Strange club with only two members, the Doctor and the Assistant. The Doctor would perform 'operations' which - curiously - everyone willingly queued up for. His tools were a compass (for incision) and Tipp-Ex (for 'healing'). When the operation was over you had to say 'ta'. Hence the name of the club.

"Ta ra ra bum di ay,
my knickers flew away,
They came back yesterday,
Ta ra ra bum di ay."
This unusual narrative casts aside the traditional form of beginning, middle, end, by leaving out the middle section that can be so boring to people with low attention spans. The knickers are gone - the knickers are back. However, the repetition of the first line in the last reminds us that it is a constant cycle, and no sooner have one person's knickers returned, than another pair have flown away.

What dicks taste like, according to a file we found on the school network during Computer Science one week.

The photography darkroom became home to Michael Steele's pornography stash (second roof tile along on the right) and after-hours masturbation club. That was until he discovered that his entire collection had gone missing, and that every word spoken in the darkroom could be heard in the staff room next door. Headmaster - ton of bricks - you get the story.

During a school field trip, one of our number (who was already cursed with the name Matthew Winkle) went to the toilet for an excessively long time. When quizzed about the duration of his visit, he claimed to have been 'talking to Frostie' - Paul Frost being a fellow pupil. 'Talking to Frostie' has thus become a euphemism for masturbation, with such derivatives as 'shouting at Frostie' and 'being ignored by Frostie' unfortunate - but natural - consequences.

Posh and less patriotic version of British Bulldog. One person started as the "catcher" and everyone else had to get from one side of playing area to the other. To catch someone you had not only to dob/tag/touch them, but to pin their shoulders to the ground by all means necessary for 3 seconds, thus increasing the potential for face-to-face spittle flecked mania from the more frustrated.

When we were 14, and after much pleading, me and a friend managed to persuade a naive Tamara to show us her left breast on the way home. As it was my first glipmse of live female flesh my groin responded as only it knew how. By lunchtime the next day my public erection had made it round the school, although the tit flashing element had been conveniently left out of the story.
Even in my final year, it wasn't unusual for a 12 year old girl to run away from me in the corridor screaming 'run, it's the sex addict!!'.

Tango Advertising Boardroom, 1993
Exec A : What's Tango like?
Exec B : Dunno. Orangey.
Exec C : It's more than just Orangey, my friend. It's got zizz, it's got zazz. The bubbles suck up your tongue like the kisses of goldfish.
Exec B : Oh, stop it. You always get carried away like this.
Exec C : It's an experience, a lifestyle. It's a path, a method. A liquid universe with CO2 planets constantly being created and destroyed. It's a cosm.
Exec A : I'll get some coffee.
Exec B : No, stay. Please.
Exec C : It attacks you. It gets onto all fours behind you while its friend pushes you over it. It bites you during a kiss. It slaps its hands over your ears.
Exec B : Ha. We used to do that at school. It was funny.
Exec A : Didn't it hurt?
Exec B : Dunno. Never had it done to me. Did it to the fat kid, though. Ha. Fat kids. Haha.
Exec C : So that's it. We get a fat bloke, and he slaps this guy over the ears. The guy is drinking Tango.
Exec B : Haha. Fat bloke. Let's paint him orange. Then he'd look like an orange, all fat and orange.
Exec C : You're on fire, Jeremy.
The advert was banned, when parents complained that their children had been sent deaf by thousands of copy-cat ear-slappings around the country. Tango's attempts to distance themselves from this "dangerous" behaviour were damaged by the fact that the children were shouting "YOU'VE BEEN TANGO'D" as they did it.
See the revised version of the advert at Absolutely Andy. It's some way down the page, so search for "Tango".

Nickname bestowed upon George Cornish after he managed to nick roughly half of the contents of the Imperial War Museum's gift shop, using only his trouser and blazer pockets to stash the booty.

Although why anyone would want to steal powdered egg or a pencil sharpener shaped like a nazi is a mystery.

