My friend Andrew Glanville's nickname throughout primary school was 'glans'. It is only now, with the twin gifts of hindsight and a working knowledge of cock biology, that I realise we were unintentionally and unknowingly calling him a bell-end.

I went to a youth group at the age of seven. One of the leaders, in a vindictive mood, confided to all of us that the other leader had a glass eye - and if we snuck up behind her and hit her in the back of the head, it would fall out.

He also told us not to tell her we knew about the glass eye, because she was extremely sensitive about it. The fact that she would be uspet by us mentioning her glass eye, but not by hordes of children punching her in the back of the head seemed perfectly reasonable to us.

She didn't have a glass eye, of course. So it never fell out. We tried for ages to get that damn eye out.

Tales of terrible retribution, sung to the tune of "Glory, Glory, Halilujah"

Glory, Glory, Halilujah
Teacher hit me with the ruler,
Met 'im at the door, with a smoking '44
And 'e ain't my teacher no more!

or

Glory, Glory, Halilujah
Teacher hit me with the ruler,
Met 'im at the bank,
With a Sherman army tank,
And 'e ain't my teacher no more!

Slightly dated since children learned they could get their teachers sacked for as much as winking at them, and since parents learned to sue.

[log]Trying to think of new rhymes is more bother than it's worth. You won't win kudos for singing "I met him at the grocers, and festooned him with C4 explosives", and even less for something as fey as "Met him on a misty hill, stabbed him with a poison-tipped quill". Stick with the tanks and guns.[/log]

My favourite school lesson was woodwork which no-one ever took seriously. Our lessons consisted of cheerfully making that glue (the one you mix in two parts, araldite or something?) and then deftly flicking juicy globs of it onto the back of an unpopular kids neck. The instinctual reaction is of course to try and wipe the blob off. This meant that the unpopular kids in woodwork had to spend the lesson with their hands firmly stuck to the backs of their heads. Our all-time record was getting 11 out of 30 kids thus glued and one of those kids was a double who looked particulary foolish with both hands stuck to the back of his head (as if relaxing) and he spent the rest of the lesson crying and asking other people to dry his eyes for him. What really crowned this fulfilling hobby was the fact that rumours were rife concerning what our woodwork teacher had once been caught doing to a boy bent over a woodwork table and so no-one would approach him and ask for help when they were unable to move their glued hands.

"I do not believe you". Also, "Go 'ave a wank wiv yer dad."

Another pithy annoyance (also see nothing) that everyone said for a week. This is the general format; "Would you like a crisp?" (packet offered) "Ooh, ta." "Go buy one." (packet casually withdrawn) I used the phrase myself, oblivious that it had gone out with the dinosaurs just moments before. The shame was unbearable.

One would shout this, extremely loudly at passing wasps. If they flew away, one would assume they had in fact gone home to fuck their mothers.

Three boys can effectively block a twisting staircase leading to the upstairs classrooms just as lessons resume after lunch. Congestion of M25 proportions ensues amidst chants of "goooo sloooowwww!" from all and sundry.

Nothing to do with Spectrums, but a basic, more edgy version of those rubbish Choose Your Own Adventure books your mum got. How 'Go to' worked was, in your Tricolore / History Now! / Whatever textbook, some benevolent genius would have written 'go to page 15' . Then on page 15, they would have written 'go to page 168', and so on, repeating the process, taking you on a thrilling journey through the text book, back and forth, hither and yon, always aware that you could be busted by the teacher at any time for being on the wrong page. At the end of the journey, the connisseur would have lead you to a fine rendering of a spunking cock or simply the words "Gayers flick through books."
The crap 'Go-to' er will merely direct you back to the first page number you started on, making the less obeservant participant go round and round in a circle, although this, to me, was a mark of cuntishness.

The Goat of Mendes signed up for five-a-side football, according to the sign up sheet I posted on the school sports notice board.

He didn't show up for training, presumably due to the lengthy commute from Hell and lack of available football boots for cloven hooves.

The third entry in The Goat series sees Mr Worth bent over helping a kid with some trigonometry problem, while Paul Allen comically pretends to jab him in the arse with the point of his compass... until David Smith shoves Allen hard in the back and the compass connects sharply with the maths teacher's backside. Even if he shaved off his facial hair, Mr Worth would have been forever known as The Goat simply from the noises that ensued.

With the kind of pretention born of being a selective school in the middle of a shithole, my school insisted that pupils write only using fountain pens. Our revenge for having to use these archaic devices was to flick wet ink trails up the back of Mr Worth's jacket when he bent down to help the kid in front. When the poor bastard switched from his blue-streaked grey jacket to a new navy blue one, we switched to black ink.

During lessons or lunch break in the canteen, someone may shout "Goat Cheese". As a matter of fierce pride all the lads in the room have to stop whatever they're doing, rest their chins upon the table and then, by wiggling it, "walk" their chin across the table. The first person to acheive this feat would get a round of applause before carrying on as normal. Given the amiably harmless futility of this exercise, the punishment for not taking part is unusually extreme.

