| Report for Phil Glansvile | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 36 |
| Pending stories (hidden) | 1 |
| Rejected stories (hidden) | 1 |
| Deleted stories (hidden) | 6 |
| Summary | Reprehensible Swot |
Maths teacher Mr Worth (nicknamed 'The Goat' as a result of his ridiculous 'beard but no moustache' facial hair) once enjoyed giving the class a severe bollocking so much that he appeared to develop a *very small* erection. This inevitably led us to the conclusion that The Goat's Plod was a gigantic worm like creature that would chase fourth formers around the quad. Fortunately the Plod could only move at a slow speed so if you stayed on your guard it was usually possible to avoid it until some other poor fellow became the object of its attentions. And how do you notify one of your peers that the Plod has set its sights on them? With this simple exchange: "It's after you." "What is?" "The Goat's Plod." The colour naturally drains from the victim's face, and they immediately become hyper-sensitive to peripheral noise and motion. And who could blame them -- not many boys would enjoy being buggered by a maths teacher's gigantic rogue penis.
Looking at "fuck fuck willy willy wank wank piss" reminded me of a phrase I concocted in those 'fuck the system' times everyone has in the fifth form. The phrase, scribbled in red felt-tip pen in my history exercise book, was MOOQUACKAPOOTOOWEEWILLYPLOP* which is as rousing a cry to revolution as the masses have ever heard. Shortly afterwards many of my friends found God and stopped indulging in such puerile behaviour. Remaining heathen and filled with revolutionary fervour, I soon abandoned all pretence of doing history homework, instead decorating the pages of my exercise book with such masterpieces as "ah am de weel tar-zan" and "ziggyziggyzoo". These manifestoes, though beautifully illustrated, did not endear me to the history teacher. * pronounced, naturally enough, as 'moo-quacka-poo-too-wee-willy-plop'
Apparently, in Celtic mythology the goggle-eyed Pissgrabber lurked in the bowls of public toilets, attempting to insert a maths text book up the first arse that appeared. If the victim screamed the Pissgrabber returned to the Headmaster's office.
Also from the song "Wouldn't it, wouldn't it, wouldn't it be funny, If a lady had a wooden tit, Wouldn't it be funny?"
Andrew Sillitoe's voice was the last in our school year to break. It didn't take long before the connection between his wholesome blondness and that of Welsh choirboy Aled Jones was noted. The insult was soon tripled by some genius to Aflid - a nickname that spread like wildfire around the year, causing Sillitoe to cry, and lectures on bullying to be delivered to our entire school year.
Post-university, I bumped into him in London whilst very drunk. He was very friendly and his voice had deepened to Barry White proportions, but that didn't stop my mate Angus calling his mobile later that evening and screaming "AFLIIID!" like some rabid member of S-Express.
Post-university, I bumped into him in London whilst very drunk. He was very friendly and his voice had deepened to Barry White proportions, but that didn't stop my mate Angus calling his mobile later that evening and screaming "AFLIIID!" like some rabid member of S-Express.
Our version was similar:
Jesus Christ, Superstar,
Went round the corner in a Jaguar.
Did a skid, killed a kid,
Chopped off his bollocks on a dustbin lid.
You'll notice that the use of the word "bollocks" improves the metre of the last line, which makes this the definitive version of the tune. And I won't have anyone else say that it's not. Because it is.
Jesus Christ, Superstar,
Went round the corner in a Jaguar.
Did a skid, killed a kid,
Chopped off his bollocks on a dustbin lid.
You'll notice that the use of the word "bollocks" improves the metre of the last line, which makes this the definitive version of the tune. And I won't have anyone else say that it's not. Because it is.
The process of placing fruit into Adrian Thomas' half empty yogurt pots and anonymously leaving them at the back of someone else's locker for days or even weeks. The Culture's crowning glory came when one fell over in self-styled "hard kid" Scott Cornwell's locker and festering strawberry goo was deposited over his stuff.
OK, that's more than enough of that - any more entries to this category and we'll have to send royalties to Lloyd Webber.
