A headline which appeared in our local paper following the announcement of the closure of our tiny catholic boy's school. The paper reported that the parent/teacher pressure group campaigning to keep the school open had spoken directly to the Pope, who was said to be 'gravely concerned' about the situation.
So concerned was the Pope, that he immediately cancelled all his pending engagements and flew to Droitwich Spa in his private jet, to jolly well give the local authorities what for.
Then the chairman of the pressure group woke up - and the cat was hungry.

A headline which appeared in the local paper following the announcement of the closure of our tiny catholic boy's school. The paper reported that the parent/teacher pressure group campaigning to keep the school open had spoken directly to the Pope who was said to be 'gravely concerned' about the situation.

Yeah, right.

These are sixth formers who can "whoop your ass" at any kind of Dance Dance game. Hell, they can just "whoop your ass" full stop. One of them once busted my head against a computer desk.

A much maligned effort to encourage children to eat school dinners in the mid 90s was the 'School Dinners Are Cool Dinners' advertising regime. It didn't work. I got a T-shirt with the slogan on it which didn't fit my portly frame and thus was burnt and deposited in a corner of the music room.

this is the best! we need MORE! stop being anonymous... we NEED YOU

your turn... and they're not wrong.

Bless. That's actually quite sweet. Cindey is a proper slag, though.

???????????????WTFFFF???????pass this round

This goes in cockfingers as soon as everyone else has laughed and cried at it. ffs.

I absolutely refuse to believe this is anything other than someone taking the piss. I can't have my last remaining sliver of faith in humanity destroyed. Edward's finally found a competitor for 'a time to charish'

well there is a girl named Cindey at our school who usually takes all the boys so they never like aneyone ealse. my friend chealsy has a crush on a boy named Cole and he of corse likes maggey a friend of Cindyes. i like nobodey but that doesnt matter!

In the grotty little Northern town where I had the misfortune to attend primary school, I formed my dislike of public urinals.
The Toilet building was outside the main school - making it a favoured excuse for leaving the classroom - and was clearly developed some time after Norman the Conker had finished with Robin of Sherwood or something. It had a small open area at what I guess would be 4ft high or so, directly above the urinal trough.
This was vaguely reminiscent of the arrowslits in a Castle; something which was not lost on the minds of the older boys, and walking past the building too close became a piss-soaking lottery for the unaware.
However, this was nothing compared to the risks of going inside when a novice was making their first attempt at glory...

A breed of civil servant who will look at a school with raw sewage on the playground thanks to overflowing drains, take into account the asbestos, make notes on their clipboards about the aging buildings that would disintegrate slightly in winds, nod sagely in response to the draughty prefabricated huts that had slowly replaced our regular classrooms, disappear forever and give the school a flying pass. In short, cunts.
"You'll never guess the rank shithole I passed today, dear."
"Oh do tell me dear, was it so very filthy?"
"Perfectly squalid! If the sewage doesn't kill them, the untreated asbestos will!"
"Ha ha! Oh, darling. I do wish we could go in there and kill them with our bare hands, though."
"Me too, my sweet. But until that day, we can only hope a roof tile stoves in one of the little bastards' heads."

In junior school I had a school medical where a man made me run round the gym naked. No one believes me and thinks it's some kind of strange fantasy, but it must be true as I remember dropping a mini skip and a jump in and no one fantasizes in that much detail.

Ashley had a misjudged belief that he could walk on water. We enjoyed many happy breaktimes watching his christ-like attempts to cross the pond, or "the scourge of all human nature" as he called it. It really makes you wonder, it really does.

