Rectal Prolapse is the musical variant of the aforementioned Anal Fist Fuck. Instead of shouting louder and louder, the first player sings "Rectal Prolapse" in as low a tone as he can and holds the last note. The next player picks this up a few tones higher. The process continues until the full musical range of the group has been covered. On some occasions, this is musically quite pleasant.

An enterprising genius nicked a pot of the thick yellow indelible paint used to paint yellow lines on roads, and painted MR THOMAS IS A RED DOG'S KNOB in foot-high letters across the bridge in front of the school. From that day forward he was known as Red Dog. Or Le Chien Rouge if you did A level French. It's still there to this day.

(It’s the detail of "A level" French that does it for me. Hee hum. –Susan.)

Achieved by daubing a little tomato ketchup on the front of your grey trousers, and running your crotch into girls' faces. They might not get what's going on, so explain; say "I've got a red ender!"

Based on the TV series with the fat kid who couldn't climb over the wall. Playground-wise, however, Being part of the 'red-hand' gang was to have a sensitive part of your anatomy slapped with vicious force, to produce the 'red-hand' club insignia. As the marks wore off rapidly, some lower members were forced to renew their subscription every 5 minutes or so.

3-2-1 spoonerism that I cannot believe didn't occur to me when it may have been topical. Or funny.

A hard slap delivered, usually in P.E., to the back of the neck with an open hand. The victim quickly and uncontrollably puts their head back and shoulders up in a Deaconesque spasm, which only adds to their pain.

Apparently, if your balls hung low (and wobbled to and fro) you could swing them over your shoulder like one of these. I can't recall ever seeing any kind of soldier doing this - though I assume carelessly standing on a landmine could result in a similar effect.

As cars pass, you have to make an insult beginning with the three letters of the registration plate. The finest moment came with "YCE", where Adam Whitehouse instantly said "Your Cunt Echoes". Which was fairly excellent, considering.

Short for remedial, and therefore a common insult. Even the teachers used this one.

Extra mileage could be garnered by grasping the handles of an invisible motorbike and starting it up, as though on a cold day. "Remmm. Remmememem. REMemememEMEMEMEM (twist throttle) REEEEMMMM! Reeeeeeemmm, reeeeeemmmm, rerrrrmmmmm." And so on. This was not insulting the mentally ill, it was merely making motorbike noises near them. Even God would find it hard to spot the hidden sneer.

Hypothetical shop from which the really absurdly rotund female teachers get their dresses.

Being a member of Rescue Squadron involved swarming upon a small group of people in the playground and pushing them around a bit, then we'd all run off, spin around and shout 'Rescue Squadron'. This was us 'transforming'. When we'd totally transformed we'd run back to our original victims and pretend to rescue them from their attackers which usually involved jumping on them again but this time shouting 'Rescue Squadron!'. Eventually the year above formed 'Playground Patrol' to protect pupils from Rescue Squadron.

An aptly named game. A mob of 6 - 20 kids would gather round a solitary victim and then placing 1 hand on their shoulder it would be announced that "ressistance is useless" whereupon they would be lead to a 15 foot deep ditch in an isolated area of the yard and hurled in. The game was interesting as it became a deep test of character for the victim. Some would try to run, some would claw the ground and scream for help that never came, but others would riase their heads high and walk slowly and with dignity to the waiting abyss. This dignity was often accompanied by a round of applause from the mob, whose appreciation of mettle stopped just short of not throwing the person in the pit.

Each person playing this game has to address a figure of authority with a different position of respect. Say, a bus conductor is checking your tickets;
Thanks chief.
Cheers, boss.
Nice one, governor.
Nice work, squire.
Ta, er... Lance Corporal...
Um... At ease, Archbishop.
As you were, Mayor?

