A game involving a number of people chasing each other around a car. All contestants are required to drink a can purchased from the local store. Then, chase each other around the car, attempting to trip the person in front of you. Continue until someone falls over. The unlucky individual would then be subjected to a hot, then almost immediately cold, drenching of piss. In cold weather, the urgency is increased, and so therefore is the risk of dirty tackles and wetting yourself.

A joystick-waggler game for the Atari ST, created by the Hot Spunk Crew.
Each level began with a sample from Jack Nicholson as The Joker, saying “Gentlemen – let’s broaden our minds”, after which you would immediately thrash your joystick from left to right. This action would animate one of a series of very short films, which included a bean-flicking incident and some hot three-way pixels.
Although obviously a humourous game, it was quite frustrating for people actually wanting to pleasure themselves, what with having your hands otherwise occupied. You could convince a friend to waggle the joystick for you; but if you’re that close you might as well just toss each other off anyway.
Additional features include colour cycling for those who want to watch green fingers slide into a deathly grey vagina.

The seemingly unlimited supply of empty camera film containers which we found in Mrs Bailey's classroom. These were urinated into, then left in a hidden spot for several days, so that they may mature. After this, the contents were emptied in a place where they would have most effect. A bald teacher walking underneath a window got a soggy head. In retrospect this was quite unacceptable behaviour.

If you smell very bad then it can be suggested that you shower by standing under a colander that your father is pissing into.

Toilet game perfected by Nick Edy, who would hurl a piss-drenched swaddling of tissue into an occupied cubicle, soaking anyone foolish enough to be ejecting brown at school.

Apparently, in Celtic mythology the goggle-eyed Pissgrabber lurked in the bowls of public toilets, attempting to insert a maths text book up the first arse that appeared. If the victim screamed the Pissgrabber returned to the Headmaster's office.

There were a number of factors that contributed to the terrible decision to piss in Steve's bed. It was the last day of a school trip to Austria. Two things had annoyed us throughout the week:

a) Steve
b) The utterly horrible food

So, to punish Steve and the hostel, all we had to do was piss in Steve's bed. When I say 'we', I mean 'I'. And so I found myself pissing onto a mattress in Austria.

In hindsight, it wasn't really worth it. My God, I can't believe I pissed onto somebody's bed.

Being at that age where penile exploration (and subsequent comparison) was particularly rife, three friends and myself thought it would be a cracking riot to share a communal piss in the "big kids" loos.
Giggling began as four streams joined togeteher in glorious Handelesque harmony, but it soon got too much to resist.
It started with a little flick, a little move to the side, then suddenly we were taken by the moment, spraying our urine on the toilet, walls, floors, and each other. We finished up, convulsing with laughter; the last boy making a show of it and spinning around in a 360 degree piss cycle.
We then opened the door to find our teacher standing there, fuming at our soaked trousers. Two boys started crying right there; I held strong though, until they broke me back in the office - the "getting your mum in" card was too damn effective.

Where everyone stands along the urinal in the P.E. block. One shouts 'Pissy Circle' and does a nifty pirouette sending a looping strand of piss over his co-pissers.

A bomber jacket owned by Anthony Harrison had been stolen from the changing rooms during PE and was found at the back of the field slashed up and pissed on.
As if this wasn't funny enough in itself, he came in the next day wearing the SAME JACKET, that his mum had mended and washed.
This earnt him the nickname 'Trampony'.

One of the more dangerous forms of Kung Fu, especially in the hands of clumsy jumping juveniles whose only experience of martial arts is "backwards and fire for a roundhouse kick on Way of the Exploding Fist".
Battles last around 5 minutes, after which people will be bruised and breathless, unless someone has watched Van Damme's Bloodsport, in which case noses will generally be broken.

Chris Ellis was an unfortunate boy who looked like a frog. Imagine our joy when he claimed to be a pixie, and that if he sat still and quiet he was invisible. Saved us from digging his grave for him.

The name of our victorious sixth form five-a-side team. The gutless teachers changed it to "The Beard Brothers" when our triumph was announced in assembly.
Now, for some reason I've always thought that this modified title implied that we took to the field with our arsecress braided to that of other team members, creating a monstrous pentagon of hairy bottoms.
This would have been quite an achievement, perhaps an even greater one than merely plaiting one's own anal beard and subsequently beating all comers at five-a-side football.

