Timothy Goodchild was one of life's unfortunates... at a school where looks, class and money were prized above all else, Goodchild was doomed to failure. Possessed of a ridiculously bulbous pair of cheeks (complete with broken capillaries), NHS glasses, basin hair, constant snot trail and Clarkes Big Gripper shoes this was a man with nothing going for him.

To say he got abuse is to put it mildly... the highlight of any schoolday was baiting Goodchild in the build-up to break time. By turns abusing him for being a gay spaz and then cajoling him with friendly pleas for a game of Goodie's Revenge.

By the time we got outside he would be insensible with rage and bewilderment; wondering why people acting as his friends could be so cruel within the space of a heartbeat.

The game consisted of Goodchild standing in the middle of a circle of his classmates chanting "Goo-die, Goo-die" while he held one fist up to his left eye. With his other hand he made a winding motion by his right ear as though he was looking through some giant wind-up telescope.

As he wound he made a screaming, claxon-like noise, rising in pitch steadily. At a certain moment when he his inner-anger had become too much and his voice could go no higher he would burst, red-faced into the throng flailing his arms in a mad (and quite genuine) benny.

At this point the crowd would scatter and Goodchild would chase about the woods after us for the whole break, often heavily wounded from the sticks, half house-bricks and other rubble that we would throw at him in a bid to escape.

After Goodchild admitted that he had Frenchied his sister in a suicidal bid to garner favour amongst the cool guys who could "get-off" with girls, these games only became more vicious. Afterall, being a total spacker was one thing but tapping off with your sibling was one step away from saying that you had sucked your own dad's dick.

Any two big-teethed individuals who are stupid enough to hang around together, or even be seen together at any point. Named after the mildly popular Disney cartoon series.
A useful message therefore for people who are different. Try not to find someone who is different in the same way as yourself. Try to get a gang with a fat one, a clever one, a spotty one. Then ride around on mini-scooters and solve mysteries.

This was the name I unwittingly coined for a kind of prototype Nesquik pink milkshake which was occasionally foisted on us at primary school in place of a proper pudding. As we all suspiciously sniffed and sipped it upon its debut appearance, I declared that it tasted like goose milk - my uncle was a farmer so everyone reckoned I must be an expert in such matters. This scandal soon reached the ears of Alison Beaumont's mum, a renowned busybody who promptly wrote to the headmistress to point out that goose milk was no fit beverage for growing children.

The roots of the taunt lay in a broken Gorf machine 'down the arcade', which slurred "ZZspace Caaadet Gorrrfffffvvvaaaarrrgennn". A hateful hop, a sneerful skip and an unjustified jump later and our hare lip kid had a new name. He also answered (after two laps of the playground) to the names Davros, Chewie, John Merrick and Ben Leper.

A bored art class, teacher gone, a wide selection of other students' ceramic work scattered around, a bowl full of extremely tough gourds (squash-like fruit) and one hyper-active pupil. Result: complete carnage.

Technically, this is a compliment. Although it is difficult to deny that there was a secondary intent to shock.

The legend Mrs Burns needs to iron her clothes, hastily sprayed on a canteen wall exterior, is surely a nominee for the crappest piece of graffiti ever.

Over to you, readers.

Really unkind nickname given by the gentlemen of the 4th year to a classmate whose only misfortune was that his gran had just died.

Nickname of the school slapper - she had ten thousand men.

A group of us used to run around with jumpers on our heads shouting "we are the granny bashers". We never once touched a granny, although I now wish I had - older woman syndrome, I think.

The first speech simulation on a computer I ever heard, and I was amazed that beeps and tones could be bent into human voice. The game was Ghostbusters, although I can't remember whether it was on the Spectrum or the C64. A cacky sub-MIDI-synth style rendition of Ray Parker Jr's hit piped through your TV, and you got to join in by pressing the space bar (oh, hang on - Space Bar - must have been a C64) to make the computer say "Ghostbusters!" at the relevant moments. Only thing is, it sounded much more like "Granny Busters" than Ghostbusters. Which is going some, plucking a syllable from nowhere like that. Still. I tried to make Granny Busters catch on, but no-one listened to me. Sad little shit.

"Ner ner ner ner ner ner ner ner ner NER ner,
ner ner ner ner NER ner,
ner ne ner ne nernenernener..."
Exciting, futuristic BBC computer game which put you in first person mode to do stuff like feed 4 dragons, one of whom wouldn't eat doughnuts, one of whom had to have an apple, that sort of thing. Can't remember much else about it, other than;
a)anything on the computer was brilliant and therefore GG must have been brilliant
b)the ear-fuckingly loud music (see above) that indicated that some arse-licker was getting a go on the computer while you were still reading The Village With Three Fucking Corners.

Derived from Lenny Henry's impersonation of David Bellamy. Obviously, when he said "grapple my grapenuts", he was trying to make it sound like it meant "twist my bollocks". Our school put the translation into painful practice. Whilst twisting the victims bollocks, the attacker would say "ooh, grapple my grapenuts". Quite disarming.