Every school has one. Ours was called Janell. She became sexually active at 12 and to my knowledge has only ever stopped copulating long enough to apply natural yoghurt to her ripped welly of a minge (she was prone to frequent bouts of thrush). I know this because despite the fact we loathed the whore we were also insanely curious and hung on every word the slut spouted. And boy could she spin a yarn. According to her, she had fucked her way through dozens of men in just a few weeks, was an expert blower, had done anal just for the experience and took part in coutless orgies all involving her as the only female. She had a pregnancy scare on every period usually for the sake of drama. Imagine our surprise when she finally did get put in the family way by one of the pig thick fuckers from off the scuzzy council estate (that we all liven on) After that it was open season. Janell became persona no grata for the next two years. She miscarried the baby, my God how we laughed. She then went on a hell for leather mission to get pregnant. Nothing could stand in his whores way when it came to putting herself in the club. She spent the final year of school heavily pregnant. I dont know how she managed it, she must have the gestation period of an elephant. Since then I have never seen her not pregnant. I swear in the last 10 years she's had 11 kids. Did I mention she was also the muntiest most butt ugly woman on the face of the earth. How did she get so much sex? And she always had coldsores! Please start a new catagory just for al the school slags out there. They've worked hard for it, lets imortalise them.
Cheers. Bitter, jelous, virgin.

Whilst on a school trip to the Lake District, an enterprising fellow, by the name of Speakman, took with him a cheap foil disposable barbacue (the sort you'd purchase at petrol stations), a pack of bacon, sausages, and bread. Speakman reasoned he could cook, and then sell bacon and sausage butties when we stopped for our lunch break, thereby generating a fine profit for himself. After getting the BBQ going, someone (who read the instructions on the discarded wrapper) informed the world in general that it would take an hour or so for the barbaque to reach a stage where food could be prepared on it. The gathered crowd (those with money to buy such things) quickly dispersed, causing much embarassment on Speakman's part and loud admonishment of the label-reader, which led to the disposal of the flaming BBQ, piled with bread, sausage and bacon into the lake we'd stopped by. Presumably he hoped he could dispose of the now unwanted stuff, and that would be an end to the affair. It wasn't, as the foil tray refused to sink, and drifted gracefully across the lake, merrily blazing and belching dark smoke, like a viking funeral for bacon and sausages.

A chap at my school (now training to be a circus ringmaster) went all-out to establish a reputation as the school weirdo. His antics included:

1. Performing impromtu hygiene services where he'd run up behind you, whip out a toothbrush and clean your teeth for as long as it took you to shake him off. All the while, he'd croon "I'm a doctor" in an American accent.

2. Putting his penis (which he'd named "Eugene") in a bap and parading around.

3. Producing a dead crow from his pants in an English lesson.

4. Being employed as a mercenary to kick people up the arse because it was highly likely he'd be in trouble at the end of the day anyway.

After chatting with my 6 year old nephew about ‘his day at school’ he told me of the ‘David Blaine game’. Almost sounded marketable! It consisted of a box with the obligatory water hole in the top and a class mate. The classmate was put in the box, against his own will? I’m not sure…probably… then fed water through the hole. The problem being the hole is not at the top but at the front of a tall wardrobe like cupboard and the only way to get the water through to the starving ‘David Blaine’ was to take a gulp and spray a mouthful of saliva ridden water onto the classmates back. ‘Yummy’ I said, ‘wouldn’t have happened in my day’ … would it?

Always happened in science lessons, I don’t know why. My favourite was with a girl we’ll call Sarah (because that was her name) who I fancied. Stunning figure: slim with huge boobs. During long monologues from Mr Brown about Iron ions, (pronounced ‘I-Ron Ions’ to distinguish the similar words) she would rest her head and shoulders on the desk enabling me to cop a feel of her fantastic knockers now hanging free below the desk line. She is now a director in a major charity organisation and I suspect she would not let me do it these days. Less desirable and far less bright was Gillian, whose arse I would routinely fondle when we were standing around Mr Kieris whilst he talked about Alpha radiation. Far less subtle than Sarah, instead of just casually moving to where I was standing for a grope, Gillian would announce to the assembled class ‘Oh, I’m just going to stand over there!’ Silly mare. But by far the best though was Elaine who I sat next to whilst a very old bloke was talking about Phosphorous. I didn’t really know her, but fizzing with 12 year old testosterone as I was, I put my hand on her leg. All seemed to go well so I went for it. Not sure how I managed it but over the course of minutes I managed to manoeuvre my hand into her knickers without objection. She drew the line at an internal exploration which quite surprised me. I made the mistake of telling Abbot about it and it was all round the fucking school. I am now concerned that I may have been a bit of a pervert and actually I’m not. Concerned that is.