Bag Full Of School Dinner.
Almost every lunchtime during the third, fourth and fifth form we made a BFOSD by pretending to eat our school dinners, but in fact each sneaking spoonfuls into a plastic bag. These creatures were then named and taken out to the playing field, where they developed a personality of their own as they were thrown around until they burst - usually on Wayne.
The best BFOSDs tended to be composed of a base of mashed potato, custard and segments of orange, along with other associated foodstuffs. The acidity of the orange was generally believed to curdle the milk in the custard, turning the BFOSD into a stinking near-lethal chemical weapon.
Early BFOSDs tended not to last more than fifteen minutes or so, and required rebagging at frequent intervals if their lifespan was to be increased. Then some genius suggested putting the BFOSD into a sock taken from the PE Block lost property basket, and a whole new era was born.
Putting a BFOSD into a sock meant that, when the plastic bag burst, the mashed-up food that was its very essence did not escape onto the ground. Instead it oozed into the material of the sock, making it very, very unpleasant indeed, but also maintaining the BFOSD's integrity. This meant that, rather than lasting for an hour or so, BFOSDs could last for days or even weeks before the foul stench of rot caused us to discard it.
With the lifespan of the BFOSD extended almost indefinitely, all sorts of shenanigans ensued. The contents of the BFOSD leaked from their M&S terry toweling home at a reasonably restrained pace; school blazers were frequently dotted with stains, but nothing approaching the full-on 1963 Dallas head-shot stains that bursting plastic bags left.
And so the BFOSD managed to live past the lunch hour until after school when they made their way into Walsall town centre - where hilarity inevitably resulted: thrown onto crowded buses, pushed through open office windows, deposited on the shelves of the local Sainsbury's. We behaved in a manner that brought shame to both our school and our families. But we didn't care - we were young rebels blazing through puberty, and we did it with stinking socks in hand.
Almost every lunchtime during the third, fourth and fifth form we made a BFOSD by pretending to eat our school dinners, but in fact each sneaking spoonfuls into a plastic bag. These creatures were then named and taken out to the playing field, where they developed a personality of their own as they were thrown around until they burst - usually on Wayne.
The best BFOSDs tended to be composed of a base of mashed potato, custard and segments of orange, along with other associated foodstuffs. The acidity of the orange was generally believed to curdle the milk in the custard, turning the BFOSD into a stinking near-lethal chemical weapon.
Early BFOSDs tended not to last more than fifteen minutes or so, and required rebagging at frequent intervals if their lifespan was to be increased. Then some genius suggested putting the BFOSD into a sock taken from the PE Block lost property basket, and a whole new era was born.
Putting a BFOSD into a sock meant that, when the plastic bag burst, the mashed-up food that was its very essence did not escape onto the ground. Instead it oozed into the material of the sock, making it very, very unpleasant indeed, but also maintaining the BFOSD's integrity. This meant that, rather than lasting for an hour or so, BFOSDs could last for days or even weeks before the foul stench of rot caused us to discard it.
With the lifespan of the BFOSD extended almost indefinitely, all sorts of shenanigans ensued. The contents of the BFOSD leaked from their M&S terry toweling home at a reasonably restrained pace; school blazers were frequently dotted with stains, but nothing approaching the full-on 1963 Dallas head-shot stains that bursting plastic bags left.
And so the BFOSD managed to live past the lunch hour until after school when they made their way into Walsall town centre - where hilarity inevitably resulted: thrown onto crowded buses, pushed through open office windows, deposited on the shelves of the local Sainsbury's. We behaved in a manner that brought shame to both our school and our families. But we didn't care - we were young rebels blazing through puberty, and we did it with stinking socks in hand.
If your English teacher is named Mrs Bagnall, and she is a right cow, then you can use this "sneeze" to excellent effect.
I have to admit to getting one of these about two weeks after they went out of style. What's worse, my mom bought it for me. And she deliberately chose one sporting the school colours.
