This involved drawing as many penises as possible on a colleague's text book / excercise book / bag / homework diary / piece of artwork / photograph of dead relative etc. whilst their back was turned. It was perfected to 3 loops removing pen from paper only to draw in a "T" at the top. Twenty nobs in ten seconds was a skilled, but not uncommon occurrence.

Speednob led to a series of creative approaches to disguising the nobs drawn on your property. These included spaceships with billowing smoke clouds at lift-off, funny faces, general swirly patterns and many more. It is important to note that, if a nob was drawn completely (with the three loops and a T-shape), it was impossible for the disguised nob to look like anything other than a disguised nob, which was still quite gay. However, if you managed to intervene in the drawing of the nob and prevent the T-shape being drawn across the bell-end, you had half a chance of changing the three loops into something innocent. Try it yourself. You'll see what I mean. Of course this made it all the more critical for the nobber complete the nob and only encouraged kids to try harder. See: speednob, advanced.

As part of a civil recovery scheme for the vast number of inky cocks drawn in our Tricolore text books, we were each given a bottle of Tipp-Ex and told to obscure the offending members.
The result? A vast number of inky cocks with a vast amount of spunk coming out the end.

Speednob became such an obsession in my school that it was unusual to see any ink-permeable surface without a nob on it. Eventually pupils were so alert to preventing their property being nobbed that it was very difficult for even the most committed player to nob anything at all. The only option for the potential artist was to draw a nob on the flat surface of an eraser with a cartridge pen and quickly use it as an ink stamp on the targeted item. So long as the victim didn't see you draw the nob on your eraser, he would be entirely unsuspecting and a swift movement with the eraser would ensure a successful nob placement on anything from textbooks to foreheads.

The act of drawing a 300 foot long, fully detailed phallus in the wet sand on Tenby Beach during a Geography field trip, before teachers can descend a cliff to stop you. Chances are, however, that they will simply look dismayed and let you have your fun. Which is pretty patronising when you think about it.

Barry's peculiar tale here has a sinister edge and will leave you slightly damp, clammy and uncomfortable, just the way that possibly phoney swimming instructors like you, I'd wager...

A new swimming 'teacher' appeared mysteriously one day at the local baths.
As, apparently, one of the school's great swimming hopes, I was subsequently singled out for special tutelage, presumably to get me onto the path of the Olympics.
A special trip was organised where he and I drove to town. I distinctly remember trying on half a dozen pairs of Speedos and had to model each set for him, complete with twirls.
Following this, I was treated to a cream tea at the local cafe and while listening to his platitudes felt extraordinarily privileged to be the 'sports star with potential'.
I never saw him again after that day.

Outrageous claim from Paul Walker that the loose cannon Geordie cop played by Jimmy Nail was, in fact, his dad. However, rather than an attempt to command awe and authority, it was simply an excuse to say 'how bastard!' and headbutt someone.
Based on the mispresumption that headbutting people is genetic, and not just a symptom of living in Newcastle.

Previously unknown supply teacher, GCSE biology class, walked in and announced that he had a higher sperm count than any of us. He left the room, promising to answer any question on sex that we could write on scraps of paper and place in a coffee pot on the desk at the front. Amazingly, some of us actually wrote questions, and he answered them all deadpan. We never saw him again, but the legend of Sperm-count man lives on. I hope he found a job where his utter coolness and phenomenal sperm-count were more appreciated.

If girls become wary of you when you tell them that there is a spider in their hair, you can convince them that no, really - there really is a spider in their hair this time - by saying "no, really - there really is a spider in your hair this time".
If more persuasion is required;
Level 1 : There is a spider in your hair.
Level 2 : No really - there really is a spider in your hair this time.
Level 3 : Oh God, there's a really big spider in your hair. Everyone, come and look at the really big spider!
Level 4 : It... it looks like it's laying eggs...
Level 5 : Look, I know I've been saying this a lot recently, and at the back of my mind, I realised a time would come when one day, you really might have a spider in your hair. I think I was hiding from that possibility, hoping it would never come, because I knew you wouldn't believe me when I told you. But honestly, this time, there is a massive spider in your hair, and from the markings I think it's poisonous. I don't expect you to believe me, I guess I've dug my own grave in that respect, but please - please seek help regarding the oversized spider that's running amok in your lovely hair. You must tell me your hairdresser, by the way.

