Morvern went to Mr Taylor to tell him that she couldn't do swimming that day as her period had started. While in the middle of this interview, Jenny also appeared to beg off swimming for the same reason. He spent a few minutes doing a baffled double-take at the both of them, before spluttering "But you can't both have it on the same day!"
Mr "Sumo" Taylor is married, and has produced children.

If you poo yourself during PE, simply run to the toilet and clean yourself. Don't, as Martin Watts did, spend long, visible, seconds trying to somehow push the poo back into your anus, looking agonised, before explaining - out loud - that you have done a poo, and have been trying to push the poo somehow back into your anus.
The inclination not to attack an easy target, remember, does not occur in children.

Having managed to buy a copy of Viz from a newsagent who didn't realise it was rude, I took it to school to impress people.
It was promptly confiscated by a P.E. teacher who, at the end of the day, gave it back with a grin and an angerless "you little scamp" tousle of my hair.
Within a second of him turning around, the other P.E. teacher confiscated it and kept it for an entire week.
How come one P.E. teacher managed to struggle through it in the course of only a single day, whilst the other took a week to mouth-breath his way through it?

Top 5 Reasons it might take a PE teacher a week to read Viz:

1. His fists are so clenched with perpetual rage that he has to turn the pages clumsily with his knuckles.
2. Every time he gets a joke, he has to take it to his girlfriend and say "that naughty cos the man dun poo wen he sed he wuddunt".
3. He spent three days staring at the Vibrating Bum-Faced Goats before deciding it didn't make him want to wank.
4. In a moment of hungry confusion, he ate the Viz, and it took him a week to buy another because "doing things is like riddles".
5. He stupid.

Run to the wall and back: I can't be arsed. Run to the wall and back.

Catch 22 : Are you a PLP? Say yes, and you're a public leaning post. Say no, and you're denying that you're a perfectly lovely person. Why you would want to do that is beyond me.

Retort for a bully who is told to "pack it in" during his abuse. More phonetically correct would have been "Pakis don't come in tins", but no-one seemed to think of that.

Another version of the retort to 'pack it in' followed the usual line of 'Pakis don't come in tins', and went on to add 'they come in banana boats'. Any adults listening would have been so charmed by the innocent innacuracy of the comment, that the naive bigotry just seemed sweet.

Any chase is demeaned to futile absurdity if observers shout "wacca wacca wacca", a la Pacman. It certainly worked when our Physics teacher was chasing Filthy Scott (so called because he would put his finger up his arse and wipe it on your blazer) around the lab. In the end he gave up and just threw wooden sink covers at him.

Paedophile teachers, when they do happen, can be quite charming. Most of the kids thought Mr Holdrick was pretty cool, and a good teacher.

It was only when the newspaper reported that he had been caught with a computer full of child porn that we realised that we didn't like him at all.

It didn't take us much longer to remember that we never learned anything in his classes because he was constantly running at our bums with his hands out.

In fairness to ourselves, it's quite a weak justification of the k-fiddlez to say but he could put across difficult throries well.

During the last storytime of the day, demonic headmistress Mrs. Windsor would pick her favourite children to stroke her legs through her nylons. This was an honour keenly fought over among the children, all under the age of six and unable to discern just how horrifically, grotesquely wrong this was.

Not everyone who works with, or takes an interest in children is a paedophile.
The man from the Werther's Original advert is not a paedophile. Older male children's TV presenters were not paedophiles. PE Teachers who made you take showers were not necessarily paedophiles.
Labelling such people as paedophiles is not only lazy, obvious and weak, it also denigrates the comic potential of the real paedophiles, like Gary Glitter, and your dad.

The forever-to-be-remembered page number in our Biology textbook featuring a photograph of a standing naked child with the world's most extraordinary bow legs. When viewed in the dark recesses of the school library, it never ceased to make a 12-year-old lurch, retch and eventually laugh milk out of their nose.

Seriously, you could fit a beach ball through there.

Not what you want to hear about your English teacher, when she's got a face like a fire-damaged lego brick and a body like The Raggydoll's Sadsack. You'll spend the rest of your English lessons trying desperately not to imagine her naked.
And constantly, constantly, failing.

A gang of five or six kids would surround you, and proceed to scientifically beat the crap out of you, scientifically concentrating on places that were liable to cause the most pain. Just when you approached the threshold of tolerable pain, your shoes were scientifically torn off and thrown away, and five or six vicious teenage bastards would scientifically pummel the soles of your feet, to scientifically test the theory that this cancelled out pain anywhere else in your body. It fucking didn't. Ever.