With the kind of pretention born of being a selective school in the middle of a shithole, my school insisted that pupils write only using fountain pens. Our revenge for having to use these archaic devices was to flick wet ink trails up the back of Mr Worth's jacket when he bent down to help the kid in front. When the poor bastard switched from his blue-streaked grey jacket to a new navy blue one, we switched to black ink.
The third entry in The Goat series sees Mr Worth bent over helping a kid with some trigonometry problem, while Paul Allen comically pretends to jab him in the arse with the point of his compass... until David Smith shoves Allen hard in the back and the compass connects sharply with the maths teacher's backside. Even if he shaved off his facial hair, Mr Worth would have been forever known as The Goat simply from the noises that ensued.
What not to say when making a prank phone call to a teacher, and your name is Paul Allen.
Jelly cubes - the kind that your mum dissolves in boiling water to make a Sunday treat - can be moistened with spit to make cheap alternatives to those sticky octopuses that crawl down windows, leaving a pleasing smear.
If you're going to throw a paper aeroplane at the French teacher, you might as well make a trip to the art room before the lesson and do it properly.
It *is* pronounced "silly toe", which we exploited in the pre-aflid days by use of the nicknames "sensible finger" and "funny foot".
Graffiti daubed on the school wall, circa 1980 :
Whoever said punk's dead is a Cnut
At least that's what I thought it said. Eight years old and convinced that it was a grave insult to compare someone to the viking king of England (1016-1035).
I tried to explain to my peers that Cnut had been a good king, that the popular myth of him trying to turn back the sea was wrong, and thus this was not a very effective insult. It was about that time that the beatings began.
Whoever said punk's dead is a Cnut
At least that's what I thought it said. Eight years old and convinced that it was a grave insult to compare someone to the viking king of England (1016-1035).
I tried to explain to my peers that Cnut had been a good king, that the popular myth of him trying to turn back the sea was wrong, and thus this was not a very effective insult. It was about that time that the beatings began.
Hevi Sosij - 'Mr Fatgit's Casio Keyboard Compendium' (1988)
Thrill to the sounds of underage drinking in Matt Kitching's garage whilst a bossa nova beat sounds from Hubble's sister's Casio keyboard.
Marked the beginning of my rock n roll lifestyle that has most recently resulted in this.
[log]Any loss of fluids or balance faculties from listening to Phil's own interpretation of music are not the responsibility of The Law of the Playground.[/log]
Thrill to the sounds of underage drinking in Matt Kitching's garage whilst a bossa nova beat sounds from Hubble's sister's Casio keyboard.
Marked the beginning of my rock n roll lifestyle that has most recently resulted in this.
[log]Any loss of fluids or balance faculties from listening to Phil's own interpretation of music are not the responsibility of The Law of the Playground.[/log]
The Spectrum was better than the C64 precisely because it had the horrid colour palette. Because it devoted a pittance of its memory to graphics, the Spectrum was all about getting the most out of the underlying program, and in fact had more processing power than the C64 even though it had 16k less memory.
In summary: C64 games looked nicer, but Spectrum games had more substance to them. Style vs substance is an argument that continues to this very day, and is entirely fuelled by disgruntled Spectrum owners who have yet to relive the glory days of JetPac.
In summary: C64 games looked nicer, but Spectrum games had more substance to them. Style vs substance is an argument that continues to this very day, and is entirely fuelled by disgruntled Spectrum owners who have yet to relive the glory days of JetPac.
Andrew Hubble informed us that he planned to stay awake until midnight and recite the Lord's Prayer backwards in the hopes of conjuring up Beelzebub himself. When he didn't turn up at school the next day we were naturally concerned that Lucifer had stolen poor Andy away, but he'd just overslept, because he'd stayed up past his bedtime on a school night.
By this logic, anyone with the word "love" in their name will have an automatic head start no matter who they're pitched against.
This may explain the hitherto unfathomable popularity of Courtney Love and Jennifer Love Hewitt, who must fancy the pants off one another, the dirty lezzers.
This may explain the hitherto unfathomable popularity of Courtney Love and Jennifer Love Hewitt, who must fancy the pants off one another, the dirty lezzers.
