When I was eight years old, my life up to that point had been so sheltered that I had never heard the word 'cunt'. The national curriculum was shit in those days.

This spell of innocence was broken when I took an afternoon's trip to the local disused railway line, to look at nature and that. An old bridge crossing the line was under repair, and the contract work was being carried out by a local firm, 'G E Raynault'. This name was advertised, as is traditional, by a hoarding. Only their advert had been subverted by someone I can only describe as a wag.

They'd added, quite simply, "... IS A CUNT".

Was this the case? I don't know. I was eight years old, and had no experience of what I now know to be a litigous engineering firm that checks its Google results. I doubt the graffiti writer knew, either: the handwriting didn't look like it was written by the kind of person who'd had high-level dealings with industrial contractors. It was just someone who knew what I had just learned: that adding "... is a cunt" to any proper noun is an amusing and edgy form of free expression, whether it was true or not.

It was a life-changing experience.

Part of the increasing efforts to render teachers impotent. If a teacher were to lay even a single finger on any person in the class this would be met with a chant of "G.B.H., G.B.H., G.B.H." by the pupils, each letter punctuated with both fists banged onto the desk. Hopefully, the repetitive mantra-aspect of the chant (not to mention the mob rule aspect) would worm its way into the teacher's confidence, and make them panic. One famous and long-lasting rendition of this 'anthem' was when our Geography teacher, 'Clicker' Clark, grabbed my arm and punched me in the back. I probably deserved it.

It stands for greasy bum sex, but when you ask someone whether they like G.B.S., they don't know that. You should not tell them this until they have openly said that they like G.B.S. in front of many people. Including their parents, who will be shocked and disappointed at their son's hitherto undiscovered fetish.

At primary school there was a boy called Tom who had orange wee. During toilet breaks, we'd line up at the trough-style urinal with Tom at one end and the rest of us at the other. The idea of the game was to repel Tom's orange wee with normal yellow piss for as long as possible. The game ended when Tom declared that his mum had taken him to see the doctor and he wouldn't be pissing orange any more.

One particularly bored lunchbreak a gang war broke out. One of the school wags had stolen a box of chip forks (the pointless little wooden chip eating implements), and after a football-match-based-argument, the said pupil formed a gang called the Chip forks (I was Chip fork number 9). His rival, not to be out done, formed a gang called the Hoopies (I don't know why they were called this). Hoopies would catch Chip forks and draw large H's on their foreheads with the indelible markers. Eventually, over a number of days, the whole school became divided into Chipforks and Hoopies, and registration after lunch was brightened with the sight of a sea of Blue H's on foreheads (long before Red Dwarf existed). Great days...

Mid-80,s sticker craze featuring Chuckie-looking 'kids' with punny names, e.g. 'Electric Bill' was a kid in prison clothes being zapped on an electric chair. Each person had a GPK equivalent. I was Cheeky Charles because I had a fat face, so people would come up to me and puff out their cheeks. Being 'Shorn Sean' (bloodied face, oozing spots) led to your face being scraped with a ruler. They were eventually banned from my Catholic school as it was decided they were Satanic in origin.

A little-known martial art involving combat with the gardening implements in Ross's garage. The higher belts could only be achieved by hitting Martin Phillips with a spade.

Plagued by rumours of an illicit affair with the rowing coach, this fat sod extraordinaire had in fact taken offence at being called "soft" (which he was, in great quantities) and successfully petitioned to get his rowing coach fired.

This resulted in the increase of the frequency and vehemence with which "SOFT COCK!" was screamed in his flabby face.

"Hard" for your rowing coach or a big soft poof to your peers? What a fantastic Catch-22.

Mums! Looking to traumatise an entire coach-load of schoolchildren on a school trip? Want to ensure that your child will be stigmatised and shunned for the remainder of their school career? May I suggest that you provide a packed lunch containing a garlic sausage and Branston pickle sandwich?
It really works! Your child will be socially fucked for weeks!

Short for Gary-Baldi. An insult directed at anyone who either through hard evidence or simple malicious rumour was judged to be devoid of pubes. Accompanied by tight mouthed squeaking noises like those you would get if you rubbed a spotless plate.

Scrawled into the desk at which I sat my Italian GCSE, worn and faded with time but still legible, was the legend 'Gary Lineker makes my tits erect'. I have never been able to fully appreciate why this might have been.

Every time a Gas Van (or BT Van) is spotted, the quickest child would shout "Gas Van" and punch a mate as hard as he could on the arm. If nobody else saw the van, a reversal beating ensued. Verification is required, to avoid children just punching each other for no reason. Which would just be stupid.

