#1 in the lies of Troy Hawkins series.
Troy's hacking powers were legendary. He hacked into the UN mainframe computer, and sent 800 tanks to Egypt. However, his actions were traced, and he was fined fifty million pounds, which would have financially crippled most schoolchildren. Troy, however, was lucky in that respect, as his father invented Windows with Bill Gates. Bill Gates was more than happy to pay the bill, what with his good friend having invented Windows with him, and that.

A brief round-up of the hair options available to the child who considers themself special...
Toners
Suitable for Duran/Japan fans, these came in sachets, the contents of which you 'washed in'. They lasted for between zero and one washes and came in the following tones: 'Mahogony', 'Copper', 'Fox' and 'Creosote'.
Sun-In
Suitable for Wham fans, sprayed onto towel dry hair, it gave you that 'just been to Club Tropicana' look. At Club Tropicana not only are drinks free, but people have hair like hay, coloured in with yellow felt-tip pens.
Henna
Suitable for Goths with crusty leanings. Users normally stank of patchouli.
Spray-In Colour
Strictly for the mummy's boys who weren't allowed to do anything even semi-permanent to their hair, these came in ridiculous fluorescent colours and earned the user no respect whatsoever. Nobody likes a tourist, especially "wacky" fuckers who rinsed their hair in the sink at the end of the day, so they don't get told off at home.
Proper Permanent Hair Dye
Two colours - Black. Or Blue/black. Can you hear me calling, Mari-aaa-eee-aaa-eee-anne?

The result of lighting a Zippo near the back of the head of a girl in the full grip of eighties-style hairspray overdose mania. The resultant blaze usually horrifies the hair-arsonist to the point where he instinctively tries to beat it out with his hands, thus ensuring that the unfortunate girl gets concussed as well as burned.

The number rises if the haircut is particularly severe, or ridiculous. The most I have heard is Haircut 1000, which is somewhat reserved considering that children say 'gazillions' and 'babwillions' to mean anything more than 50.

The city in which puddingbowl lane is the high street. Based on the mid-80s advert on Anglia TV for Carpet City. A squeaky voiced squirrel-man-creature would ask "Mexico City? London City? New York City?" and the booming-voiced continuity dude would assert "No! It's Carpet City!"
Hang on a minute, wasn't this the other way around. Wasn't the continuity bloke lost, and the squirrel-man calmed him with the reassuring notion that he was, in fact, in Carpet City? The continuity man then went on to discuss the prices of carpets, which is odd to say that three seconds ago he didn't even know where he was. I don't think he was ever lost at all.

Michael's mum cut his hair into a long page-boy style some time in the late 70's. We would take turns sneaking up behind him with scissors and cut a big chunk out of the perfect hair to the rally of hair cut! His mum would then cut it again to even it up. Within a matter of weeks he was a skinhead. Bullying with scissors was great if he started to lose it you could wave them in his face and he would quickly back down. This was a valuable introduction to weaponry. NEVER run with them though.

Said instead of 'Hello' as you approach someone who has had a particularly noticeable haircut. Only really funny when a whole group of people hear and understand, and the unwitting recipient just dumbly replies 'Alright, mate'.

A bonus branch of mathematics not generally taught in most A Level courses. To be taught this topic, simply write "HAIRY BALLS THEOREM" on the blackboard before the teacher enters, and as they wearily start to rub it out, insist firmly that Hairy Balls Theorem is all you wish to learn.

A large brown birthmark on Simon Pickard's wrist that grew frighteningly luxurious thick black hair.
To send him into a screaming eppy, you simply asked Simon the time. Then, when he looked at his black plastic Casio, you would tell him you meant the time on his 'hairy' watch.
I'm sure he hoped the game would die out in secondary school as we all matured, but instead, having started French lessons, the wording simply changed to 'No, what's the time au naturelle?'

If anyone is queer and gay enough to ask you what time it was (the stinking pooves), the proper response was to look at your bare wrist and inform the aforementioned cock-fairy that it was,
Half past the monkey's ass, and a Quarter to his balls.
Honestly, where do these gaymosexuals get off?

"Put some jam on your trainers and invite your trousers down for tea" Insult for someone whose trousers are too short.

What followed was the most wonderfully-timed fart by, otherwise spoddy, Ross Laidler in assembly. Had me in tears, and also proved to be one of the most pungent in school history causing a first year girl to be sick into her hands.

An arbitrary standard of quality devised by Phil to assess peoples technology projects. As in if it doesn't withstand being battered with a huge mallet then it was obviously a piece of crap anyway. In retrospect this may be a slightly unfair test of ply-wood and dowling strength. Note that passing the test did not exempt you from further retestings.

A person sitting in a chair is thrown into the air. Now, this is pretty dangerous, so everyone observing this should help out by shouting "Doooom!" This game will be stopped with an assembly when Phil Taylor goes through the ceiling.

