Erato, The Creature From The Pit, is the Dr Who Penis Monster par excellence - just penis-like enough so that it's unmistakably a massive penis, and just green horror-blob enough so that children could say "why are you laughing, mummy? And why have your fingertips risen to your nipples?"

Here, see for yourself - to the tune of The Spanish Flea.

Something the hard lads at school devoted much time and effort to achieve. By vigorously rubbing the skin on the back of your hand with a two pence piece (tails down was best) you could friction-burn away the top few layers of skin. When repeated enough times this would lead to a much-admired thick brown scab about a cm wide and up to an inch long. One of the more unhinged hard knocks at my school had perfected this art to such a degree that both his lower forearms came to resemble Tony the Tiger's hind legs ... At the time it made no sense either.

The incomprehensible way in which Mark Lewis used to pronounce 'penis', and the sole reason that we used to look forward to Geography lessons*. Mark would sit in front of us and mutter it to himself constantly throughout the lesson. Sometimes he included someone's name as an afterthought, but we liked it best when he attached it to a type of stream-bed erosion or the name of a country whose main export goods were being discussed.
* Apart from "Windy" Miller the teacher and his extravagant pigeon strut.

A construction devised and built by our physics teacher, Mr Ward, out of a cardboard box, with a large paper speech bubble reading "Yes Mr Ward!".
Our physics teacher would ask it questions like "Will you pass your exams?", and then answer himself in a high pitched voice, saying "Yes Mr Ward!", while jiggling the cardboard box with his hand.
One story that proves that the insanity of teachers isn't always entertaining.

All the girls of a certain age got these party bags. We also got to see a film about Becoming A Woman.
It pissed the boys off no end, as they didn't get any bag for needing a shave, or having a wank.
We would, as consolation, share our tampons with them, so we could all play wet the tampon with liquid soap and throw it at the ceiling.
Tampons remained stuck to the ceiling when I left, two years later.

Aktar was the only kid at my school who wasn't Caucasian. He was from Pakistan (or his parents were) and the poor git was subjected to endless racial persecution when we were about six or seven years old. The reason was Roots was being shown on TV, and since we didn't have a real person of African descent to play Roots with, Aktar was the next best thing. Playing at Roots involved shouting 'nigger' at Aktar and telling him to get back to the cotton fields. Steve S was particularly nasty, he used to take off his belt and whip Aktar with it.
Playing at Roots halted abruptly when Aktar's dad came to the school and spoke to the teacher. All the kids that had played Roots got belted (hit across the fingers with a leather belt - common in Scotland see below)

My old school still sends me its twice-yearly magazine, and in it I recently read that Mr Sheldon is retiring. That's the Mr Sheldon who formerly gloried in the title Master of the Lower School at the risible Eton-wannabe institution I had the misfortune to attend for six years. In an interview for the magazine, Mr Sheldon said that he'd enjoyed his career, but the one thing he could never bring himself to enjoy was having to administer corporal punishment.

So that'll be why he used to make you spread your legs apart, bend over on his plush red leather chair, and wait, arse up, for long agonising minutes while he stood in the corner where he kept his quiver of canes, selecting one cane after the other, flexing it between his meaty fingers and swishing it through the air a few times to test its suitability for the melancholy duty it was about to perform. He was punishing HIMSELF more than anyone else. And his distaste would be clearly evident afterwards, in the way he'd stand there puffing and blowing, sweaty and claret-faced, agitated out of all proportion to the physical extertion involved in botty-whacking a small boy a few times. It was because he HATED it.

WTF???

This story is both true and enlightening. I once had a teacher who had a pet desk named Otto. He claimed that when Otto misbehaved, he would turn Otto inside out, thereby turning Otto into a Toot.
He has a retarded child. It may have been genetic.

1. The teacher's pet can be fisted (punched) in break time. 2. After school, you may decide to fist your cat. Or dog.

Obscure allusion to homosexuality. The idea is that you go to Albert Square market to buy bananas from Pete Beal, and put them in a bowl. Instead of eating them, however, you put them up your arse.

June 1987. Sports day. The fifth form 100m final contestants line up on the start line. Among them, Peter Bliss - wearing size 12 rugby boots, tatty grey baggy cloth shorts, a too-small t-shirt died pink in the wash and his trademark NHS glasses.

And they're off.

Ten kids hurtle down the track encouraged by the shouts of 500 kids and adults. But - within a few seconds, the noise falters, withers, then dies completely. Apart from a faint "phut phut phut phut phut".

Peter Bliss, with a furious look of red-faced determination etched on his spotty mug, is running faster than all the other competitors. He just isn't running in the right direction. Nobody's watching the race any more; all eyes are on Peter as he runs straight through the crowd of kids and shellshocked parents, and straight across the empty playground behind.

He runs straight into the toilets. With a big pile of shit tumbling out the back of his shorts.

It doesn't stay quiet for very long.

Victim is floored, arms out-stretched. Someone kneels on the elbow joint and the arm is pumped up and down. Often initiated with the question "Would you like leaded or unleaded?". Requesting "unleaded" possibly led to a less ferocious pumping but probably relied more on the benevolence of the initiator.