Andrew got bored during a physics lesson and decided to pretend to cut my other friend, Mario's ear with a crappy pair of orange scissors.
When Mario failed to respond to the stimulus, probably thinking "yawn - as if you would actually cut my ear with a pair of scissors", Andrew decided to squeeze a bit harder. To his dismay, the scissor blades actually met with a resounding click and a steady trickle of blood on to Mario's crisp white school shirt.
What I remember most was the look of 30% concern, 20% pain and 50% contempt on Mario's face changing suddenly to 100% concern when Andrew guiltily handed him a used tissue.

The Midlands is divided more or less equally between those of Northern origins who pronounce the popular tea-time snack scone so that it rhymes with 'gone', and soft Southern or social climbing types who rhyme it with 'bone'. In my final year of primary school this led to a schism as violent as that of the Crips/Bloods.
Forty kids racing towards me with a blood curdling howl of 'scooooowns!'
My best mate being forced to rhyme scone with bone at the top of his voice under torture and returning, his treachery never quite forgiven afterwards.
A ditch full of captured scowns with thousand yard stares, numbly awaiting their turn to be forced to utter the unthinkable word.
The headmaster even turned out to be a scown as he lectured both armies in assembly. The enmity over now, thank God, and I even regard one or two scowns as my friends.

A person with no pubic hair.

Probably a mis-heard and subsequently justified form of scoper. It's a person with a physical and mental illness, sat on a bus full of similar children. When the name was questioned, it transpired that the name was based on the lack of control over their arms, which were locked in a malevolent scooping shape, and moved up and down with great enthusiasm (a "chicken-winger").

Post-spastical name for people who were spastics before The Spastics Society changed their name in a bid to stop people calling spastics spastics. We didn't lose a word for spastic, we gained one. And it was scoper.

'Hilarious' variation on the classic, and in no way funny, game British Bulldogs. So called in deference to Craig 'Jock' Lawton. Interestingly, not stretched to Scottish Cow-Cats.

The place where Britain's youth go in order to use Kwik Save carrier bags as makeshift contraceptive devices. Allegedly.

A scramble was basically offering something spontaneously to a crowd – by shouting ‘Scramble!’ and the crowd would then swarm to get it. You could scramble anything: money, your pudding in the canteen (messy if someone scrambled something with custard – hands would dive in from all directions) or someone else’s property. I liked to scramble small change. The route to and from school was via alleys or ‘jitties’ as they were called. Either side were occasional sloping roofs of garages – an essential part of my scramble. On the walk back from school I would occasionally get in front of two of the thicker kids in school. We’ll call them Kevin and David. Because those were their names. I would get 2p and 5p pieces ready in my pocket and in plain site of the two of them chuck them onto the sloping roof and say the magic word. The result was electric: from dull conversations about Man United, they would immediately break out of the malaise and be energised to chase after the coins now rolling down the roof towards them. I never ceased to be amazed at how two apparently good mates could immediately be transformed into fighting, snarling gits, struggling over small change. Fantastic entertainment. Some 35 years later when a mate told me about Jew Bundles, I pissed myself and was chuffed to have been the unwitting instigator of one.

The first Gulf War prompted no moral discussion on the ethics of modern warfare. It did provide a sparkling new range of insults. Out went threatening to 'smack' someone and in came the terror-inducing 'I'll scud you in the eye', for example.

The 'exocet' shot was introduced to football, and everybody called Colin was re-christened Colon after Colon Powell.

Largely non-malicious game of obstruction and irritation. When someone is trying to get through a crowded seating area, and the seated people set about obstructing them as annoyingly as possible with their legs. This may not sound particularly harsh or amusing, but is surprisingly difficult to escape if the legs maintain a downward pressure. The combination of "walking through treacle" and "double gravity" can often lend a pleasing edge of panic to the victim's face. Endless repetition, as is so often the case, may result in tears. (cf doccer kill)

There is a common myth that seagulls explode if you feed them Alka Seltzer. They don't.
However, it's such a cool urban legend that it has to be worth a try...