| Report for Alana S | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 7 |
| Rejected stories | 3 |
| Deleted stories (hidden) | 6 |
| Summary | Could Try Harder |
The Geography department's Scrap Paper box.
The Guff Trumpet: Take one trumpet, guff with vigour into the horn end, and "play" it at other pupils. Be careful not to inhale.
Christ, either that was my school or there are two Milky Bar Grandads out there. At the end of the Milky Bar song one person would shout "It's...!" and the rest of the class would then have to chorus (in an inexplicable Yorkshire/Open All Hours accent) "...the Milky Bar Grandad!" as loudly as fucking possible. He loved us, Mr Travers.
At the age of eight, we managed to convince pikey Sophie James that having an orgasm was a terrible thing, by admonishing "Don't have an orgasm, Sophie" every time she showed the slightest hint of excitement. After about the millionth time, the phrase would set her off into a monumental tantrum: she'd screech, stamp her feet, bellow "I HAVEN'T HAD AN ORGASM!", and run off to cry in the toilets.
Fifteen years later, I can't help wondering if she still does this when her boyfriend asks her "Did you come, dear?"
Fifteen years later, I can't help wondering if she still does this when her boyfriend asks her "Did you come, dear?"
Futuristic suffix, essential in games involving robots or Daleks.
Usage: put on a metallic voice and declare "I. AM. ALANATRON. EX. TER. MIN. ATE." A warning to people whose names rhymed with Tron, though. "I. AM. JOHN. TRON." makes you sound like a bit of a gaybot, marks you out as a target for ex. sperm. in. ation.
Tron making regular objects sound futuristic and robotic, it's arguable that William's arcade game Robotron 2024 was gilding the lily a touch.
Usage: put on a metallic voice and declare "I. AM. ALANATRON. EX. TER. MIN. ATE." A warning to people whose names rhymed with Tron, though. "I. AM. JOHN. TRON." makes you sound like a bit of a gaybot, marks you out as a target for ex. sperm. in. ation.
Tron making regular objects sound futuristic and robotic, it's arguable that William's arcade game Robotron 2024 was gilding the lily a touch.
"You can't hit me on my BCG," declared my younger sister confidently, "it's too small."
I fucking could. First try. YES.
I fucking could. First try. YES.
A vaginal fart. Also useful for attracting the attention of Keith, who will say "what?" Hilarity will be waiting just around the corner.
What Mr Field, science teacher with a speech impediment, bollocked Jason Butchers for doing in the toilets. He meant gobbing, but poor ginger Jason wasn't the sharpest tool in the box and hadn't a clue what he'd done wrong (neither had anyone else). Mr Field then bollocked him for looking mystified, which goes to prove a fundamental rule of school existence: teacher fucks up, you get the blame.
Maths teacher Mr Veevers is the source of no amusing stories, but has lent his name in perpetuity to the V-sign. Most of my class failed algebra because we spent every lesson flicking the veevers at Veevers's back.
This is entirely irrelevant, but I love the phrasing of "Should the present Monarch pass away", with its implications that Liz 2 might be immortal. Long live the Queen!