Hold out your palm and tell someone that you have a three inch man standing there. Ask them to tap the man on the head. Then ask them to shake his little hand. Then ask them to close their eyes and poke the man up his little arse. At this point you quickly place your pursed lips where the man's arse would be, so your friend sticks his finger in your puckered, wet arsemouth.
At this point, your friend will probably open their eyes, as they weren't expecting the little invisible man to have a tangibly wet anus. You will be looking up to see their reaction, pretty much like a dog. It's difficult to know who's in the most undignified position, really.

The practise of gobbing, flobbing, or grollying, on to the inside of the roof of the bikesheds, to see who could get the longest "hanger". The length of time it remained suspended meant extra kudos. A kid called Terry Nugent was the undisputed champion, because his invariably contained blood. Which is probably why you don't see Player's No. 10 much anymore...

A penis, A penis, The greatest thing which I posess, I thank The Lord that I am blessed, With more than my share of a pe-e-nis.

An immaculately organised competition in which all fourth year boys (and one terrifying girl) were compelled to enter on pain of being called gay. The contest had a proper draw, seedings and a complex system of sidebets and alleged match fixing. The early rounds went off relatively quickly, with the wimps tending to run away and hide when it was anounced they would be fighting the likes of second-seeded "Bozzer". Like me, for example. However, Gaz Davis refused to accept the meek surrender of little Steve Brown, and the school was treated to a Keystone Cops style chase of competitors and "judges" round the playground as Gaz repeatedly kicked the retreating Brown up the arse until he reached the safety of the cloakrooms. Many of the fights were held with the minimum of fuss, often round the side of the science block where it was virtually guaranteed that there would be no adult intervention and there wouldn't be a huge crowd. In fact, there would be just the competitors, their "seconds" and a couple of "official observers" to ensure foul play. It was just like a duel, only with Doc Martens. However, as we reached the last four, bravado got the better of the competitors and the American Paul vs "Jailbird" Tommy rumble went off right in the middle of the playground in front of an audience of hundreds. This was our undoing. The Head broke it up, but not before Paul took a right kicking in the head from Tommy which left him with a broken nose and two swollen eyes - there was blood everywhere, the police were called, and the entire school was kept indoors for a week. There was no winner after the police got involved in the wake of that particularly vicious semi-final. However, no-one was going to argue that Jailbird Tommy was the default winner. Sean Allsop, who ran the book on the affair, called all bets off and kept the money, sharing half with Tommy to ensure his survival. The event's passing was marked by our head's famous morning assembly address "If this is the law of the jungle, then I'm King Kong", which the fat sod never lived down.

It was a sad time when TV personality Russel Harty died from a heart attack. However, as our friend suffered from a heart condition, we cultivated a game we called 'Harty', which largely involved sneaking up on our weak-hearted friend and trying to shock him into having a heart attack. He generally survived.

A flippant remark, used to embellish the humour of someone falling or tripping over. Except by Martin Bradshaw, who used it as a war cry as he bayoneted Gareth Gurd's left roller-skate with a javelin pole.

Child A: Have you ever been caught... secretly sniffing your mother's underpants?
Child B: Yes. (rarely said)
or
Child B: No.
Child A: You must be good at it then.
Replace sniffing your mother's underpants with sticking a dildo up your arse or sucking a dog's cock to taste.

Oh, yes, thank you. Geordie Boy submitted this one, and it made me remember that I was actually bullied, before I had a "spurt" which sent me to 6 foot at 13. I really thought I'd been popular all my life, and irresistably loveable, when in fact, for a substantial part of my life, I was just an obnoxious jumped-up shit. James Pates was my bully's name! He punched me in the face, and I was too stupid or stubborn to realise I was walking around with blood pouring out of my nose! The year after, I kneed him in the bollocks and then spent the next month convinced I was going to go to prison!

At assembly, we used to sing the song 'He's got the whole world in his hands'. This would infuriate the piano player, who would slam the piano lid shut and scream "it's HAND, damn it, he's got the whole world in his HAND". Which obviously invited the question "well what's he doing with the other one, miss?".
I think she just hated plurals, because she went even more mental when she did the same thing to Would you cross over the other side, if someone called for aid.

Exceptionally large holdalls manufactured by Head were briefly fashionable in the late 1980s and early 1990s. From their "classic" look - a base blue colour with red lettering - the bags became so popular that they started making pink ones for girls and fluorescent ones for wankers.

The inside of a Head bag was so vast that nobody could hope to fill it with legitimate school supplies, but was the perfect size for us to incarcerate any first year pupil who happened to own one of the bags. A twist of a paperclip would lock the zip, and a good kicking would be applied for luck. After lunch it was common to see at least one squirming mound of lurid PVC in the middle of the playground.

The headmaster of my school, for reasons known only to himself, agreed to appear on a local radio phone-in one Sunday evening. Word had got around, so much so that almost the entire program was taken up of items like this:

Host: Our next caller is a Mr. Madeupname, of Kenilworth. Mr Madeupname do you have a question for Mr. Strover?
Caller: Fu... *cut off*
Host: Oh, that's just silly. Our next caller is a Mr. Obvious Pseudonym from Warwick. Mr Pseudonym?
Caller: Bas.. *cut off*

And repeat.

The only pupil who managed to get through was some utter keeno who had a real, and indescribably dull, question to do with school funding.