I spent a lot of time making a poison pen letter to insult my ex-friend, even assembling the note from cut-out letters from the newspaper like they do on Miami Vice. Once I had posted it to my victim's house, it only took ten minutes for me to be caught, slapped round the head and made to apologize. Perhaps I shouldn't have waved to her mum as I posted the letter through the front door.
Anyway, my best friend made me do it.

Take a Jammy Dodger biscuit, put it on the edge of the table, whip out your dick, and take a polaroid of your member touching the biscuit.
Warning. This will not work with a regular camera because the lab will call the police and you will be arrested for fucking a nostalgic biscuit.
Take a packet of Jammy Dodgers into school. Offer them around, with assurance that they haven't been spat on. The second the biscuit is in their mouth, show them the Polaroid.
The photo is good for around three packets of Jammy Dodgers before word gets around that it's a joke. Or that you're the guy who puts his dick on Jammy Dodgers.

A term of abuse attached to any poor soul whose hormones were rapidly changing, causing the kind of rancid body odour that only teenage boys and tramps that sleep in humid climates can exude.

Polling is very much like posting, in that it includes slamming a child's balls against something unforgiving. However, polling takes place on the top deck of a bus, and rather than having one single "post", towards which all your energies are focussed, you have around ten metal "poles". This allows for a much more chaotic sense of potentially-endless bollock agony.

• Form a committee. Nominate a Pole Master and a Pole Greaser. All other committee members are muscle
• Block the stairs to the lower deck. The Pole Master shouts Grease The Pole!
• The Pole Master walks up the aisle, looking at each boy, smiling and rubbing the poles. His gaze falls upon the selected boy.
• At the same time, the Pole Greaser has been polishing the poles with a cloth - once the child is selected, he announces The Pole Is Greased, Master
• The selected is hoisted up, and has his bollocks slammed against the poles.

Acronym for pants off, legs open. A general term for a slapper.
Alternatively, penis out, legs open which is a general term for tediously drawn out foreplay.

A full packet of Polo mints had to be eaten outright, against the clock (ending with a mouth inspection for illegal residue). Crunching was the only stipulation with no full-mint gulping allowed, and the packet was usually split open length-ways to allow for quicker access beforehand. Manic chomping on a gobfull of brittle mint shards invariably resulted in lacerated gums, loss of fillings etc, but a small price to pay for a shot at the coveted title, last known to be held by David Crake at an impressive 21.3 seconds.

Part of Clarkes Shoes better-thought-out plan for world domination. Realised that children only wanted shoes on the basis that they were 'good for skidding' when it snowed. Looked like Cornish pasties for feet.

It is one thing to have the piss taken out of you by the other kids, it's quite another to have the piss taken by a teacher. Pontius Pilate was a nickname bestowed on one John Pennells by Mr. Young, the Head of Metalwork. Pennells earned this moniker by washing his hands every 5 minutes during Metalwork lessons. Young would further torment him by sending him on pointless errands such as "Go and fetch me a left-handed file" and John, being such a dick, would wash his hands and go look for one around the (quite large) Crafts block while the rest of the class laughed mockingly at him. If he felt himself get a little grubby during his search, he would pause to wash his hands before continuing his faux quest.
And of course when he realised that he was on a wild goose chase, he would stare darkly at all in the class, mutter under his breath.....and then wash his hands.
Fifteen years later and with the help of hindsight we recognise this behaviour as the start of Compulsive Obsessive Disorder that marked the start of John's descent into Clinical Depression and mild Schizophrenia, aren't you happy that our Teachers are such caring, perceptive professionals?

Matthew was the only child in our school lucky enough to have a colostomy bag, the school in their wisdom decided that an assembly would be the best way to promote understanding.
Imagine trying to explain to a group of five-year-olds why someone has to shit in a bag and carry it around all day.
Maybe now you can imagine Matthew's predicament, from now on he was the poo collector, and it became apparent to us that if he collects his own poo, he should want to collect ours, and was therefore to be avoided at all costs. So we managed to make the chronically ill kid in our year a chronically ill outcast.
As far as I know he's still alive somewhere, filthy cunt.

An unsolveable enigma, a confounding mystery a poo conundrum. Based on a time when an orderly queue of some twenty or so pupils had formed outside our boys’ toilets, eager to steal a glimpse of the wonder within. Somebody or something had somehow managed to deposit a spectacularly healthy looking stool, right at the absolute, trigonometrically-perfect-epicentre of the large tiled floor. This wondrous turd-column was 10 metres away from any wall, appeared to have suffered no impact-collapse from its deposition on the floor and was unaccompanied by wee-wee or any other form of calling cards. The party responsible was never found. After weeks of analysis we failed to identify anyone bright enough to work out the maths involved, or, thoughtful enough to have carried out such a needlessly well-considered act of dirty genius. It was a poo conundrum.

If you've found a dog poo on the way home from school, but are bored of the Poo Game", why not go solo and bedazzle your friends with a flamboyant "poo dance"?
Based on the (pooless) Scottish sword dance, the protagonist cavorts above the poo to the strains of a pretend bagpipe. Points are awarded for technical complexity and how close the Clarks goes to the poo without touching it.
The game ends when the Dancer either stands in the poo or gets bored and, if it is a dry poo, kicks it at a spectator.

