Following the (shortlived) televisation of the renowned world sport of kabaddi (Channel 4 were really struggling prior to getting the rights to Test cricket) this chant was adopted by groups of boys as a (very) thinly disguised way of beating the crap put of some poor unfortunate under the banner of "sport".

See also "Cameroon!!" (derived from the *enthusiastic* tackling technique of said nation) which was shouted at any point during a football match when a tackle was made, thus signalling the entire 22 (or 43/35/67 or however many people were playing at the time) to hurl themselves onto the tacklee, forming a small mountain of children.

'Pastime' derived from an Indian sport that used to be on Channel 4. The actual game involved two teams of Indians in nappies on a dusty court, with the apparent aim being to hit each other in the legs. Why, with a little fine tuning, this would make a great playground game, we said.
We 'fine tuned' it to the point where we actually just beat each other up whilst yelling "KABBADI!".
Although the casual racism was the cherry on the cake, it was those two key elements - shouting and fighting - that made it such a hit.

In the interests of balance and fairness, we should probably start by saying that Kaby’s heart was probably in the right place. The bad news was that he was a dopey, delusional, serial fantasist with no mates. Kaby, the poor sod, regularly found out that the main problem with being a genuine fantasist who believes his own bollocks, is the inconvenient irritation called reality and its frightening habit of catching up with you. This usually entailed his fragile fantasy world falling to bits, often in front of his classmates, to his agonising embarrassment. So, when he’d constructed his elaborate fantasy story in which he was naturally the hero, the popular one, the cool one, etc, even the most basic questioning of the facts made it all unravel (“so Kaby, when you jammed on stage with the Damned, (his favourite band) how come no one saw you up there?...How come you’re not on the video of that gig?...your mum said you were at your Granddad’s that night”….etc) Kaby’s career in sad self delusion started early. At the age of 8 he went round the class telling everyone that he was having a birthday party on Saturday afternoon and we were invited. This temporarily caused Kaby to have some mates. Reality sadly caught up with him quite quickly. Kids turned up at his house with pressies only to be told at the door by his mum that there was no party, it was not Kaby’s birthday and that he was upstairs in his bedroom crying. On Monday, when a normal person would have dreaded facing the music in the playground, Kaby’s coping mechanism was magnificent: simply to deny any of it had happened. Brilliant, sad and scarily delusional all at once. Some years and much bullshit passed, and at about 16 Kaby became a punk (late 70’s). Naturally, when the Damned played in our town, Kaby was the one to Jam with them on stage (his guitar playing was really wank, as his bumbling strumming in a certain 5th year assembly had demonstrated). Then, of course, rather than go home after the gig, The Damned (all 5 of them) naturally opted to stay overnight at Kaby’s mum and dad’s house. Fortunately, they decided not to ‘smash it up’ though fuck knows where they all slept. Presumably in Kaby’s room. There was obvious potential to allege that Kaby had had a gay gangbang with all of the Damned in his bedroom, but as no one believed any of the story, the potential for him becoming ‘Gayby’ was limited. Kaby had one, rather long suffering girlfriend: Helen, who had rather a hard time of it because apart from being a compulsive liar, Kaby was a real penny pinching little git. Twice a year, regular as clockwork, on Helen’s birthday and at Xmas he would finish with her so that he could avoid buying her a present and then a week after he would get back together with her. More amazing was that the dopey mare always had him back. 30 years later, I saw Kaby, now age 46 in the local shopping centre. He is still a punk. The sad, sad, bastard.

The sound one must make when launching handfuls of foam ripped from the bus seats out of the back window and onto the windscreen of the jeep behind, causing it to swerve wildly.

Girl from Brickyard Cottages, where all the pikiest pikies lived. She sat next to me once in woodwork, and her stench made me vomit. She must have been the ultimate smelly poor person.

Nickname given to boys who had brain tumours. Whether true or not, to us the tumour was removed with a big metal skewer by a doctor who fished around in your brain until he got it. Hence, brain tumour patients were human kebabs, and were so dubbed.

