A form of torture that involves being restrained on the ground and having a sock covered big toe shoved up your arse.
Pop's Torture Support Group
This was inflicted on me several times by my older brothers. I'm writing about it here in the hope that someone will have experienced the same humiliation at some point in their infancy. Maybe we could, you know, talk about it.

After the pope's visit to Wales, our school got the altar. It was left on the school stage under a green tarpaulin, too holy and wondrous to be seen by irreligious children, who'd probably just write 'shit' on it.

One rainy playtime I snuck in and wrote 'shit' on it. I later panicked and returned to cover my crime. I changed it to look like 'ship'.

I lost sleep that night. The capital P at the end of ship was a dead giveaway of an converted t, and when the teachers found it they'd get the Pope back, and he'd proper bollock me.

Next day, I went back one last time and changed it to 'I love shiPs'. This put my mind at rest straight away - that's just the kind of thing the Pope would say. That drugged old cunt loves the ships.

Weeks later someone rearranged the plastic letters on the front of the altar, so they spelled out swear words instead of religious Latin. That Pope doesn't half leave some fucking cheap-arse altars behind him.

Swear words added in the editing process. Direct all Pope-bashing complaints to me, Log. PS your pontiff's a cunt and you secretly know it

A gay male. Possibly derived from the sphincter-loosening drug Amyl Nitrate, although possibly from the sound that we imagined bumsex made. 'Popping' was to insert the penis into another male's anus and thrust repeatedly. 'Poptastic' was never used, although I wish it had been.

Armistice is a big deal in some schools. At ours we all had to wear poppies. We spruced up the traditional red poppies with Smash Hits cut outs, paisley, tartan and check material etc etc and got the sixth formers to flog them from the tuck shop. The headmaster was livid, but impotent as poppy day collection had quadrupled from previous years. Not funny, but true.

Anyone could initiate a 'porn break' but there was substantial risk of being called a 'gayer' for those who refused to take part. They do so by giving the command 'porn break,' which must be loud enough for the all members of the class to hear.
As many people as they dared stood up at their desks and re-enacted the movements of their favourite porno flick (by themselves, no homo porno was allowed). This may have envolved getting oral, doing anal, straight, the 'wheelbarrow' or any other sordid image we could conjur up. Props were allowed including chairs, tables, cuboards, bins and board rubbers.
This went on for a maximum of five seconds, when everyone sat down and carried on working in complete silence as if nothing had ever happened.
Half the fun was the expression on the teachers faces, where you could see 'did that just actually happen?'. Most of the hard pressed staff chose to ignore it. Until Russell, a genius playground terrorist, took it too far and ran up to a French teacher during a porn break, and pretended that she was giving him a blowjob, then fucking her, then he bent over in an act I can only guess, that she was rimming his arse. We all paused, mid-pump and gaped in awe and respect. We quietly sat down as Russell was dragged from the room by the scarlet faced teacher.
Porn breaks dwindled away after that, Russell was the undisputed king and in that summer of 1992 he became a hero for a brief time. Until he got suspended for making hoax IRA bomb threats to the staff room....but that's another story.

At the given command of 'porn break' which must be loud enough for the all members of the class to hear. As many people as they dared stood up at their desks and re-enacted the movements of their favourite porno flick (by themselves, no homo porno was allowed). Props were allowed including chairs, tables, cupboards, bins and board rubbers. This went on for a maximum of five seconds, when everyone sat down and carried on working in complete silence as if nothing had ever happened.

Half the fun was the expression on the teachers faces, where you could see 'did that just actually happen?'. Most of the hard pressed staff chose to ignore it. Until Russell, a genius playground terrorist, took it too far and ran up to a French teacher during a porn break, and pretended that she was giving him a blowjob, then fucking her, then he bent over in an act that, I can only guess, was her rimming his arse. We all paused, mid-pump and gaped in awe and respect.

