French woman whose misadventures in the Tricolore textbooks were entirely unspectacular - except for the fact that her eyes were a pair of tits. Her pupil-nipples (or nippupils) existed, unfeasibly, outside of the eyehole. There were two types of tit-eye in the cartoon:

The amiable, ponderous, motherly dumpling eyes. As tit-eyes, they're potentially worth a quick wank if:

• your genitals have just started shouting at your brain and you can't hear anything else
• you don't mind tits looking at you
• you can imagine a mouth into a belly button without being distracted by the body horror

On the other had, there were the shrewish, upturned tit-eyes that looked like they were desperately trying to avoid seeing a homeless man. It's difficult to imagine sucking a satisfying amount of milk from the pupils of these eyes. Not impossible: just difficult.

A geography teacher at our school, known universally as Fig, was famous for making up the most extraordinary lies, known understandably as 'Figgy Bullshits'. The best Figgy Bullshit ever told involved an epic holiday to the Canadian Rockies, a story which he really did tell to our class. Fig flew from London to Los Angeles and motorbiked up to Canada. The particular bike he took was a fold-up motorbike which folded up so small that it fitted into a suitcase which he kept on his lap as hand luggage during the flight. It was so lightweight that when two trucks overtook him on the freeway, the bike took off in the slipstream and he actually started flying. When he got to Canada, he built a log cabin by himself with his own hands, and then wrestled a grizzly bear that tried to attack him. He also shot an elk.

A big fight at school was planned at lunch between two rivals Lee and John. Once agreed there was no going back and the plan was to wind them up as much as possible so to get the most out of it. On their arrival they walked into a massive huddle who formed a ring for them to perform John Dowbiggin (actual name) started it off with a running kick of which Lee Maltby caught his attacker's leg and, using his shoulder for leverage, threw John in the air. Upon his landing, John let out an enormous, noisy, fart. Lee could not continue the fight for laughing.

"Fight, fight, fight, fight, Two wee monkeys doing a shite." Scottish chant to be sung during fights, or if you see two wee monkeys having a shit, and feel that they are not doing it aggressively enough.

Bog-standard school brutality. Basically, the hardest kids in the fourth year would roam the fourth year rooms in search of likely candidates. Once the victims were selected, they'd be thrown into room D10, and told that they'd get the crap beaten out of them if they didn't fight. Generally, the ensuing violence was so half-hearted that the hard kids got bored and wandered off. One day the victims were Prinder and Garner. These guys knew they were in for a real beating if they didn't satisfy: the hard kids wanted to see blood. The word gets around that this time it's serious. The rest of the fourth year gather around D10, faces pressed to the windows to watch. It takes about 5 minutes for the victims, nearly in tears, to work themselves up to it, and then, driven by pure fear, they start. The whole thing ends with Garner kneeling on Prinder's chest, holding on by the ears and bouncing his head off the floor. For far too long. Fight room never happened again.

A phrase which, as well the well-established meaning of "I found it, it's mine", announces an impending mugging, much like a highwayman command to a coach party to stand and deliver.
Particularly loquacious bullies in the Wild West of Scotland might say "fin', keep: brek beak" which roughly translates to "I'm going to pat you down and if you've lied about not having anything, you get a fucking broken nose".

A practice taken up primarily by my Welsh teacher that annoyed me no end.
He used to do it so frequently that one lesson I vowed to hit myself over the head every time he did it.
That was a painful lesson.

In hindsight I probably should have hit the person next to me when he did it, but he was bigger and harder than me.
Is it just me, or is Patrick he sort of person who gets written about in these pages, rather than the sort of person who writes in? Patrick; your name didn't used to be 'Sears' did it?

A game, devilishly simple to play, but with enormous potential for mischief.

Extend your index finger at the same height as someone's cheek, and get them to turn their head, so that the extended finger connects - sometimes quite sharply - with the cheek. A simple: "what the hell is that?!!" can often be enough to get the intended recipient to look away, whereupon you place The Finger in anticipation of them turning their head back.

If the victim is not feeling jovial, you may find The Finger being countered with The Fist.