A chant from the glorious summer of 76/77.
What d'yer think of Tarzan undies?
Do they scare yer?
Do they scare yer?

This method of attack on the dignity of fellow pupils progressed thus:
1. Creep up behind intended victim.
2. Place your hands either side of victim's mouth and pull.
3. To compliment the now mongish expression on said victim's face, shout out "TATEY FACE!" in a Joey Deacon-esque voice.
4. Depending on size of victim relative to self, either pause to bask in the approval of your peers, or run like fuck.

At Shortlanesend Junior School, Cornwall, when you had farted you said 'Taxi' while putting your thumb on your forehead. There were no recriminations or other rules - this was really just a badge of pride in case anyone hadn't heard/smelt the guff. You were really saying: 'I've farted! Woo-hoo!'

A song which was inexplicably sung by Robin B on several occasions at school, accompanied by a bongo-style drumming on his nipples:-
"Tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tchaikovskeeee;
Here he comes, banging his drums."

In the days before Madonna got her whamblers out willy nilly, a picture of her chebs carried top-rank cachet. When presented with a grubby page ripped out of the Sunday Sport of Madonna, chebs akimbo, it became my avowed mission to show everyone in the class.
As the Queen of Pop's paps were returned to me, our teacher, who shall be known as Mrs X, demanded to know what was going on, and that I bring the paper to her. This is a classic scene, we all know it.
Whilst huffing and looking hard-done-by, I managed to secrete another shred of newspaper from my bag and take that to her instead.
Unfortunately, my plan was rumbled and I was moved to the front of the class.
The walk of shame was crappy enough, but when that fat bitch Mrs X went to my bag to try and see what I was really passing around, I was outraged; that was my bag. It was bag rape. Plus it had my Maddybaps in.
I sprinted to the back of the class to intercept her, and we locked horns in an ugly tug-o-war. Panicked, I gave one almighty heave and Mrs X went sprawling backwards, legs everywhere. Her mood wasn't improved when Isaac Martin yelled "fucking hell, you can see her snatch".
Although threatened with expulsion, I was eventually just made to copy out chapters of a science book, in the technician's room with the stuffed albatross and the terrapins. I can't see a terrapin to this day without thinking of Madonna's tits and my teacher's fanny.

Teacher Teacher, I declare,
I can see your underwear.
A memorable opening couplet to a piece of junior school playground poetry. There was undoubtedly more to this rhyme, but I can't recall it. Anyone who can supply the missing lines will have my eternal gratitude, as its keeping me awake at nights thinking about it.

School magazine time! It's almost the end of term of Year 12, so this self-published effort needs to be an absolute cracker.

Step 1.
Gather your material, making sure that every single satirical article, poem and/or cruel caricature targets the pathetic maths teacher Mr Wills. Don't forget to poke fun at him specifically for his shitty breath, his weight, his psoriasis-afflicted scalp, his alcohol problem, his cheap clothes, his overactive sweat glands, his effeminate girly voice and the open secret that his wife left him for a hotel manager. Don't hold back! Really go to town.

Be bloody, bold and resolute, ruthlessly suppressing any qualms you might have about the ethics of kicking this fragile shell of a man to death.

Step 2.
Print magazine, distribute on the second-last day of school, enjoy minor sensation caused. Get called up with your fellow Oscar Wildes to the headmaster's office for a half-hearted bollocking in which the headmaster more or less agrees that Mr Wills is a complete fucking loser, and why did you have to go after the poor man like that?

Step 3.
Find out the following year that Mr Wills took early retirement. See him a year or so after that in your local shopping centre, three times his previous size, barely able to walk, face covered in blotchy scabs, wearing stained tracksuit pants, pushing a slab of Diet Coke along in a trolley and looking forlorn, abandoned, and utterly, utterly collapsed.

Step 4.
Feel guilty for the rest of your life.