The kitchen area of our school had a green lino floor, except for one bit where a 1' x 2' piece had been repaired with brown lino.
This was the Paki Patch. If you successfully negotiated the Eggy Bumps, you then had the Paki Patch to get past. If you stood on it, you would automatically be deemed to be in love with Shetal, who had the uneviable status of being the only child of ethnic origin in a school full of cunts. I can't remember whether she welcomed the daily stream of unwilling suitors, but looking back I strongly suspect that she didn't.
The Eggy Bumps? Did treading on these imply a romantic attraction to chicken foetuses? I think we should be told - Matt

Generic name given to those crap, plastic unbranded trainers that were sported by remedials, dirty schemers, and one-parent children in the 1980s. They got their name from the price - about 20p - and the fact that they only seemed to be sold by Pakistani gentlemen in their emporia of miscellany. Also known as Borstal Break-outs.

Personal Arse Licker. Never say that you are someone's pal; "best pal" is a bit better, because it implies that there is some competition for the job, and at least that means you're a good arse licker.

Inform your target that new medical research has found a genetic link between the size of your hands, and the probability that you will develop cancer in later life. The details of the research are obviously very complicated, but it boils down to a simple rule of thumb; if your hand is bigger than your face, then you're very likely to develop cancer. The immediate instinct is for your victim to immediately check by placing their hand over their face, allowing you to slap their palm hard into their face. This is actually very painful, and runs the risk of hitting the secret Kung-Fu instant death spot, which shoots the nose backwards into the brain.

Offer to read someone's future from their palm. It all starts seductively promising, with things on the palm resembling aspirational object that the person will one day own.

"You're going to own a mansion shaped like a finger."

After two or three predictions, hawk up a huge greenie into their palm and inform that that it is their swimming pool. Luxurious.

Actually, this trick was seen on The Simpson, episode 9F06, New Kid on the Block, along with Wet Willies. Is it funny if it's been on The Simpsons? Probably not.

A place where your mother lives. If anyone asks you where Panksy Lane is, you must say "where your mum lives". If you do not, then it is where your mum lives.

The teacher who directed our primary school pantomime used to put a lot of effort into after-school rehearsals. Sometimes just for one or two of the cast. At one of these, I (Abanazar the wicked uncle) and Widow Twankey (another boy) were encouraged to lie down on our backs, side by side, in just our PE kit, and let our hands `explore' each other's bodies without making a sound. We were told that this would teach us `proper body control'. The teacher turned the light off and watched us do it in silence for about ten minutes. My parents thought he was a wonderful teacher and refused to listen to any complaint - an emerging pattern in my school career.
I though this would be funny but it appears to have taken me to a dark place. Still, there it is.
PS I don't think I've libelled anyone, have I? That's why I left out all the names. Also the rumours about the hard drive and the pictures and the prison sentence. But I daresay you're awash with those.

Pants checkers will go to the changing room during swimming, while everyone else was in the pool. Then, they would check all pants for "poo stripes." I agree, strange in hindsight. Philip Connors pants generally tested positive and then would be held aloft by the side of the swimming pool accompanied by shouts of "Err Connors got poo stripes".

Should your teacher exhibit such a lack of fashion nous as to dress in trousers with turn-ups, you must spend a significant amount of time "accidentally" dropping your pen, allowing you to get on the floor and flick paperclips at his legs with the aim of landing them in the turn-ups.

Chris Spedding was so adept at this game that Mr Law often walked out of RE lessons to a jangling musical accompaniment.

Verb: to parka
The act of swinging a smaller child by the fur-rimmed hood of their Lord Anthony parka until rippage, flight or boredom ensues.

More fun can be had by tying the parka's cords to the metal bars on the bus home, giving the wearer two choices - a new coat or an unplanned trip to town, missing Grange Hill.

While playing with a frisbee in the National Trust-protected park across from school, we saw one of the evil parkies hoving into view in his little electric cart. It was a warm, early Summer day and we had our blazers and shoes off, and our trousers rolled up. He looked angrily at us for having fun in his park, hooked one thumb over his shoulder and growled at us: "Shoes on, FUCK OFF". I guess this was meant to be authoritative and pithy. It wasn't.

This, of course, became the ONLY way to tell anyone to get out of anywhere.