An exciting and fun game that's not based on prejudice. Before the start of a lesson you had to nominate a piece of furniture, and formulate a reason for the teacher to leave the class. If, once given the excuse, the teachers leaves the room, then the game begins. The player has to set fire to the nominated piece of furniture, using lighter fluid. Then, they had to wait as long as they dared before extinguishing the flames with a small child's jumper. More often than not smoke would fill the room and the jumper would go up with the furniture, resulting in complete havoc and fire alarms. This one kid just liked getting caught in different positions when the teacher got back. His best by far was standing on her desk pretending to wank over the flaming filing cabinet in order to put it out, needless to say the teacher (an old lady as it happens, english teacher) was so gobsmacked she just didn't know what to say and left the room, she didn't come back after that and we all got ticked off for making her cry.

Spray the tips of your shoes for around twenty seconds with deodorant, light it, and kick random objects about - can and should include attempts at kicking fellow humans.
Very briefly became Fireball - the same principle as above but applied to an old Mitre football instead of one's footwear. Briefly, because people started getting hurt.

Dean Parkinson wasn't very smart. At age 11 he smoked in order to deliberately stunt his growth, because he wanted to be a jockey - that kind of not very smart. One day in Year 7 Chemistry he had a firecracker and his lighter, and was seeing just how close he could get the flame to the wick before it would light. An admirable experiment conducted by a scientific mind, but one with only one final outcome: he did find out how close the flame had to be, and the wick began to spark. Only then did Dean realise that you can't really let off firecrackers in the middle of class without the teacher noticing. In a panic, Dean quickly shoved the cracker inside his school blazer and wrapped his arms across his chest. Three seconds later he was jolting and jumping in his seat, accompanied by a loud fizzing, whooshing noise. After enduring a few seconds of unpleasantness, he opened his blazer and the cracker fizzed and sputtered across the room. The last I remember was a gently smouldering Dean being led away by a rather cranky Chemistry teacher.

Oh, he also once stuck a metal ruler inside the ventilation grid of an overhead projector while the teacher found the next slide. An amazing crunchy clank as the fan ground to a halt, followed by billowing black smoke, and the teacher revised his decision to keep Dean at the front of the room to keep an eye on him.

For children who were spared the New-age horrors of a 'progressive' or 'modern learning' environment at school, the Christian names of teachers were shrouded in taboo and mystery, and their discovery led to the instant humanisition of the teacher, leading to weakness and misery.
One teacher to succumb was a Mrs Judith Clarke. After almost a year of listening to 'Hey Jude, don't make it bad...', we soon evolved into 'Hey Jude begin' (at the start of the class - clever), 'Hey Jude, don't be a gay' (I'm not saying we were funny, just persistent) 'remember to let her under your foreskin', and most poignantly, 'Hey Jude, don't have a spazz'.
Unfortunately one day she did just that, throwing all the books off her desk, and shedding bitter tears, she upped and left to a fanfare of 'naa na na na-na na-na, na-na na-na, hey Judy Judy Jude' still ringing in her ears.
A hard fought victory.

"First the worst, second the best, third the dirty donkey." Dirty donkey also known as Hairy Princess. Obviously sung by people who weren't quite first, and taken unusually seriously by the person who was first, who in theory shouldn't have anything to prove to the person s/he just beat. Also used to punish the third place, who was often rewarded with a beating (or, in toilet related adventures, pissy trousers). The third person, however badly humbled, could take solace in the fact the he wasn't as bad as the person who came first, who was, after all, the worst.

We were told by our Latin teacher that a popular punishment in Roman times was to insert a fish into the rectum head first and pull it out. When pulled out the scales of the fish, which lay one way, would open out and cut the persons arsehole to flapping ribbons - to the extent that they bled to death. Nice. He also told us that a similair thing was done with radishes. When we questioned the realistic punishment value of inserting such an evidently small and friendly vegetable he explained that "radishes were different then, all big and spiny like a pineapple." This caused us to consider whether anything he actually said was true.

The act of voyeuristically viewing - or being viewed - via a small window within a door when confined to a teachers office for some reason.
The specific emotion felt by the exhibit behind the glass often correlated with the events preceeding their quarantine. Acts of malfeasance made one feel pleasingly notorious when regarded. By contrast, emotional outbursts or displays (particularly in response to taunting) engendered in the tank occupant a unique nakedness and vulnerability.
But most pleasingly, from the perspective of the viewer performing the tanking, was the fact that a swift gurn over the teacher's shoulder through the mesh-reinforced glass would light the blue touch-paper on a further outpouring of hysterical belligerence from the 'fishie'.