Gavin Jones' Dad was a handicapped. His eyes didn't work and he had to be led everywhere by Guide Dog. Some of the more gossipy 3rd years had already started rumours about Gavin's dad's relationship with his four-legged friend, when, one Parents Evening, those rumours were given a massive boost of credibility.
Being next to each other in the register meant Gavin and I had adjacent time slots that fateful evening. Nervous with anticipation about my forthcoming report I'd headed off to the toilet. Pissing roughly in the direction of the urinal was Gavin's dad. Sitting faithfully by his side, lapping gently at the golden stream and the contents of the ceramic bowl was his dog. Gavin's Dad's dog was drinking his piss.
Looking back at the incident now, I think I'm fully justified in my telling everyone I could that not only did Gavin's Dad's dog drink Gavin's Dad's piss, he was actually sucking him off in the toilets.
I was justified, wasn't I? The filthy, dog-bothering pervert.

Gay just means stupid - there never seemed to be any real implication that you were actually gay if someone called you gay. Pete Beal's Banana Bowl was another matter.
Teacher : What is the capital of France?
Elaine : Is it Calais sir?
Darren : Sir, Elaine's being gay!

After having discovered your site today and wasted most of it reading entries (on company time) I can only conclude British kids are suspiciously preoccupied with gayness. Little closet faggots, all of you, eh?
In my country (Sweden) we were never called "gay" just for being athletically challenged, interested in arts or books, or generally not fitting in. They beat us up, don't get me wrong - they just didn't call us gay while they did it.
(Two things, anonymous gay Swede; the fact we talk about it means that we're not scared of gayness. It's you lot, the Swedes, who are gay-scared, and that means you're super-gay. Arguing with the logic of this only makes you gayer, so just shut up, bend over and take one from big butch Denmark.
Secondly, the reason this website has a lot of gay references in it is that I'm a gay, and I'm pushing my agenda with a view to attracting burly doormen. Are you a burly doorman? If so, please get in touch. I'm Log, and I'll do anything for Dairylea.)

Nicky was a hulking child of Eastern European lineage who had the physical structure of a 38-year-old dock worker and a thirst for violence that simply could not be quenched. His entire secondary school career was spent in the position of the undisputed tough of our year - a tenure that was peppered heavily with savage beatings and a management style that could be characterised as an iron fist inside a steel glove.
Like all repressed peoples living under a totalitarian regime, a creative outlet for dissent will always be found. Our's was through the underground communications network of scribbles in the back of Auf Deutsch textbooks. 'Nicky is a gay ape' being the most profound entry into the history of people's resistance.
Like all tyrants, Nicky too ended up on the ash-heap of history as shortly after leaving school he promptly stabbed someone. Say what you like about Stalin being hard, but I'm pretty sure he never killed anybody.

Anyone who grows up in a crap town miles from the city will know the excitement of discovering, on a Saturday excursion into Bristol, that some pubs are gay pubs. Pubs for real gay people, to be gay in. We were agog. In the end, we dared Joe to run in, and run out again. Just to see what happened, like. I think we thought it would be something like running into a crowded chicken shed, and Joe would come flying out followed by a burst of feathers, glitter, and a gaggle of irate, clucking homosexual men. This didn't happen. Sadly.

Common currency as an insult from the ages of 11-16. Sometimes lengthened to Gay Barry Bender.

Mnemonic that our music teacher encouraged us to learn for the notes on the lines in the bass clef (GBDFA).

The objective of this game is simple - to call the other person gay. However, if you are caught off guard, then you will become gay yourself. For example:
Ant: Ben...
Ben: What?
Ant: ...is gay.
Ant may now congratulate himself because he has called Ben gay. Once you have fallen for this, however, there is a counter attack to being called gay.
Ant: Ben...
Ben: Yes, Ant...
Ant: ...Is gay.
At which point, Ben may celebrate his hard-earned victory over Ant, the stupid gay. However, a 'combo-combo' move is available:
Ant: Ben...
Ben: Yes, Ant...
Ant: ...is cool.
The kudos gained from calling yourself cool is somewhat less then calling someone else gay, but at least you’re not gay which, for all intents and purposes is what really counts.

The GAY-me (pronounced game)
A game in which you define how gay someone is by the things that they like. To whit:

"You are so gay, your favourite singer is Marvin GAY-e"., or
"Your favourite programme by Jeremy Beadle is GAY-me For a Laugh.", or
"Your favourite childrens book is Anne of Green GAY-bles.", or
"Your favourite song is I Will Survive by Gloria GAY-nor."
Repeat until you run out of examples. So far I have 17. The most beautiful thing about this game is when someone gets over-excited and accidentally says something that a gay person might actually like, for example "Your favourite magazine is GAY Times*. Oh, hang on..."
(*All gay people like the Gay Times, by the way. It's their favourite.)

If anyone tries a trick or Catch-22 against you, use the all-purpose comeback, "is that gay humour? I don't understand it because I'm not gay, but you seem to find it amusing enough."

"If a gay jumped on your back................would you let him stay or pull him off?"

Deliberate mispronunciation of Guy Roper. Bonus points were awarded for calling him this to his face, which didn't happen very often, as he was more than capable of beating the shit out of me and all my mates.

Shower cubicles which have a shower curtain rather than a door to protect the modesty of the showeree, in theory favoured by those hoping to trade glances down the side of the curtain.
Typical application:
'[n], why don't you use the gay showers?'
'Because they're gay.'