in.

The act of rubbing your cheeks at someone, then gobbing in their face. For added authenticity, immediately fart on their leg then fall asleep. Tch! Men!

Dickie the Drain was a located in a regular street gutter in South Bristol. What was unusual about Dickie was that he was "a hungry motherfucker" and thus had to be regularly fed newspapers from my friend's paper round. Oft would I tag along with him on his route to help perform the ritual of making sure Dickie had his allotted amount of newspapers per week. Dickie's gain was unfortunately my friend's customers loss and we were often forced to deposit a whole bag of newspapers into the hungry cunt's stomach and aborting the round early.

As an added sweetner to this tale, my friend regularly got an extra large christmas bonus for "doing such a good job". Dickie obviously had friends in high places.

There was a boy at my school called Dickon Hares. I don't know what else to say about him, other than it really was his name, and it did sound exactly as you imagined it would when read out in the register.

The only insult you can say that automatically makes you more of one than the person you say it to.

Our fifth-year english class was in a Portable. Portables, for anyone lucky enough to not have them at their schools, are blocky, movable one-room buildings with office-style polystyrene-tiled celings.
The first time we were alone and unsupervised, I discovered that if you stood on your desk, you could reach the celing and push it up to reveal around a foot of empty space.
My eyes flicked from the foot of storage space, to the huge stacks of red dictionaries in the corner.
So, over the course of the year, the dictionaries slowly migrated from the pile to the rafters. Our teacher, sure of theft, started staging random bag checks, at which we huffed vaguely about human rights. And still the once-proud pile of red dictionaries dwindled.
She ordered another hundred dictionaries.
We put them in the rafters.
To celebrate the end of the year, we snuck out of the year-end assembly, climbed into the portable, stacked some desks and made a pyramid out of the 200 or so dictionaries. It was Itchycoo Park-level beautiful.

A question I was asked almost daily (with different films) by a kid in primary school.
"Did you see 'Indiana Jones' last night?"
"No? What channel was it on?"
"Oh, I watched it on video."
This wasn't at attempt to be funny, to his unadvanced mind - the same mind that had him violently playing the willy guitar to a small crowd of nonplussed friends - it was simply an attempt at conversation.

Bright sunlight. Teacher's eyes. Reflections from the watch glass. Interrogation simulation. Yum yum.

Most likely a contraction of dildo, rather than dill pickle. A disliked person. e.g. 'Get off me, you dil', which you would say to a dil who had touched you. Unless you're a filthy dil-toucher, and you love it.

Macey Robinson was arguing with her friend during science despite being repeatedly told to 'shut up and get on with your work'. Eventually, Miss Gibson turned round and said the immortal words: 'Macey, you are a dildo'.
We laughed for three years (despite being repeatedly told she had meant to say 'dillweed').

An obscure term for 'smelly cock', derived via the popular 'cheesy bellender'.

'Ding dong ding dong, your nose is that long.' Sung to the tune of Big Ben striking.
Weak insult, even by five year-old standards, but we laughed at the time.

A prat, wally, dingbat, prick or twat. A cunt. A short-lived insult that died out once we learned how to swear properly.