Maths teacher Mr Worth (nicknamed 'The Goat' as a result of his ridiculous 'beard but no moustache' facial hair) once enjoyed giving the class a severe bollocking so much that he appeared to develop a *very small* erection. This inevitably led us to the conclusion that The Goat's Plod was a gigantic worm like creature that would chase fourth formers around the quad. Fortunately the Plod could only move at a slow speed so if you stayed on your guard it was usually possible to avoid it until some other poor fellow became the object of its attentions. And how do you notify one of your peers that the Plod has set its sights on them? With this simple exchange: "It's after you." "What is?" "The Goat's Plod." The colour naturally drains from the victim's face, and they immediately become hyper-sensitive to peripheral noise and motion. And who could blame them -- not many boys would enjoy being buggered by a maths teacher's gigantic rogue penis.

Walk up to victim. Stand toe to toe, then tell him you're about to play a practical joke. Reassure him it won't hurt. First, pretend to examine the top of his head. Then examine his eyes, look up his nose, then gently pull both his ears out. Then ask the victim to open his mouth. Unnerved, he will comply. Then gob the huge great greenie you coughed up earlier into his mouth. And run like fuck.

Robert Birrell was an excitable child of short stature with twiglet legs and a tendency to cry easily under pressure. His wholesale lameness worked in his favour, in that it placed him outside the radar of even the most desperate bullies.

Until the day that teacher Miss Belcastro decided to make a big thing of his birthday. She called him out to the front of the class, stood him in front of the blackboard and said "Now everybody, today is a very special day. Today... is... Robert's... birthday!!!"

It was all too much for Robert Birrell. Overcome by the emotion of the moment, on the word "birthday" he leaned forward and projectile vomited.

This of course catapulted him instantly to playground stardom, especially when Alan Blackwood started calling him "Gobbert" in reference to the chunky, spattering sound he'd made during the spew. Within a short time it became customary, upon seeing Gobbert, to yell GOBBERT!!! and punch him hard in the stomach.

No-one said playground stardom was easy or painless.

A vivid enough description of fellatio. "Did she gobble you off?" is always to be answered with 'yes', despite the truth; "Girls scare me. I wet myself."

Not wearing pants. Freeing willy. Residing in an unfurnished basement.
There is no point going commando unless:
a) You tell everyone, or
b) you're a buff chick with ripped jeans and not too hairy a bumhole.

Find the lyrics and a downloadable theme tune for this gem of a programme here: http://spacemonkeys.freewebspace.com/audio.html

This routine is directed at the fat kid in a group. One or more (it was better if it was more) would start running around him in circles - "Help, I'm trapped in your gravity field! I'm going into orbit!" The game would continue until you were all stuck to the planet.

Wayne Lee's unfathomably vicious dog Sooty went "to live on a farm where they can look after him and he'll be happy" after an unprovoked attack on another child. Wayne really believed that somewhere, somehow, someplace, there was a dog's shangri-la which had a limitless demand for uncontrollable mongrels, in which Sooty would get to live out his days chasing rabbits and dozing in front of the fire by the feet of the kindly old farmer's wife.

I will never forget the look of confusion and shock on his face when I convinced him the truth was rather less prosaic: injected, stuffed in a plastic sack marked "Organic Waste - Biohazard" and lobbed in a dumpster round the back of the vets all inside ten minutes.

If Dunnies (see Green Flash) are the Aldi of trainers, Gola are the Lidl. Slightly better, simply because they sell cheap red bull with "nearly Taurine" chemical "Taurin" in it. Other than that, unacceptable. Trainers.

There used to be a lad in our year who I think was called Nick Brown. He was fat and therefore didn't have many friends and was a bit of a loner. Obviously this singled him out to the more cliquey kids in the year, and especially so in games. On day, after we had all returned from the bogtrot and were towelling ourselves down, one of the more popular kids was doing a walk-through attack on the nerd-section of the changing room. When he got to Nick he cried out; "Eugh! Look everyone! Nick Brown's got skids in his pants!" To which poor Nick replied: "Shut up! My dad says they're called Gold Watches and they're good luck!" Poor fucker. I bet every kid in that games room remembers that.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by the Golden Cockerel Hymn Book, on the cover of which was a photo of a few kids singing merrily and holding copies of the Golden Cockerel Hymn Book, on the cover of which was a photo of a few kids singing merrily and holding copies of the Golden Cockerel Hymn Book.

One of the worst fates to befall victims of our playground was to be brought before the 'big cock', which was large and hairy and drawn on the ceiling of the bike shelter.

Victims would be chosen at random and dragged under the cock, where the ringleader would pretend to turn the cock on with a tap.

The victim would then be shunned for the rest of the day because they shower under big cocks.

So, let's get this straight. This was one of the "worst fates" that could befall pupils at your school? They got drenched in imaginary wee and experienced mild ostracism for a day? They felt no pain. No traumatic experiences that take half a lifetime to recover from. Did you go to the Nice Person's School by any chance? - Matt