In my third year at school, our PE block was found to have asbestos in the roof. This meant that while it was being removed, all indoor PE lessons were conducted in the assembly hall instead of the larger PE halls. Downsizing from two PE halls to one hall also meant that, for the first time, girls and boys shared indoor PE lessons. In the interests of sexual alienation, the teachers kept the boys on one side playing table tennis, and the girls did gymnastics on the other side. There was a girl in my tutor group that had a glass eye. Mass amusement by public ridicule is the 'in' thing, so my mate zips off to get a felt pen from his bag and on his return we start drawing pupils and lashes on our ping-pong balls. See where this is going? To cut a growing story short, he screams out that her eye's come loose as we hurl the plastic balls at her and her mates. She starts crying, PE gets dispanded and I end up with a letter home. Cruel and pretty evil, but I still can't watch Columbo without laughing.

Most young adults would have grown out of playing with Plasticene, but it had a brief renaissance for all of one afternoon in 3rd year juniors.
This was when we decided to make explicitly detailed models of Steven Williams' mum having it off with a big black man.

One day there were not enough chairs in the music room, so Daljit Kaur was told to sit at the piano. As the lesson began, Trevor Woodfield shouted, "Play it again, Dalj!". To Daljit's chagrin, other music lovers followed suit, urging him to "play it again" at regular intervals throughout the lesson. When the bell rang for English, the reluctant pianist ran to West Indian teacher Mrs Sutherland and falsely accused us of calling her a "black bastard". Mrs Sutherland gave us all detention. Racist.

Ask the victim whether they like Playboy or Playgirl?
Boys will generally reply “er, Playgirl... I mean Playboy”. Cue much laughter as you loudly repeat their first answer for anyone in earshot whilst jumping up and down and pointing.

An elderly referee's desperate appeal for calm after a game of inter-school football amongst nine year olds became a no-holds-barred violence extravaganza.
Players PLEASE! subsequently became the standard response made by anyone kicked in the bollocks, always resulting in both kicker and kickee laughing together mannishly.

I fell ill with meningitis shortly before end of term one summer, the treatment of which left me profoundly deaf. I returned to the same school the following term fully expecting to have become a social leper, shunned and ridiculed by my prepubescent peers. However, much to my relief, I wasn't.

As much as I'd like to claim it was because I had surprisingly understanding and tolerant friends, it's probably more to do with the fact I taught everyone to finger spell various obscenities and, eventually, full-blown derogatory phrases in BSL. These words and phrases would be repeated with glee under the noses of the teachers.

Any respect and admiration built up over the next two years evaporated when I became one of the country's first recipients of a Cochlear Implant, and the playground soon rang with delighted cries of "Richard's got a COCK IN HIS EAR!"

And the cruel thing was I could actually hear them again.

Remove the cap from a whiteboard marker, then light the ink-sodden tip. This creates a slow burning wick than can be hurled into the open sunroof of the headmistress’ car, gutting the interior. Alternately, throw at walls, ceilings, or animals.

The way porn mags circulated at school was interesting. At the age of 12, the only way to see a porn mag was if a friend sold it to you. The same battered copy of Escort would be sold to one person for £1, then a week later sold to someone else, occasionally for a profit, and occasionally with the reader's favourite picture removed. And so on; until the same old Escort had half its pages missing, all its remaining pages stuck together, and sold for about £8.50.

Find a friendly neighbourhood cat and firmly cradle it, as if you're going to be nice. Then turn it upside down so it is facing out in the opposite direction to you. Then pop it's tail in your mouth and gently at first bite down; then bite harder until you notice a correlation between the firmness of the bite and the pitch of the cat's wailing.

During breaktime, collect a few large stones. Inform a peer that you are about to have a shit in the pond, then drop the stones behind your back, slightly squatting, making ever-increasingly tortured straining noises before each is released. When boredom sets it, try using different, larger and more irregular objects, or better still, perform to the girls.

'Plucks' are free punches which were earned after someone has farted. The first person to smell the travesty says 'pluck' as many times as possible before the farter can say 'no pluck, no revenge' - in Geordie 'ney pluck ney revenge'. The number of plucks said beforehand become the number of free punches to be claimed. The temptation to not admit your fart at all was compelling. Declaring 'ney pluck ney revenge' as soon as you fart allows you freedom to waft it around for all to enjoy.

The bullies of Leicestershire appear to be slightly more poetic than their Derbyshire brethren. One child approached me, and said;
"Look into my eyes..."
His eyes, like Kaa the Python from the Jungle Book, whispered Trust In Me... then he slammed his knee into my tender sweetbreads, and said;
"Your balls are paralysed.".
In Derbyshire you'd just get a good kicking. Twice. Fucking Leicester fops.