Insult derived from the use of bleach on underwear to remove skid marks. "You've been bleaching again, you dirty bleacher!"
In fairness, I'd rather be accused of bleaching the skids out of my kex than leaving them there to form gold watches. Better still, I suppose, would be to go through school entirely skid free. I can dream, can't I?
In fairness, I'd rather be accused of bleaching the skids out of my kex than leaving them there to form gold watches. Better still, I suppose, would be to go through school entirely skid free. I can dream, can't I?
A 48 hour D&D marathon would not have even charted on the radar of a real "cool gang", and they certainly wouldn't have bothered to get out of bed early to go and disturb it. They'd be too busy sleeping off hangovers or receiving blow jobs from their flesh and blood girlfriends.
Unless, of course, your "cool gang" consisted of a bunch of Robert Smith wannabes who took pleasure in mocking all who did not share their pretentious nihilism. In which case we - I mean you - were most assuredly not cool in the eyes of everyone else.
Unless, of course, your "cool gang" consisted of a bunch of Robert Smith wannabes who took pleasure in mocking all who did not share their pretentious nihilism. In which case we - I mean you - were most assuredly not cool in the eyes of everyone else.
He knew what you were calling him all along. No doubt you migrated to the "Open All Hours" inspired "guh-guh, guh-guh, guh-lanville!" in later years, too. He harbours deep resentment and serious neuroses as a result. Oh, hang on, you said Andrew Glanville. Ah. Yes. Well at least I didn't suffer alone.
I must object to the way you (Log?) edited my submission to read as if I was a member of a "cool" gang of Robert Smith wannabes. I couldn't even make it as a member of that gang; in reality I was unceremoniously dumped by my friends when they "discovered" the Cure, and went back to the charity D&D marathon, notching up an impressive 36 hours before falling victim to Sleep +1. To add insult to injury, I was later ostracised by even the D&D crowd when they discovered the wonders of smoking pot. It's only a matter of time until you pair realise just how tragically sad I really am.
A game so rampantly ubiquitous and with outcomes so predictably unhilarious that it deserves no further mention on a website tagged with the unofficial catchphrase "hilarity ensued".
For the Bulldog obsessed, we offer this humour-free alternative, which not only demonstrates just how unsuitable the subject is for the Law of the Playground, but also how much better we are at this sort of thing than they are. I mean, honestly.
For the Bulldog obsessed, we offer this humour-free alternative, which not only demonstrates just how unsuitable the subject is for the Law of the Playground, but also how much better we are at this sort of thing than they are. I mean, honestly.
Slur to be directed at any classmate with skin a shade or two darker than the WASP majority. Direct with equal voracity at those of African, Indian or Middle Eastern descent.
The outrageous falsity in declaring a Pakistani to be a member of the negroid race is more than made up for by the fact that it rhymes.
The outrageous falsity in declaring a Pakistani to be a member of the negroid race is more than made up for by the fact that it rhymes.
French writer of the early 19th century, famed for his Comédie Humaine.
This was written, of course, so that in later years aspiring young wags could enjoy variations on the following classic wordplay:
Q. Did you get your head around the Balzac?
A. I'd always considered the Balzac a little hairy but once I got a taste of it I couldn't get enough!
La hilarité est ensuivant - Human Comedy indeed.
This was written, of course, so that in later years aspiring young wags could enjoy variations on the following classic wordplay:
Q. Did you get your head around the Balzac?
A. I'd always considered the Balzac a little hairy but once I got a taste of it I couldn't get enough!
La hilarité est ensuivant - Human Comedy indeed.
"Crime and Punishment" by Dostoyevsky features a hen party novelty biscuit destined to scare children. Let it not be said that the Russians are a dour and humourless lot.
'Just fancy, Rodion Romanovitch, we found a gingerbread cock in his pocket. He was coming home dead drunk, but he did not forget the children.'Should your English class wish to recreate this scene, may we humbly suggest the fantastically named Masturbakers as a possible source of phallic fingerfoods? Alternatively, if you bite the arms off a classic gingerbread man, the results will be more than sufficient to cause aunties everywhere to blush.