Walking home from school with your mates? Found a nice, fresh dog poo? The conditions are perfect, so why not play the Poo Game?
Stand face to face with your mate, the poo between you, and link hands over the poo in a soldier's grip. The name of the game is to push and pull your mate until he steps in the poo.
Simple, effective, entertaining. Best practiced when your mate is wearing new shoes with good, deep treads.

When I was seven my best friend, Daniel, boasted the ability to tell you just by looking at a person the exact colouration of their poo. The girls in the upper juniors, for instance, produced yellow sloppy poo, and one boy's poo was described as being exactly like the underside of Daniel's tongue. One of the girls in our class provided proof that not all girls' poo was yellow, constantly inviting us as she did into the toilet to examine her poo, which if I remember correctly resembled rabbit droppings.

One day someone pooed in the lower school boys drinks fountain. I vaguely remember there being a boys only assembley in which we were tole not to do this. Thats it. Oh - no it isn't - someone pooed in the bath twice while I was at university. Shapely 10 inch logs they were.

An amusing but dangerous game. Placing a firm but internally succulent poo on a stick, run headlong at someone direction, with the shitty end of the stick as far away from you as possible, shouting "eeuugghh poo on a stick!!!!!" Alternatively, just firing it at some unsuspecting passer-by with absolutely no warning. Then shout "poo on a stick", to let them know what happened.

A grille-covered drain that was the terminus of a large-diameter grey plastic pipe outside the staff room.

Completely innocuous and unlikely to cause harm or even dirty your shoes, but having been given the nickname, being shoved into that deadly zone by an opportunistic fellow pupil would earn the unsuspecting victim many hours of bewildering taunting for having breached the "Poo Pot".

Possibly speculated to be the source of the "fleas" that everyone was so terrified of inheriting by any kind of glancing contact with the wrong sort of person (girls).

Back in the ealy 1970's at Borough Green CP in Kent, the toilet block was separate from the main school, with lads and girls entering via doors at opposite ends. Inside the building was a partition wall to keep the boys and girls apart, but, inexplicably, it only reached to within a foot of the ceiling. This left a clear opportunity for scat-based mischief:
1) Help yourself to a lot - say 6 yards - of bog roll.
2) Fold it over a couple of times so that it forms a thick, 18 inch long strip.
3) Use your arse cheeks to hold it in place hanging above the water in the bowl as you drop off a steamy bob into the waiting dung 'hammock'.
4) Gather the two ends that have been sandwiched between your buttocks and the bog seat and, in a David and Goliath stylee, sling your cack grenade over the top of the partition wall and into the girls' side.
5) Listen for screaming and walk out, whistling and with your hands in your pockets.
Considering how crap at lying 6 year olds are it is a miracle I got away with it.

In the case of an arse which has not been wiped to the full, flakes of poo-dust are jettisonned everytime one farts. An inference of gayness can be made by the suggestion of white poo-dust. For example - "Is that dandruff on your jumper, Richard, or has your dad been farting on you again?"

A game played by myself and Greg Sullivan at primary school. The premise of the game was that we ran a hotel built entirely out of poo. (Imaginary) guests would come and stay, and we would try and ensure that they never realised the true nature of the hotel. It wasn't just the walls etc that were excretal in origin, however - hilariously, the menu was mainly made up of such delicacies as "burnt sausages" and "lemonade". We also offered a fine range of after dinner cigars.
In retrospect, it's hard to escape the suspicion that the entire game was a a flimsy bolt-on to a rather poor pun - but it still kept us out of trouble. Readers may also be interested to know that as a mature(-ish) adult I harbour no cloacal tendancies and that this was obviously "just a phase".

The hand action required when shooting at basketball, according to one of our P.E. teachers. A flap of the wrist in the well-known 'hello sailor' style.
This is what would happen if they let them in the Army.

This was a road sign supported by two pillars straddling the pavement just outside the school entrance. Any person who inadvertently walked between the pillars was destined to lifelong homosexuality unless they could retrace their steps within three seconds. If walking this stretch of pavement with a friend, one would attempt to engage them in protracted and intense conversation for the time it took for them to both walk through the lifestyle changing portal and for the effects to become irreversible. One could then loudly draw the unsuspecting fellow's attention to his new love of musical theatre.

The large, hairy birthmark of Mark Pooley. Also had a theme tune, which I can't remember. So that's useful.
(I bet it rhymed garden with hard-on, though. If it didn't, you had no place making up theme tunes about portable gardens - Log)

A game devised at primary school which entailed standing on a step and making a fart noise, then jumping off. So simple but so much fun.

My first ever detention, year 4. What for? Dunking an apple in my chocolate milk. A strange, strange, reason to punish one so young.

Next, year 8, writing 'fuck' in an essay on pirates. Pirates DO say "Fuck"! Good examples are: 'fuckin land ahoy' and 'yarrrr me fucker.' and 'fuckin shiver me fuckin timbers.'
They. DO.

The fact that "plastic" rhymes with "spastic" led to some speculation that Scopers were made out of the stuff.

Half a pound of nuts and bolts,
Half a pound of plastic.
Stick them in the washing machine,
Out pops a spastic!

The single redeeming feature of this rhyme is the jubilant bursting out of the washing machine by the freshly manufactured spastic. You could almost imagine him with a rose between his teeth and jazz hands.