At my old school we had an annual fete, and every year there would be a raffle. The prizes would be boxes made up of items that parents and others had donated, and there were different categories, such as the 'Chocolate' box, the 'Bathroom' box and, by far the best, the 'Surprise' box, where the mystery contents were wrapped in fancy paper!
One day, walking across the playground, my friend and I saw a nice ripe piece of dogshit; so we got a cereal box, stole some tape and some pink poster paper, and wrapped our piece of shit up, slipping it in to the 'Surprise' box before lunch.
Sadly, we never found out who won the 'Surprise' box, but we hope whoever it was one day visits this wonderful website and realizes it was me that gave them a big shit in a Coco Pops box.

It was during a science lesson at first school, when my friend Dave lent over too me and said; "Surprise Surprise, your little boobies". The teacher, weary of interruptions, suddenly stopped and asked him to stand up and tell the class what was so important that it had to be said during lesson time.
There was a long silence, before Dave said "Surprise Surprise, miss". She then asked him why he had disrupted the whole lesson just to say "Surprise Surprise".
I am the only person who can recount what was actually said, and now am glad to have finally been able to document it. Thank you.

Execution : 'sus'; very tight, slight lingering on the final 's';
'brains'; long and drawn out, esp. on the 'a'.
Accompany with Joey Deacon (q.v.) face, along with various hand-gestures that an on-looker might associate with someone who has discovered a nest of roaches living under her/his fore-arm skin.
Usage : Primarily an insult used against a peer who has said something superficially innocent, like 'do you have a rubber?'

A practice pioneered by a small but evil kid at my school. He would stealthily creep up to someone enjoying their sandwich or chocolate bar, snatch it from them, and then proceed to cram it into his mouth with an expression of evil glee on his evil fucking face.

This continued until the day when Russel, much to his dismay, dropped a virgin Topic bar on the ground.
Inspiration struck me. I searched for and found a dog turd, and dipped the Topic into it, giving it slightly more than a hazelnut in every bite. We then waited until the inevitable swan-dive. Revenge was very very sweet.

The evil kid had the gall to complain to the head of year about this. I explained to Mr Cooper that I had just instructed Russel to dispose of his dogshit-encrusted Topic into the bin lest any young children or animals think to eat it when the swan-dive occurred. Despite Mr Cooper's huge grin and barely stifled laughter, he appeared to believe me.

The most potent tool of any troublemaker in German lessons was the swastika. Our tools were a particular kind of felt tipped pen, and a 50p coin. These pens, with slow-drying ink, were used to draw a reverse swastika on the 50pence piece. Then, after finding a gullible victim, you would tell them that it was possible to test their intelligence by pressing a coin to their forehead and timing how long it took for it to fall off. If executed in a timely manner, the victim would be completely unaware that they were spending the lesson a la Charles Manson with a fucking great swastika displayed proudly on their face.

My history homework was to draw a map of Europe c. 1936, clearly showing the fascist, communist and democratic countries. Mrs. Shield, my teacher, was so pleased with my swastika (correctly placed in Germany) that she got me to teach the class just how I had created this perfectly formed symbol of potent evil.
My only experience in the profession of teaching has been to spend half an hour instructing a roomful of white school children in the nuances of drawing a swastika. It's a scene that didn't make it onto the recent TV and poster recruitment drive.

The pastime of the third row in maths (intelligent but not geeky) was to fill in the grid provided by maths textbooks with swastikas. It wasn't so much that they were all Nazis, but that you could fit exactly 16 on a page and they looked rather pleasing. They also offended those annoying girls with liberal mums who you couldn't even call someone gay or fat in front of. Upset ensued when our books were one day randomly checked by a Jewish supply teacher.

You may say bitch and sod, because a "sod" is a clump of grass, and a "bitch" is a female dog. Bastard, however, is the acid test.

The moment a classroom is first exposed to The Macc Lads is hugely edifying. It's a real South Park "Asses Of Fire" moment, when the bar just seems ever so slightly raised.

"She's like a tub of lard / she makes my willy hard"

Sweaty Betty propounds the Rubenesque aesthetic, flying bravely in the face of the modern preoccupation with weight loss. Sadly, this embracing attitude didn't extend to the gay community, in the song "Now He's A Puff".