The mythical nymph that delivers crumpled and stained pornography to pubescent boys. The Porn Fairy leads its followers on a wild and wonderous treasure hunt, hiding its bounty of slightly soiled jazz mags in hedges along secluded country lanes, in dark alleyways at the back of the corner store, and, for some reason, in the park by my mate's house.

After a while, you develop a killer instinct for tracking down the Fairy's wares, and swoop like a hawk on any stray pieces of coloured paper that catch your eye. This often lasts into adulthood, resulting in fully-grown men who can't pass a bin without a quick rummage, and who will vault over fences and chase through fields after that distant piece of glossy that invariably turns out to be nothing more than a discarded Sunday Mirror magazine.

MUTINOUS ENTRY-CRASH FROM AN EDITOR: Seriously dude, Porn Fairy? Are we going to have entries for White Dog Poo and Spangles reminiscences? There’s a fine line between whimsical memory jogging and tired out old stand-up routines that are such lazy comedy cliches they have in themselves become lazy comedy cliches. What next- "Was Mr. Benn gay?" "Is it me or were Cadburys Crème Eggs a lot bigger when we were kids?" JESUS. Log and Phil, my fellow eds, I’m looking at you in a tutting type way.

A nickname I earned thanks to my sterling efforts to stay one step ahead of the IT department, and ensure that all pupils got to look at boobs on the newly installed computers.

My budding porn empire came crashing down when I was confronted by a PE teacher holding a print-out of a picture of a lady pleasuring herself with a cucumber, and the question "is this your mum?"

Being 'Posh Pete' for speaking with received pronunciation at a school of thick Nottinghamshire accents became even less pleasurable when the Spice Girls occurred in the late 90s. I can only agree with the bullies who beat me up for being 'Posh', and a girl and gay as a consequence.
Sharing this epithet remains, to this day, the only thing I have in common with Victoria Beckham, as unfortunately, I have never sucked her husband's cock.

A torture often inflicted for minor infractions of playground rule, such as not being popular. The unlucky victim is held by the legs by two people, who then run as fast as they can towards a suitable post (usually a goal post, hence the name, but occasionally a tree, fence, etc). The two draggers run either side of the post, causing massive testicular damage to the dragee.

At my school, posting was perfected to achieve a more painful end. The 'postee' was carried by four 'posters' so more speed could be developed, and was posted face down into one of the thick wooden struts which support cricket sightscreens. These, for those not in the know, slope downwards at approximately 45 degrees, thus ensuring maximum contact twixt post and genitalia.

A variant on standard posting which would involve grabbing your victim's legs (boys only) while they were astride some section of climbing frame. You would then recruit as much help as possible (sometimes three pullers to one leg) and pull the victims legs towards you and hence crush his genitals against the climbing frame. The net result of all of this was that the boys never went on the climbing frames. This meant that the girls couldn't either because all of the boys would look up their skirts. As a result only minging boggers went on them.

15 year olds who have theoretically discovered Cannabis may smoke pot pourri, thinking that it could be a decorative form of pot. This echoes other sad attempts to get high, including dried banana skins and microwaved menthol Tunes. (Giles Bicknell)

Two of our school slags would suck you off for one pound at lunch time. Sadly, they were in direct competition with the local chip shop, who offered curry and chips at the same price. No real competition; chips every time.

A game played at primary school, and a shocking parody of the life that was to await some of us in 4 or 5 years time. We'd take off our jackets and stuff them up our jumpers, pretending that the resulting bump meant we were heavily pregnant. The McGregors then walked around, hand on hip, complaining "Ooooh, my back's killing me" or "My ankles have swollen up". More mundane phrases would include "When's your's due, then? I've got two weeks yet."
The game came to a thrilling climax when the best McGregor, Naomi Smith, would proudly announce that her piles were playing up. We didn't know what piles were. I bet she does now, though. Ha.

