Before it was demolished and a brand new music centre was built, the music lessons at Marling School were held in a shit building, called Grafton House.
One room in Grafton House that contained only a comfortable chair. A spectacular design feature of this room was that the door could only be opened from the outside.
So, rumours flew around that this room was where the music teacher kept his stash of mind-blowing pornography. If you thought you had seen sex, then this pornography would put you right, by blowing your mind.
The imaginations of normal children in this situation stretches to a writhing black shape, with a compelling question mark on top. So once a child had become so curious as to go inside, he would be locked inside, forever*, with only a comfortable chair to sit on, and his imagination to wank with.
*Not forever.

The emotional highs of thinking you are winning a highly competitive game of hide & seek can be shattered into terrible lows when you realise that nobody had any intention of ever looking for you, and you have just spent an hour in dusty cupboard whilst they are all outside playing touch football.
Bless.

A friend (who should usually be in a completely different lesson, so that there is no-one missing from the class) would hide in a cupboard until the lesson was 5 minutes in, then start making loud cow mooing noises. When the teacher eventually found where he was, he should just get up and run out. Bizarre, really. This was the same person who at 15 hacked into the school computer network, and put a very basic, (4 picture), movie of someone performing oral sex on there, so that it would appear as soon as someone logged on to the PC. And he could fart at will. Genius.

This unesteemed sixth form college was attended by myself, and the mass murdering Doctor Harold Shipman (and a few others whose names I forget). He was sensationally responsible for the deaths of hundreds of women patients over a period of many years - I am not.

We had a lad called Dave Hill at school. We'd often try and 'recreate' the disaster by getting him worked up about it then squashing him against the wall. All in the best of taste of course...

Every town has one: the long haired biker type with the Leyland van who was 'going out with' the stunning blonde in your third year class.
Can be goaded into action by applying mud to his windows or by shoving fireworks through his letterbox.

For our GCSE History, all classes only ever studied three time periods: the Russian Revolution, the rise of the Nazis, and strangely enough, the Conserative Government of Lord Balfour, 1901 - 1903. Anyways, the textbook used for the rise of the Nazis was passed from year to year, and on the very first page was a picture of Adolf Hitler as a baby. And of course, there was not a single copy of the book that didn't have a little Hitler moustache drawn on the baby. Even the girls felt compelled to do it. I think showing that picture to the voting German public in the 30s could have prevented the rise of Fascism.

History : the remarkably preserved remains of Tollund Man did not initiate the holocaust.
English Literature : Shylock did not greet his friends with a hearty "Seig Heil".
Maths : x rarely equals Hitler.
Wayne Radford, I salute your efforts to address the impact of Hitler in modern society, but I genuinely feel your grades may have suffered because of it.

Came about as a result of a game our teacher made us play in the classroom during a rainy day. In it one of us would go up to the front of the class and mime an occupation and we would have to guess what that person's job was. One boy, Jonathan Perera, enthusiastically marched up to the front, placed his index finger of his right hand below his nose, his left hand straight up in the air and began to goose-step around the room much to the bemusement of the teacher. A girl near the front put up her hand and suggested, "John Cleese?" Jonathan gleefully responded, "No, Hitler." Our teacher was obviously not impressed and said that she had been hoping that it would be John Cleese as well, and sent Jonathan outside, into the rain. I should have pointed out that neither "John Cleese" nor "Hitler" is an occupation.

As ugly as a hobgoblin? Fat? Love giving head? Then this is the word for you.

A good spit, either noun or verb. Probably onomatopoeic. Hockling was very popular in the autumn term of 1983, resulting in a playground slick with 'hockle', and stern assembly warnings.

Depressive, antisocial, cynical, self-harming and anti-establishment, Holloway hated everything and everyone, almost as much as he hated himself. He was considered extremely cool, and I was sort of in his circle, by virtue of him despising me slightly less than he despised the rest of humanity. His coolness peaked when he didn't make his A Levels because he missed the bus. It began to fizzle out when he failed a suicide attempt, and took a job in the public sector.

Whn Sam Underhill started going out with a girl called Holly, we all wrote "Holly Is A Slag" on every available surface, piece of paper, computer screen, etc. until they broke up. This happened around the time that she received someone's daubed homework through the post that had been rejected by the teacher, with a note attached asking her to re-do it as it was her fault for being such a slag.