"He's going to spread AIDS all over the world / Kill the bastard"

Their most recent song of 2006 - 21 years after the seminal "Beer & Sex & Chips n Gravy" explains how different parts of the Macc Lads' bodies are English.

In the Fifth Form, rumour had it that somebody on my street had indulged in some heavy 'bottom canoodling' with Sandra.
Thereafter, she was only ever referred to as Sweetcorn Sandra, as it became widely known that upon extraction, he discovered that a piece of sweetcorn had become lodged in his Jap’s-eye.

At the tender age of 10, Knight Rider is everything. I have never seen the episode in question repeated, but in it the hapless Hoff puts his foot down and utters the immortal line "Pedal to the metal, sweetheart". This must have made a great impression on me, for the next day at breaktime, during a frenetic game of tag in which I made my trademark driving noises, I yelled at the top of my voice "Pedal to the metal, sweetheart" while accelerating away.

The sudden playground silence which greeted the remark was, I suspect, a joy to behold, followed moments later by bewildered chortling, and, a moment after that, unabashed laughter followed by violence. The fact that I was fairly chubby and probably accelerating like a laden barge is, in this instance, merely an aside.

From most shops you could get these sweets which where on a string of elastic. We fashioned these into weapons by gripping one of the sweets in our front teeth and extending the elastic outwards to aim. Once you bite down on the sweet, half of it will be catapaulted infront of you. With practice, this can be developed into a very useful weapon, especially suited to temporarily disabling someone's eyeball.

When the transport costs for the coaches taking us to the heated indoor pool became too expensive, our school decided to have us use the pool in the local park - outdoors and unheated. Our sadistic bastard of a PE teacher would hurry us into the icy depths and then disappear into the little wooden hut to smoke, drink tea and take the piss out of us with the parkie-type man who worked there.
On one particularly bleak day, a boy, newly arrived from India, overcome with shock and cold and unable to swim, struggled weakly in the middle of the pool before passing out and rolling over for the last time. My friend Paul came to the rescue and began to swim towards the poor lad. The shouts finally alerted PE dick, who instead of jumping in to help, casually took off his sheepskin coat, trainers and socks and was removing his wristwatch when the boy was finally laid, unconscious beside the pool.
The other park-keepers revived him after a few tense minutes. There was no ambulance, no inquiry, nothing official. The PE teacher even blamed the boy because he couldn't speak English and never told him he couldn't swim. After the incident, Indian-boy-life-saving Paul somehow managed to convince himself that he was now a prime target for the National Front and it was only a matter of time before they would get him.

At Crossfields, an all boys public school, swimming lessons involved compulsory nudity.
I wish this wasn't true! The practice ended just after I left, due to the 'self-consciousness of the boys'. No shit. This was in 1985.
A nice twist came when the swimming teacher's daughters (in cossies) were in the pool on some sort of open day thing, and we all dived in to join them, much to their embarrassment, but not ours.

Stupid idea dreamed up by our swimming teacher so he could have an hour off. The idea was - rather than teach us to swim, he would leave us in the pool and let natural selection sort us out. The Darwinnian approach was helped by the volleyballs that we were allowed to play with. Basically the runt boy was the only child in the pool, and everyone else twatted him with volleyballs from round the edge. It was impossible for him to get out as every time he did he exposed his whole body to the barrage of hard plastic spheres instead of just his head. A terrible situation to find yourself in.

We were never sure if there really was a chemical in the water which would reveal if you had pissed in the swimming pool. However, throwing opened ink cartridges into the water behind Neil Jervis as he swam was enough to have him hauled out of the pool and sent to change. The reputation which stuck to him afterwards may have deprived him of female company well into his teens.

Presenting your teachers with a bundle of lumpen, shit-filled keks as proof that you are ill.
Generally, fingers down the throat or a note will suffice. Actually producing tangible turds is considered a little much.

One of our woodwork teachers, Mr Woodyatt, was so overcome by how god-awful our school was, that he took positive measures and hung himself.
This cleverness of this song, noting both the similar scan of "Mr Woodyatt" to "Sweet Chariot", and tying in the reference to the swinging actio of the recently hung, was not noted by the other teachers, who bollocked us.
Legend had it that he didn't compose the rope properly the first time, and came to earth with a a thud. He got it right next time round though, avoiding another bruised coccyx and neatly snapping his neck. Well done, Mr Woodyatt!