Every school has these, so a brief rundown of Arnold Hill; Mr Heeley, made to cry after relentless taunts about his sexuality. As you can imagine, this didn't help the situation at all. Mr Manicom, who returned to work full of life after a kidney operation, to find that children had become no kinder or more understanding, and died weeks later. Mrs Greaves was a balding woman, which was curious enough to be commented upon, again and again (although we were too young to think of "chemo-sabe" as a cunning nickname - that came later).

I will never forget that sunny afternoon our Geography teacher Mr Bridges left our class to collect an armful of textbooks. Much hilarity ensued when we realised he hadn't come back and it was 10 minutes to home time.

I suppose if we'd have tried to find him we probably could've helped prevent his heart attack on the stairs. Or at least seen a dead body.

A question for Mr Wilson. Did you really think it was a good idea to leave teaching in order to pursue a career as a plain-clothes store detective? WH Smith must have lost more money than usual, as hordes of your ex-pupils descended upon the shop en masse to grab handfuls of booty, often to wave it triumphantly at you before fleeing, leaving you open mouthed and crestfallen.
I only hope you are happier now in your role as proprietor of the local "Mr Minit" key cutting and shoe repair emporium.

Over to you, Mr Wilson. No, it was a Yale, you twit. That's a shoe. - Matt

The greatest open goal nervy French teacher Mrs Redwood ever gifted me was sending me out of the class with the parting shot "...and don't come back until you're ready to work." So naturally, I went home.
With hindsight, I wish I'd had the vision to realise the gag's full potential and never come back.

A primitive accountancy/risk assessment program on the very old and very rubbishy computer in our classroom, or an early introduction to the essentials of Russian roulette. You were the owner of a teashop, and accordingly supplied tea, using a shop, at only the most select of virtual social engagements. You decided the number of cups to be sold, and the price. Things usually went smoothly, but every so often it would emerge that 'a swarm of wasps drove everybody away!' and you would howl and gnash your teeth as fully fifteen minutes of your childhood was evinced to have been frittered away in the darkest futility. We also learned numbers in Welsh up to 22, and our school was in Hertfordshire.

If you go down in the woods today,
you're sure of a big surprise.
If you go down in the woods today,
you'd better close your eyes.
'Cause Mum and Dad,
are 'avin a shag,
and Uncle Bob,
is suckin' his knob,
and Aunty Mary's 'avin it off with Graaaandad.
Uncle Bob was probably sucking his own nob, what with Aunty Mary being occupied with Granddad.

"If you go down in the woods today,
you’re sure of a big surprise,
if you go down in the woods today,
you'd better close your eyes,
cause mum and dad,
are 'avin a shag,
and uncle bob,
is suckin' his knob,
and aunty mary's 'avin it off with the miiiiiiiilk-man!"

There is a varient where aunty Mary’s avin’ it off with Graaaaa-ndad.

1. A crap talking bear, who mimes the words of a tape that you insert him, like in Videodrome.
2. The nickname given to Linda when her sister kindly told half the school that Linda used to masturbate by inserting the leg of her teddy bear into her Fred Quimby.
Although it wasn't a Teddy Ruxpin bear, the idea of the bear chattering away about a fairy tale world of princesses and love - as though he was some intense state of denial about what his leg was doing - only enhanced the image.

Fifty first years on an exchange trip to St Malo, France. Forty nine packs of porno cards purchased from Mount St-Michel (fruity Silverstone didnt want any.) Turns out the 'girls' are a collage of body parts from an aray of Europe's hairiest women. Coming home the coach gets pulled over to be searched at Calais. The ensuing panic causes the vast bulk of said fetish cards end up in Ryan Slattery's bag.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall when Mrs Slattery unpacks her son's bag to discover she'd wasted 12 years of life raising a kleptomaniac pervert.
Three months later a copy of Big 'n Bouncy is hidden under Ryan Slattery's pillow, reducing a now desolate and despairing Mrs S to tears.