'A cock? Did you say a cock?' the gentleman from the commissariat cried.
An early example of viral marketing. The people behind Hedgehog crisps, it was rumoured, used real hedgehogs to flavour their snacks. The age-old "well they do taste like chicken when cooked" excuse can be used when sampling a bag of the roast chicken crisps, though this will not get you very far when attempting to explain the distinct lack of hedgehog flavour in the salt and vinegar variety.
9:50am is Cowboy Time. If someone asks you the time, and it is 9:50am, you must tell them that it is Cowboy Time. It's a fair bet that you'll be met with a blank stare, in which case you can launch into the following rendition of the Lone Ranger theme song*
Ten to ten to ten-ten-ten
Ten to ten to ten-ten-ten
Ten to ten to ten-ten-ten
Tennn to ten ten ten
With enough people aware of Cowboy Time, the first lesson of the morning can be turned into a rousing Wild West chorus.
* non-Philistines will of course recognise this as Rossini's William Tell Overture.
Ten to ten to ten-ten-ten
Ten to ten to ten-ten-ten
Ten to ten to ten-ten-ten
Tennn to ten ten ten
With enough people aware of Cowboy Time, the first lesson of the morning can be turned into a rousing Wild West chorus.
* non-Philistines will of course recognise this as Rossini's William Tell Overture.
Belm back at you all; Sweden maintained an offical position of neutrality in WWII while 'secretly' supporting the Nazis. Tony is thus well within his rights to mock them for not standing up to Adolf when England called.
If Mary Poppins had been released in 1934 instead of 30 years later, the unofficial anthem of the SS would surely have been;
Let's go fry a kike
Let's set them all alight
Let's go fry a kike
And send them roaring
Up to the atmosphere
Until the race is clear
Oh let's go fry a kike
This does nothing for the claims that Walt Disney held anti-semitic views. It doesn't really do me any favours, either.
Let's go fry a kike
Let's set them all alight
Let's go fry a kike
And send them roaring
Up to the atmosphere
Until the race is clear
Oh let's go fry a kike
This does nothing for the claims that Walt Disney held anti-semitic views. It doesn't really do me any favours, either.
Ezekiel 23:20 talks about a woman who enjoys the company of lovers who are hung like donkeys and who can ejaculate like horses.
Editor’s note. We were a bit sceptical about this claim, but it turns out that it bloody well does. And how about 23:21? "So you longed for the lewdness of your youth, when in Egypt your bosom was caressed and your young breasts fondled”. Phew! It seems that the whole of Ezekiel 23 is pretty damn filthy. It starts off like the premise of a Tania Russof movie and ends up in a Tarantinoesque bloodbath. The smutty bible-writing perverts.
Editor’s note. We were a bit sceptical about this claim, but it turns out that it bloody well does. And how about 23:21? "So you longed for the lewdness of your youth, when in Egypt your bosom was caressed and your young breasts fondled”. Phew! It seems that the whole of Ezekiel 23 is pretty damn filthy. It starts off like the premise of a Tania Russof movie and ends up in a Tarantinoesque bloodbath. The smutty bible-writing perverts.
At first sight, Louise Elliot is not the most profane name that could be given to a child. Parents with the surname Elliot could generally feel comfortable that naming their baby daughter Louise will leave her safe from ridicule from her peers. It's just ordinary, isn't it?
In the hands of a master japester such as Stephen Foster, however, every single syllable is ripe for scatological sarcasm. And thus your child shall forever be tarred with the monicker Poo Wees Smelly Butt.
I've no idea what Stephen Foster is doing now, but if there's any justice in the world he should be editing books of babies' names to warn parents about just this sort of thing.
In the hands of a master japester such as Stephen Foster, however, every single syllable is ripe for scatological sarcasm. And thus your child shall forever be tarred with the monicker Poo Wees Smelly Butt.
I've no idea what Stephen Foster is doing now, but if there's any justice in the world he should be editing books of babies' names to warn parents about just this sort of thing.