Notably batey fatboy Scott Weightman (see fat kids for more background on Scott Weightman) involuntarily became this superhero every Monday afternoon History lesson. The bright young things of Mr Cook's class were placed in the next classroom to the rabble and could only look on in helpless appreciation as Scott had the class bin shoved on his head. Not content with the level of distress this caused, pupils then took it upon themselves to hang onto the bin and pull down with all their body weight. The result looked like a particularly agitated Darth Vader storming around the classroom whilst being closely attended by imperial guards. Similarly the face that emerged from the helmet on those hot afternoons was not unlike Skywalker's father in the film.

Little gifts left on branches to make climbing a tree more difficult and unpleasant for those who follow you. These can include regular spit, greened spit, and the impassable chewed up soggy Cheese and Onion crisps.

The game played as a child where various participants fill their mouths with saliva and compete to see who can create the longest 'spit dangle'. The winner was the one whose went the lowest without it turning into a full blown 'gob'. The more skillful players would show-off by sucking theirs back up before it hits the ground.

See also dead heat in a zeppelin race, two ferrets fighting in a sack, two bald men. But not in this list.

This is great fun, we normally did it to cunt kids with big chins, we used to get them on the ground then we got a group of people to spit in his mouth then started poking at his face saying "HAHAHA you now have AIDS you have technolcally kissed loads of males you willy wufter" then kicked them in the face for old time sakes.

(More stream of consciousness fun can be found at Bob Mara's website, Kerrap. Please, no-one else emulate Bob Mara's style in their entries - his is a unique voice. - Log)

The self-chosen name our school's foremost rap duo. Marginally better than if they'd called themselves "Ping and Pong", or "MC Hello Dolly and the Belgrano Connection", I suppose. But only marginally.

A game which combines the intellectual with the violent. It involves two teams of boys, one of which will think of a word made up of as many letters as there are team members. Each member is given a letter. The other team must then guess the word. They do this by inflicting great pain on each member of the other team until they crack, and blurt out their letter. Once you've given up your letter, you join the torturers. Or sit there like an idiot for a while, I forget. When the word is guessed, the teams switch roles. I never played your basic Splogger much, because I was much more interested in.. Dirty Splogger. This has a team of boys and a team of girls. One team has the word, as with basic Splogger, but instead of hitting you, the other team.. does things.. to you until you get hysterical and embarrassed and give up your letter. Dirty Splogger can go on quite some time, and in our school served as the introduction to sex for most kids.

Spoilsports was a game of my invention which involved going around the playground and fucking up everyone else's game - kicking footballs over the school fence, standing in the middle of the girls' game of elastics, and so on.
The game was great fun, but was sadly curtailed when I had the shit thoroughly kicked out of me by an older girl.
I spent much of the afternoon sat on a female teacher's lap sobbing like a great jessie. And that's why I like NWA.

Incredibly spurious nickname for a boy who has received a sponge bath from a girl. The nickname itself makes enough sense, but for the love of mercy, what are twelve year olds doing giving each other sponge baths? They should be at least sucking each other off.

A unit or activity of hard work. When a classmate exerts more than the accepted 'minimum effort' in the classroom, mime the motion of spooning a substance out of a container. This substance is "effort" - feel free to say "eff-ort" whilst spooning.
For extreme cases, imitating a JCB operator or the motion of the Channel tunnel excavator is required.

One who finds a friend's younger sibling attractive. Based on the true story of Robert Durrent, who quite actually spooned out some of his little sister's love gloop, and ate it like cough medicine.

We used to call poor people 'sporkers' based on them supposedly not having enough money for proper cutlery, and having to eat with those crappy spoon-fork combination things.

Children who excelled at sport. The derision with which this name was delivered justified the sloth of hundreds of fat kids, like myself, who had just got a Commodore 64 and didn't really want to be running around.

A poor person. A person who wears a sack and has to use dead squirrels as buttons is a spunk bubble.

After watching sex-ed videos, we would boast that we were all capable of producing spunk, and plenty of it. One ginger fat kid claimed he had an entire bowl of it at home. Since that claim, we all pretended to be in possession of at least a pint of our own semen.

Sitting on the bus at the end of the day, we were informed that Neil Clements had wanked into his hand during a maths lesson. When someone asked how the teller could be sure Neil hadn't merely pissed on his own hand, they were told, "Because the spunk was all crispy." This has baffled me for the last nine years.