Ask your victim to hold out their palm.
"There's your house," you say, pointing at the centre of their palm.
"There's the garden," you continue, pointing slightly to the left/right of centre
"Where do you want the fishpond?" you ask.
Your victim will then point somewhere else on their palm, and you, in response, will cough up a massive great greeny, and, with unnerving accuracy, place the "fishpond" at their chosen location.

"Fixtures" was the name of the school diary which every boy was issued with. These would occasionally be lost or left behind, of course, and when you needed to look something up (e.g. dates of sports matches) you would, naturally enough, ask to borrow someone else's. And Freddie Messon-Gilpin would, naturally enough, lend you his in the middle of double biology. And you, sitting behind him, would proceed to draw enormous phalluses, complete with Jap's eye and cum-lines, all over it. If there was time, you could fill in all the space available for each day in the year, and he'd have to buy another one.
(Have you borrowed another person's book and filled in every available gap with cocks, spunk lines and women riding around in tanks with their tits out? We're starting a competition to find the most cock-saturated page of a standard exercise book. Tell Log if you think you've got Britain's most cocks on a page.

Turning on the gas in chemistry and putting a lighter to it. Obvious really. Best time was when Colin Stone lost his carefully combed and hairsprayed, nu-romantic fringe in a puff of foul-smelling smoke.

A highly effective defense against the attack of a trevor's fleas. The castle was constructed from sandwich boxes, "club" biscuits and anything else which could stand unaided as a section of wall. Bananas made excellent flea-cannons which were mounted on the the walls. Drink bottles and thermos flasks made the lookout towers. A small castle could be built around yourself, but the game was more fun when the entire table made a full-on flea castle which completely cut the fleabag off from the rest of us.

Flea darts are basically grass darts which, when looked at closely, sometimes have little black creatures moving about in them. These, of course, are fleas.
Like the purple headed mountain and each little bird that sings, they were invented by God. He designed them to stick to schoolgirls' white socks, who would then walk briskly about a bit on the way home from school before thinking 'Ugh, a flea dart'. They would then remove the flea dart, allowing it to germinate, giving rise to a new flea dart plant.
Flea darts are harvested at the morning break, and distributed into peoples' hair throughout the day. They are generally thrown at girls because they have long hair, or boys with curly hair, to ensure maximum attatchment effectivity.
Once a person has been "infected" with a flea dart, it is best to spend the rest of the day running away from them, as fleas are highly contagious and make a convincing argument that the person is dirty and smells.

A boy called Martin had his life ruined by everyone, but it was OK because he had fleas. He accepted the fact he had fleas with good grace and consented to be dosed with flea powder (chalk dust) during most lessons. One of his brothers was in prison, but this might not be related.

How to tell if you have fleas
- If you smell of alsatian wee and chip fat, you have fleas.
- If you are poor, you probably smell of alsatian wee and chip fat. See above.
- If you bring your lunch to school in a bread bag, or get free school meals, you are probably poor. See above.
- If you sat next to Karen Bachelor in class, you now have fleas.
Note: Having fleas is worse than having nits or AIDS, because even a dirty haired gay would not bum a dog.

Game played after swimming at the local leisure centre during which you would put your towel over your head (like a yashmak), secure it in place by putting your swimming goggles on over it (thereby ‘concealing’ your true identity), and then run around the building shouting ‘The fleeeeeing Araaaaabs!’ until a member of staff got bored enough to tell you to piss off home. The bar was raised considerably when Neil Keouski neglected to wear anything other than the Arabian headdress, ran to the front of the building, and waved his cock at the receptionist.

Spit or the act of spitting, used extensively in Otley, West Yorkshire. Derived from the phlegmatic issue of more bronchial hacking.
fleg pole, a pole around which some students would grab onto and spin around, measuring their worth by the number of times they spin around before touching the floor. These poles, covered in fleg, become dangerously slippery fleg poles.
fleg pit, any lowered area with a balcony from which fleggers may fleg onto the occupants. Those on the balcony may tempt fleggees into the pit with the use of low denomination coins. See also jew bundle.

One of Brian's responses to 'Big Dave' during a verbal disagreement. Dave was three years younger than us but possibly weighed more than all of us put together.
In the same argument, Brian also said, "Your mum's so thick, she got run over by a parked car."