And I suppose if the kid started crying, you could all go "thar she blows!" and dance around clicking your heels and whooping, as though you’d struck oil like in them films. That sounds fun. Susan.

The pupil of Ysgol Tryfan, Bangor, who removed one of his dainty stools from the bowl, and smeared it across the walls of the toilet, leading to an assembly in which we were told we had "a very real problem". Retards and pyschopaths alike came under suspicion, but the plucky turdslinging Welshman who wrecked the walls with bowels of folly will take this secret to his grave.

They sought him here, they sought him there but the phantom shitter was always one step ahead of the posse.

It began in the October I think, the location was a horticultural college in Kent. The modu operandi varied but the result was always the same. The shock discovery of a turd in places where you really didn't want to make such a discovery. The first discovery was made in an empty bath (on reflection I think this is worse than a full bath)in one of the girls' bathrooms. The choice of this target was inspired, the outrage and gossip the act generated already meant that the Phantom Shitter had attained legendary status. The folowing months were to cement his (or her) place in history.

Over the next few months turds began appearing at random times and in random locations. Often they were contained in a tupperware container, or they were left on a deliberately cleared surface (so to heighten the aesthetic impact one would suspect). The actions stopped in as sudden manner as they started. The strtange thing is that once it stopped, we all missed the anticipation of the next discovery. And no, it was not I and we never did discover who it was. The Phantom Shitter, will however be a part of all of those who experienced it forever. Today, I see it as a kind of performance art.

A lot of people living in the surrounding New Forest hunt pheasants and one day one of the local council estate cackers decided to bring a pheasants foot to class. He his it in my friends desk and she spent the rest of the day in the medical room due the shock of its discovery.

Ask the askee; "Do you collect stamps?" -- If yes, you get stamped on the foot. A more sophisticated variant is to ask the question: "Do you want a Shakespeare Stamp?" And when the victim says yes, shake him, "spear" him in the chest, and stamp on his feet.

"My dad's a banker" "I was born on a pirate ship" "Two cows went up the hill and parted" Both are magically transformed if you put a finger in each side of your mouth and pull your cheeks apart when you say them.

By quietly repeating the words of the teacher a moment after they say them it is possible to have the poor bugger sitting next to you become so disorientated they start to write down what you are saying, and not the teacher. Once they are hooked, to their surprise they suddenly find they are not writing about the properties of oxygen, but a blue monkey with a huge penis.

This means "seal egg" in French. It is a great tragedy for pupils in French lessons everywhere that seals don't lay eggs. Or that you can't ask for one in Paris restaurants.

Should you be entrusted with the dubious honour of photocopying teaching material, it is incumbent upon you to make asinine alterations guaranteed to cause a giddy head rush.

Your starter for ten: a highly childish assault on the periodic table achieved by inserting the word "Jimmy" after the symbol for copper ('CU...Jimmy').

Tripe from beginning to end which adds nothing to the speednob zeitgest and in fact detracts from it in its' badness. Snatch it from my cocky fingers if it ain't so.

The classic 1980s physics textbook, its tatty orange cover familiar to most and more impaortantly its graffiti. Thanks to Maggie and 'the cuts' these texts books were handed down seemingly from one genereation to the next to be shared "one between two in class" (normally in my case with Dillon-Smith who actually had silver cuffs on his jumper,as a result of using them to wipe his forever dribbling nose). But its the huge zeppelin sized cartoon cocks that appeared on the cartoon professor in the book that are most memorable, any suitable pose for the cartoon professor would result in a massive wang, spunk leaking from the end. Likewise the odd photos in the book would gain these penises especially the pics with a woman in, giving a blowjob geting covered in spunk ect.
But heres the odd bit, my parents wanted my to do well in physics (ha, soon showed them) so bought me my own Physics For You, I was never in the habit of drawing on my books. Yet my copy which I still have has all the cocks in it that the school texts had. Confirmed by a mate who attended a different school to me whilst indulging on a drink fueled nostalgia trip. The only conclusion I can draw is that they came published like that. My zeppelin cocks were the biggest!!

The wires used in physics to attach various devies to a battery - such as a clock - could be used by those not wishing to become Einstein as a whip. The plastic connectors could, on a good swing, break skin.

During my school days, I learned that the best way to stop pickpockets is to put a dog shit in a sandwich bag, and put it your coat pocket. You can guarantee they'll never do it again.

Aye, right. So you walked around with a dog shit in your coat pocket all day, just in case someone tried to steal your handkerchief? You've emerged as the clear winner here. You daft sod. - Matt

If anybody called you a pig, you could declare that it stood for "Pretty, Intelligent Girl", and was thus a compliment.

After the film "Lost Boys" came out, Jason O'Malley went to a careers interview and asked for information about Vampires, and he was rather badly Bollocked by the teacher. Undeterred he decided to get on the vampire Career ladder and started bringing pigs blood (procured from the bemused butcher) in to school and offering it to people under the guise of 'Home made Blackcurrant Juice'. After getting over our initial shock for a few weeks we were able to play games of 'Pigs Blood' at lunchtime which involved nicking the plastic Panda Pops bottle of pig's blood and playing football with it until it burst. The games ended when Jason decided he wanted to be a fighter pilot for the US Navy and ride a motorbike instead.