Who's dad must at one time have been called Master...

One PE lesson I hid, with a bunch of equally physically inept mates, behind a wall which was being used as one of the goals for a game of football. Amos, a normally tolerated child, was in that goal. Sadly, he soon let one in. For about five minutes after this he stood there, watching the game and repeating, through gritted teeth, the phrase that would haunt him for the next two years: "Keep it together, Amos!" This would be repeated to him after every slap to the head, after every drop of a pencil, after every sneeze. Ironically, he very rarely did keep it together, regularly going into a total rage in response to the taunts. The pinnacle of this was when it was said, unwittingly, by a teacher in Science. He ended up on the floor, in tears. Never have I felt such love for a teacher. Except Ms Freeman. She was fit.

Also known as "monkey in the middle". You steal an object (schoolbook, hat, whatever)from the victim. Victim runs to you to get it back. Before he gets to you, you toss it to a friend. Victim runs to him to get it back, but by then he's tossed it to you, and so on. The hideous psychological torture (sorry, "game") ends when the object is tossed in the garbage, hung out of reach, or just dropped on the ground.
Yes, I was the victim. And you played the game, didn't you? I hate you all.

This should be shouted whenever a goalkeeper ventures outside of the goal area, in football. You know, like when they go up for corners and stuff. I'm sure John Motson said this once.

This was a song made up by students who really didn't like one fellow at school. While playing air guitar, they'd sing "My name is Ken Barr - digga digga digga." And whilst singing "digga digga", they would frantically strum the guitar, which was precisely over their crotch. I actually think this made the bullies appear really stupid, but honestly, the song was catchy. It was a social comment on Ken's favorite past time.

At our school with our atrocious school meals and ranking pasties we used to get the little sachets on tomatoe sauce. Carefully bite off the top with all the sauce squeezed up one end place it on the edge of a step and wait for some poor sap to pass by infront before someone stamps on it! we have literally been rolling around in histerics with this every break time.

Daring to wear white socks with your school uniform? You're not being rebellious, you are simply being a Kevin.

Woe betide the white-sock-clad rebel whose name really is Kevin.

At the beginning of every music lesson we were told to make a composition, and there invariably followed a madcap dash to the end of the corridor where the more expensive keyboards were kept under lock and key. Their appeal lay exclusively in their ability to play 'demo' tracks, utilising every instrument in rendering, for example, the theme from Star Trek or Air On A G-String. When I got my hands on one, I spent the lesson completely engrossed, and when we performed, Pearson played the Beverly Hills Cop, Josh had the chords, and I turned my keyboard off and pretended to play accompaniment on the click-clacks. I got an E, and our teacher died two years later in his classroom, although these two facts aren't connected.

Everyone knows that girls get germs from boys and boys get germs from girls. If a boy touched a girl, she wouldn't get boy germs if she had 'keys', which simply meant that she had to cross her fingers.
If you got tired of having to keep your fingers crossed, you could 'swallow your keys', by miming sticking your crossed fingers down your throat. This provided germ protection for a considerably longer, although undefined, amount of time.
'Keys' also worked for some things that weren't germ-related. If someone was doing the "I'm crushing your head!" bit with their thumb and index finger, as seen on the TV show Kids in the Hall, you could hold up your crossed fingers and say, "Nuh-uh-uh! I got keys!" This rendered their crushing of your head ineffective, so then you'd probably just punch each other for a while.

Approach someone from behind, and throw a bunch of keys at their feet. As they bend down to pick them up, say "You've dropped the keys to the Gay Club, and now you're picking them up."
This is a better insult than "you've dropped your bender card", because you had proof that they were not only members of the gay club, but also such trusted members that they were keyholders of the Gay Club HQ.
Charlie Webb spots a flaw...
Surely this is ruined by the fact you'd have to - presumably - throw your own keys, thus leaving you to sheepishly ask for them back, after declaring them gay?
You : No, seriously. Can I have them back? I need them.
Them: You need the keys to the gay club?
You : No, they're my house keys.
Them: YOU LIVE IN THE GAY CLUB HQ?
Potential nightmare.