Aged 11, Mr. Dobson decided that it was time the six boys in my class learned the facts of life. We were led into a separate room, whereupon Mr. Dobson turned a dark purple colour and announced "boys, over the next few years you'll experience a lot of changes."

We were then escorted back to class.

Any point on the human body which, when jabbed by the fingers of someone who has attended two Kung Fu classes, will cause collapse, haemorrhaging, and eventual death. This would be the typical itinerary of such a course; Dr Bodycount's Dark Dojo "Dead Men Don't Punch Back" Three Week Black Belt Course In Human Murder Week 1 : Introductions : Stances : Stretching Week 2 : Instant Death Spot : Refreshments Week 3 : Roundhouse kicks : Swords : Graduation

A sport for those very secure in their masculinity, or who simply don't give a fuck.
e.g. Sid Khan, who spent two terms making lunchtime passes at Robert Wilson, who never knew what the hell to do. Strangely, this game makes the victim seem gayer than the perpetrator, their inability to decide upon the best way to deal with the situation being interpreted as "actually thinking about it".
The only way to truly recover your heterosexuality is to punch the gay pretender, or to violently ram your penis up his anus until everyone knows the joke is over.

A game played on a quiet stretch of road, in which a child will lie down in the middle of the road, and await the reactions of drivers.
The judges hide behind a parked car or a low wall, and await results.
SCORING :
Posture : Creating the crazy-armed impression that your limbs are mangled will enhance your score greatly.
Sound Effects : Groaning, moaning, wailing, howling - all popular choices.
Speed of Oncoming Vehicle : obviously you get more points if there's squealing brakes, and the car stops with its front bumper over your forehead.
Reaction of Driver : Anger beats upset, unless they're really really upset, upset beats indifferent, indifferent beats joining-in laughter.
TWO THINGS, BARRY BERNDES :
1. Lie where you will be seen by the oncoming cars. Getting killed by the car is the equivalent of a 22 in Blackjack.
2. Don't wear your school uniform if it's easily identifiable, or there will be assemblies about it.
3. The Price Is Shite is a pun, and is therefore funny even if it has no relation to the game itself.

Teacher training days. This is where the teachers got rid of all the kids so they could play football in the corridors and "Beat Up McCann", a teacher we theorised as being less popular. Certian staff members also probably dressed in leather jackets and stole money from the lamer ones.

Duralex glass tumblers were widely used in UK Schools, so you could enjoy a glass of warm tap water with your school dinner. At the bottom of the glass could be found the word DURALEX, which is mysterious to a child because it has an "X" in it.
More importantly, there was a number at the bottom of the glass. This number was, quite simply, your age - for that dinner hour anyway.
The higher the number, the better. Being 2 or 3 was shameful, of course. However, being 89 was better than being 21 - a display of respecting your elders that would leave the doddering old cunts proud.

An actual excuse, as written on a late slip, for arriving half an hour late to school. I was on that bus, so I should know - it was we who had pushed him over the edge by ringing the bell every two and a quarter seconds and singing songs about vaginas.

A game. The 'psychoanalyst' would say a word and the 'patient' had to say the first thing they thought of after hearing it.

If the patient took more than two seconds to answer, the psychoanalyst got to punch them, for 'therapy'. Ideally, the patient, under pressure, would say something like fuck after the psychoanalyst said something like donkey.

Advanced form of the pube check. The 100m is run with the pubic hair tucked into the waistband of the shorts. Victory is forfeit if the pubes are not visible at the end of the race.

During secondary school I managed to convince my "friend" Chris Mckenna that bleeding out of your arse was the first sign of puberty and that everyone goes through it.
At first he was very doubtful of this, until the scale of this prank escalated, and after myself and half of the school year pestered and prodded him about him not bleeding out of his arse he finally succumbed to the immense peer pressure.
"So, Chris, you haven't bled out of your arse? That means you haven't started puberty yet. Are you sure??"
"Steven, I meant to say.... I HAVE bled out of my arse."
What a numpty.