An alternative spelling that makes an inoffensive word even less offensive. Even adds an eccentric charm. No-one could be upset if you suggested that they didn't have a willie.

Helen, 11, flung the door of the girls' toilets open and leaned on the door frame dramatically, like a snot-nosed Blanche Dubois. "I've started..." she breathed, as we flocked around her, evincing awe and concern. In first year secondary, it is de rigeur to falsely announce the commencement of one's menstrual cycle in such a fashion. The tampons handed out by the school nurse, however, will mainly be used as missiles, or eyed doubtfully and thrown in the bin.

A friend and I invented "Willy Pads", which we created from some Sellotape, unravelled cotton wool and a Kleenex. We then took the boys in our class aside one by one, explained to them that blood would soon be coming out of the end of their penis once a month, and offered them "Willy Pads" at 2p a throw. It was difficult enough for the girls to comprehend the glamorous affliction of red weewee, and the boys showed no interest at all. One boy had found tampons in his mum's cupboard and cried bitterly because he thought it meant he was going to get a new baby brother.

The Willy Worms were football playing penises with faces. They were born in an art lesson when we were instructed to draw a picture of a disaster. Stephen Lodziak opted for a pen and ink rendering of 50,000 people trying to get into the 9,000 capacity Abbey Stadium for a Queen concert and being crushed to death, Hillsborough-style. Despite this, the disaster was that a boy in the foreground, arriving late for the gig, had fallen off his bike and grazed his knee slightly. While Stephen was in the toilet the rest of us added an impromptu rendering of The Willy Worms having a kickaround to the exisiting masterpiece. When our exceptionally camp teacher Mr Salisbury came over to assess our work, he looked at Stephen's picture, put a comforting arm around his shoulder and with a weak smile said "Are you feeling better now?"

The repetitive monotony of this game in no way prevented us from playing it day in, day out, for two solid years.
An early warning system in his face (when stifling anger, he would hold his breath, and go bright purple) allowed you to take cover before the metal-legged chairs went airborne.
Once game ended in the smashing of two BBC Model Bs and a printer. After that, we really had to raise our game.

Spackers on the Variety Club Sunshine Bus, whose slumped heads and lolling tongues would bang into the window as it went over bumps. Taste the sky mungo, taste the sky!

A chap I knew at school put an advert in the local paper for an open-to-all wine and cheese evening at the private residence of Johnny Rogers, our head of sixth-form.

Imagine Johnny's surprise when three couples he didn't know interrupted his viewing of Top Gear by knocking at his door clutching Cabernet Sauvignon and a few pounds of Stilton.

I'd like to think he invited them in and made some new friends, but I suspect the world just doesn't work that way.

An ancient and well-regarded discipline of Kung Fu. As a close range system of combat, spinning and high kicks do not feature heavily. As such, a shit way of impressing your friends, even disregarding the partially accurate story that it was invented by a one-armed nun.

Supply teacher filling in for a history class picks on Leroy, the only black pupil in the room and asks "why was Winston Churchill famous?"
I can imagine she was expecting a response along the lines of "Prime Minister during WW2", but Leroy's actual response "he was the only white guy ever to be called Winston" left her genuinely impressed.

This needs to be pictured. Of a sudden, someone might touch your arm and announce 'Wobble!' whereupon everyone in your vicinity would simultaneously jump away from you, dance up and down and sing the title music to Captain Pugwash over and over again until you managed to touch someone else. Clearly elements of 'tig' are involved, but the inclusion of a sea shanty is somewhat more obscure.

How are you supposed to know that a word isn't acceptable? If your dad stroked the hair gently around your mother's face, and cooed "gargle my balls in Listerine, you grotesque slag", you'd grow up thinking that it was a loving and romantic thing to say.

So when my grandfather called our battery powered stereo with Dolby and auto-stop cassette functionality a "wogbox", with no hatred or racism in his voice, we didn't bat an eyelid. "Slap some Paul Young on the wogbox," we'd yell out the windows. "Turn up the wogbox, I'm trying to dance over here."

Wogbox. To this day, it's a word that's frequently leaps into my mouth. I'm painfully politically correct by nature, and I hate that I'm not supposed to say it. It's such a great word. "I'm not racist, but wogbox Wogbox WOGBOX. Wogbox." Thank you.

Be prepared for any occasion when a teacher is about to break into one of those "I'm aware that blah blah, but you can't just blah blah" lectures. The wind will be taken out of her sails if you shout "WOLF!" as soon as she says "I'm aware".

The class can then have a heated Q & A session with the teacher about what it's like to be a werewolf, and how she caught lycanthropy.

It's a gay thing. After taking your man doggie style, then proceed to reign him with bacon rind (or other appropriate unpleasant item). On reaching climax tug hard on the reigns, your partner will puke and his sphincter will tighten around your phallus - resulting in a hightened orgasm. Apparently.

Quite simply, our Health Education teacher pointed to a diagram of a penis on the board, and exclaimed "The foreskin." One poor child remarked: "What's a foreskin? I haven't got a foreskin." The teacher was sympathetic, the kids less so. The teacher explained this was normal. However, when he the pointed on the diagram to the testicles, only to be met by the boy's increasing confusion: "What are testicles? I haven't got any testicles", the whole class lost all control of their senses. Womble, or "One-Ball", was created to celebrate this day. It turned out that he was telling the truth. It was carnage down there.

An unusual case of knowledge bullying. Using limited electrical know-how, you might be convinced that by standing on a wooden chair, you are free to stick scissors into a mains socket then turn it on. The reason you're going to be OK is because the electricity wil have nowhere to go, as you are not earthed. This is a lie.

Sinister Woodwork teacher Mr Easton had, in his out-of-bounds 'dangerous tools' cupboard, an array of false wooden arms in various poses that he would place inside his right jacket sleeve so he had a free hand to crack one off unnoticed.

The myth extended to his after-school lawn bowling club where, apparently, frequent acts of consenting wooden-armed sodomy took place.

An appropriate name for teachers who have had a mastectomy. Children just learning about pirates will assume that any lost limbs are instantly replaced with a wooden facsimile. The usefulness or feasibility of a wooden tit should never be called into question.

What we used to shout at Dawn, the hybrid of dog, cow and whore who moved to our estate when I was 13. She got off with all "our" blokes because she'd let them finger her, and we wouldn't.

Girls! Why not initiate an "arms race" of availability to boys? If a girl is letting fingers in, offer oral. If someone's having fanny sex with rubbers, pull him from her, whisper "it's better without" and jam them, unprotected, into your arsehole. Before you know it, armies of sexually liberated girls will be dragging themselves around on their woo-woos and war will be over. At least until someone from another estate moves in and starts getting boys because she's all prim and unavilable, the stuck-up cunt.

The shortest most descriptive term for the sounds a deaf person makes when undergoing an orgasm.

I think this is like an 'organic' version of the old McDonalds urban myth.
James Basham worked on a farm for work experience, which involved a lot of working alone.
One day at the farm, he had a wank in a greenhouse.
I blame David Cameron, meself.

The philanthropic children who check the perimeter of the gravel playground for worms who have become stranded, and are in dire peril of being trodden on. Worms are picked up and delivered promptly back to sweet diggable grass. Particularly dedicated worm patrollers may kiss the worms. This makes the worms happier.

A demonstration that people with the 'r to w' speech impediment seem hopelessly drawn to alliterative phrases. 'Sir, what are these?' 'They're wusty wivvets, boy' Reacted badly to continued ridicule when we were faced with the terrifying prospect of his "wwath".