Old game in which the person who was "it" had to find the other players then dash back to the can and say their name to "capture" them. They then had to stand moodily next to the can until someone freed them by, erm, kicking the can. (Is this right?)

Anyway, one devilishly cunning tactic developed at my school was to pile several dozen coats on top of one individual, rendering them unidentifiable.

This anonymous mass of parkas would then lurch inexorably towards the can, forcing "it" to guess the name of the mystery player, and become increasingly desperate to remember the name of everyone playing as they got ever closer to the can.

In retrospect, this was fucking bizarre.

One boy tries to complete as many laps of the playing field as possible without falling over whilst everyone else repeatedly kicks and attempts to trip him. I was usually the one doing laps, and for a long time I was tremendously proud that I could stay upright for aeons. Only much later did the stupidity of volunteering for a lengthy kicking dawn on me.

a simple affair played in the corner by the fives courts, the aim of which was to avoid being hit by a can kicked by "the gay", (whoever was unlucky enough to have the can). the twist was when the kicker was ready to kick, nobody else could move, so you had to dodge the head-height airborne can without moving your feet. if it was kicked off the edge of the wall, or the whistle went for the end of lunch, the gay was immediately crowned "king of AIDS". a true classic, it survived a mammoth 4 years or something

Martin would be asked a question. If he answered it correctly he was kicked once. If he answered incorrectly he was kicked twice. If he didn't answer at all he was kicked until he did. Best question therefore were along the lines of "Do you shag dogs" or "Do you rim old men?" where the only way to minimise the abuse was to give the "correct" answer of Yes.

A tragic loss of form from The Boy Tucker there. Anyone would think he was cunted when he wrote this one.

Kick a victim in the arse, immeadiately informing them or your action. Before they have time to respond, punch then on the arm. You have now kicjed thier arse in a fight, as both puches and kicks were thrown. In this way it is possible to kick the arse of even the hardest kids in school. The relative severity of arse kicking you may recieve compared to that you administerd is another topic entriely.

A variant of football in which the pursuit of goals was scorned in favour of nutmegging* the weakest child, who would then become the gaylord until he could touch the oak tree, which stopped you being gay. Sounds easy? Well, the only thing is, when you're the gaylord, everyone has to kick you, trip you up, and generally stop you getting to the tree.

Every school has the accident-prone kid. Ours was Nicholas, who spent more or less his whole time at school in crutches for, improbably, stepping on (and subsequently through)a glass table. Much fun could be had by stealing his crutches and watching him hop round the playground after you on one leg.

The best Nicholas moment was when another fat kid, playing rounders, let go of his wooden bat mid swing. Having connected with the ball, it spun end over end like a ninja weapon and with terrible accuracy slammed end first into the eye of Nicholas. Amazingly, he survived.

The saying 'alright our kid' had always been accepted and used in the playground, however in 1983 this changed. The TV hit 'One Summer' was shown with some fairly racey scenes that got the boys watching.

Part way through the series, one of the central characters 'Kidder' was revealed as being gay.

From then onwards instead of 'alright our kid', the phrase became 'alright our kidder' aimed at smaller kids, and 'alright our kid' disappeared forever to be replaced with 'alright mate'.

Our music teacher, Mrs. Wilson, was a sight. Even in those days of beehives, hers was huge and jet black. She even had a wart on the side of her nose.
Of course we spent days singing some God-awful song out of one of those kiddie music books. This particular horror was called "Tinga-Layo" and was about a Mexican bull of the same name. I only remember the chorus which went, "Tinga-Layo, run little donkey run! Tinga-Layo, run little donkey run!"
During one run-through, some boys in the back changed the chorus, shouting "Tinga-Layo...run little jackass run!!"
The room fell silent, then we all laughed as the offenders were dragged to the Principal's office by Wartface.