Resusci-Annie was an unpleasant tasting plastic torso. When it rained during PE, we were made to practice resuscitation techniques upon her. Eventually, the congealed spittle of a thousand children made her go mouldy and she was deposited in a skip. And there it should have ended. We staged a rescue mission. Dressed in cast-off uniform from Lost Property, Annie looked uncommonly like a first former, and we took full advantage of this by placing her in bins with one corpse-like arm poking out of the top, hiding her in lockers and so forth. Her final appearance came when she was hanged by her little plastic neck from a tree by the First XII hockey pitch. A nervous Biology teacher fainted and Annie was subsequently incinerated. It was only by the narrowest of margins that we escaped the same fate.

High School. Lunch.

Phil and Charlie, both retarded, are taking turns jumping on a wooden bench. Phil then flips out and jumps on the bench non-stop until the slats splinter.

Charlie shrieks and then turns to Phil: "Phillip, I told we should not play Fall Guy."

Phil turns to me and points menacingly: "Don't tell nobody I did that."

They both scamper away.

Dr Poo's primary mode of travelling through space and time.

A tense and exciting game where the kid with a well-known peanut allergy would be pinned against a wall and force-fed 'Revels' one by one (statistically, one in five of which would contain a peanut). A standard get-out for the victim involved him pretending to have consumed a peanut and falling to the floor in mock-spasms clutching his throat, thus rendering the game over. Ultimately, however, this 'cry wolf' strategy backfired when he actually did swallow a peanut and alarm was only raised when he hadn't got up ten minutes later.

The AK-47 in the arse-nal of the phantom shitter, the Reverse Dougan involves squatting on the bog the wrong way round, facing the cistern. Your brahn baby will curl nicely on the gentle slope at the front of the bowl, and will sit there earnestly waiting for the next person to use the facilities. Flushing, naturally, is verboten.

Richard Stock reckoned he was the hardest kid in our school. He also reckoned he could do a shit, and that before it broke off, he could suck it back into his arse. Turned out he was wrong.

Squatting naked before a circle of encouraging adolescent boys, he parted his buttocks with both hands and duly delivered an inch of log from his dilated anus. So far so good, but before his piece de resistance could ensure his legendary status, an involuntary spasm prematurely snipped the turd.

An gasp swept through the crowd. It was like watching a high-wire walker sway from side to side. A high-wire walker whose arsecheeks were festooned with bob.

He was forced to waddle from the changing room to the toilet, to wipe his chuff. He returned clutching a ball of toilet paper, atop of which was a solid lump of shit. Sensing he had face to regain, he planted the stool to the forehead of James Turner, the computer-liking type who had been trying to get changed without getting involved.

Turner's reaction of disbelief at this squalid turn of events inpired instant remorse from Richard, who offered "I'm sorry James, that was too far. You know I'd stand up for you if I ever saw you in trouble."

Like, if someone had daubed your face with shit.

Natalie Nicholson did a poo How many dollops did she do? 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9" etc...

A boy who played football on his own, all play and lunchtimes, with an invisible ball. It was always Liverpool against Stoke, he was always scoring for Liverpool and then celebrating VERY loudly as they won the FA Cup, again.

Casual insults hurled at those children who were pigeon toed. Those whose feet were only mildly inward pointing were dubbed 'Ricky', short for 'rickets'(the condition caused by not eating enough yam flavoured sailors); the more severely afflicted were called 'Nobby', after the rhyming slang for haemorroids (Nobby Stiles: piles). Evidently, the child's imagined bumgrapes were so massive, that the only relief to be had was to walk around with his buttocks as far apart as possible, resulting in that unmistakable 'Elvis Costello' stagger.

The most basic form of retort to an insult, taking its name from the following exchange during cross country:
Me: God, you really are crap.
Ridley: No, you're crap.
Just less imaginative than "what you say is what you are".

Otherwise known as Catch-22 579268b.
Approach a male friend, and make him agree, for the purpose of this conversation to use the phrase "Right On!" to signify "Yes", and to use its logical opposite, "Right Off", to mean "No".
Next, ask a series of fairly benign yes/no questions, for example:
1/ "Is your name [their name]?"
2/ "Have you ever got in trouble with the headteacher?"
3/ "Have you ever kissed a girl/[insert girls name]?"
Finally, ask "have you ever pulled a boy's willy off?"