Conan-Doyle's unfortunate but amusing way of saying that Sherlock Holmes said something. To be uttered with sudden loudness during a dreary reading in English class.

Anita would wank off boys for fifty pence in a disused bus shelter close to the edge of the school playing fields. She turned no-one away as she was saving for a bike. Martin Ross, clearly destined for a career as an officer and a gentleman, became so excited in the queue that he wanked himself off - yet still insisted on handing over his fifty pence.

When in 1st year in secondary school an (entirely unfounded) rumour spread like wildfire that someone in a different class had been caught wanking with a hoover. The poor bastard had the whole school running up and shouting 'HOOOOOOOVER!' and 'VROOOOOOOOOOOO!' in his face, whilst mimicking the movement of hoover to genitals. This not only forced him to leave the school, but move to an entirely different TOWN. His name? Jeremy Dyson.
Not really.

Christian puppet who toured Westcountry primary school assemblies in a suitcase carried by a variety of human "hosts", most notably a portly woman named Dawn. Every year, Horace would emergy sleepily from the suitcase and crack the same joke about thinking he was at a zoo, on account of all the monkeys present. He and Dawn would then play a version of Biblical hangman, and it was customary for Dawn to pack Horace away, pretending to shut his legs in the suitcase as she did so. It was about this time I stopped attending Sunday School.

Mr Rose had a problem with his erection. More specifically, his problem was that he couldn’t stop having erections in class. When he turned from writing on the blackboard, you were on a fifty-fifty that there'd be a captivating tumescence nudging at the zip of his baggy flares.

Had it been any other year, with any other pop chart, he might have been nicknamed "Purple Strain" or "The Jefferson Penis Experience". But this was 1983, and Haysi Fantayzee dominated the airwaves with "John Wayne Is Big Leggy".

You're stuck with the tools God gives you. Hence, "Horny Rose is Big Loggy".

I dumped my girlfriend, and she kept following my round saying 'but why Chris, why did we break up?'. After about four days of this I turned to her in a crowded corridor and shouted "We didn't 'break up'! I dumped you! And I did it because you got on my TITS! Now how d'ya like THEM apples?" It spread like wildfire. Within two days I even heard a teacher say it. And then, suddenly, it was gone. I don't know why I said it, or where I got it from, but my fifteen minutes of fame were over.

Question asked of me every day of my entire school career by my head of year, Joe Maguire. Later in life, I did a stint as a teacher, and did my PGCE year at my old school, giving me the opportunity to say "Well, I got your job."

In the long lost valley of the arses,
by the sign of the Swinging Tit,
There Hu-Flung-Dung was murdered,
by his brother Hu-Flung-Shit.
This was printed on a bus stop outside our school. My big brother's mate conceived her first child in that bus stop. Awwww!

The traditional "one in every school" practice of getting a Henry Hoover to give you a blow job is always opening yourself up for a good year of ridicule. If your name is Hugo Grubb, however...

Spencer Ashley brings in a fake, homemade bomb before a Spanish lesson consisting of a shitload of blutack, the face of an alarm clock, and some straggly, multi-coloured wires which he places under the desk of our teacher, Graham "Sweetie" Underhill.

We hide under our desks in readiness for Sweetie's arrival. And the depressingly predictable scene unfolds -

Spencer Ashley: There's a bomb under your desk!
Sweetie: Don't be so bloody stupid.

Sweetie kicks shoebox across room.

Not a particularly amusing story at all, unless one considers the vague, one-percent-at-best possibility that Sweetie just might - JUST MIGHT - have been wrong about this definitely not being an explosive device.

The cry of The Bumblers. Basically, The Bumblers spoke in a high, loud voice and said "Hulla Mulla" a lot. Sadly, they weren't characters in a children's story. They - or rather, he - went to my school.

In the science lab, there are plenty of artefacts to put into the fattest boys bag. (This isn't anti-fat, but common sense. People who weigh 29 stone are less likely to notice a few bunsen burners in their bag) If done in the last period, there is every chance he will take them home with him. Hopefully, we will empty his bag in front of his mum. When she sees all the cut up and gutless frogs, she will assume that he stopped at a pond on the way home, and feasted on the wildlife.