This was for girls only...unless you were Michael. He used to only play with girls, play netball, and skip too.
Whenever the grass was cut on the field hoards of girls of every age would get together to build flat houses out of the grass. I never really understood why building a maze of 10cm walls was so exciting. Maybe it was something to do with about 50 girls and Michael sitting in the middle of the football pitch, trying to make a house while it got broken by the football.

The sound of a Renault 5 being put into reverse by a wig wearing chemistry teacher. The Graunch attracted an ever growing number of spectators who would eagerly await the arrival of said toupeed teacher and the grinding of his gears. The gleeful howls of derision would provoke a satisfying glare of impotent rage from Mr Wiggy as he scuttled off to the staffroom to begin another grimy day of thankless, soul destroying ineptitude.

The sadistic sport for the lazy. When the entire playground became devoted to the game british bulldog, my friends and I would position ourselves where all the other kids were running left and right in front of us- at which point we would throw our bags at their feet. The resulting melee would be judged on its own artistic merit (although drawing blood would almost guarantee a win). If someone did jump out the way or avoid a fall they would normally be chased and pushed over anyway.

Physics teacher seating Luke Smith on a bench, then clambering onto his desk and hurling down the biggest fucking book he could find. Thus gravity is demonstrated.

Dinner ladies. Use of this name increases in direct proportion to the number of speeches made by the headmaster about how we should respect dinner ladies.

An amazing power trip game. The rules were simple, I would sit cross legged on the grass waving a twig around while my huge overweight followers would ask "What is your will Great Sage?" Usually my will involved beating up smaller followers, although occasionally I would send one of my followers to buy me a can of Coke. Looking back it is quite disturbing to think I derived so much pleasure from sitting back watching kids beaten up purely because I had asked for it to be done. Mind, this is probably the only real power I ever had, and I doubt whether I will experience it's like again.

The arrival of the spring/summer edition of this, or any other home shopping catalogue, was met with eager, sweaty palmed enthusiasm. Ladies underwear was always located towards the end of ladies outerwear, and just before menswear. Usually about 1/3 of the way through. Imagine our shame when, one afternoon, having bunked off early, my mates and I were discussing the new season's collection - "is that her fanny?" - "no, that's just a shadow" - "fanny?" - "nah, heavy gusset" - "fanny?" - "nope, shadow" only to turn the page and exhale in unison "now THAT's no shadow!!!" to the sound of his mother piping up from behind us "what's that then lads?", the sneaky cow had snuck in, and witnessed the whole sorry spectacle. We were 15.

READERS! Did YOU ever resort to unusual wank-fodder in your teen years?

Did you try and get off on a dirty limerick in a Nigel Rees graffiti compendium, or find yourself with nothing but a photo of a blood relative to "relieve" yourself to? Then we'd like to hear from you. Now.

Julie Greaves suffered from a terrible skin complaint. This wasn't just a few patches of mild eczema; this was full-on, Singing Detective-esque, weeping psoriasis.
No-one would go near her as a result. If it snowed, it was attributed to Julie sneezing, and blowing off another layer of skin.
Girls in her netball class would drop the ball if she threw it to them, screaming "Greaves Disease", like some extreme form of "fleas". Cornflake cakes were avoided in the canteen - the cooks had obviously used the flakes piling up around Julie's chair. Rumour had it girls wouldn't use the toilet if they knew she'd been in there first, lest they caught her sickening condition from the toilet seat.
In short, instead of the compassion she so desperately craved, she was shunned as the leper she so evidently was.
I last saw Julie working as a barmaid in a local pub. 15 years had passed and still I could only just bring myself to pick up the pint she served me, and drank it only after rigorously checking the glass and contents for "bits". Judging by the looks of disgust on the faces of the other punters she served, they spent their evenings doing much the same.

Mark Prenton spewed magnificently during a film showing. Upon questioning, he revealed that he'd eaten green crumpets for breakfast because "that's all there was" to eat.

Our school had blue urinals. Thus, if you were standing next to someone you didn't like, you could accuse them of being the Green Wee Man. Reversy privilege prevented them from pointing out that your wee was green too. You may be called upon to piss in public - ostensibly to prove that your piss isn't green, but having the pleasing side effect of humiliation. Whether you fail or pass this test is down to the whim of your peers rather than any serious use of a colour chart.

The Year Book group were thinking of funny things that may happen in the future to individuals from school and society as a whole. A girl who came from Malaysia said "In the future, we will all carry hand grenades." She said it without even a trace of a smile.

The Midland Bank's least kudos-bequeathing playground fashion accessory, which doubled as (someone else's) curling stone during icy winters.

In hindsight I wish there had been a branch of NatWest closer to home - those shitty pottery pigs they doled out go for a minty bundle nowadays.