| Report for s field | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 11 |
| Rejected stories (hidden) | 15 |
| Deleted stories (hidden) | 4 |
| Summary | Could Try Harder |
Exceptionally large holdalls manufactured by Head were briefly fashionable in the late 1980s and early 1990s. From their "classic" look - a base blue colour with red lettering - the bags became so popular that they started making pink ones for girls and fluorescent ones for wankers.
The inside of a Head bag was so vast that nobody could hope to fill it with legitimate school supplies, but was the perfect size for us to incarcerate any first year pupil who happened to own one of the bags. A twist of a paperclip would lock the zip, and a good kicking would be applied for luck. After lunch it was common to see at least one squirming mound of lurid PVC in the middle of the playground.
The inside of a Head bag was so vast that nobody could hope to fill it with legitimate school supplies, but was the perfect size for us to incarcerate any first year pupil who happened to own one of the bags. A twist of a paperclip would lock the zip, and a good kicking would be applied for luck. After lunch it was common to see at least one squirming mound of lurid PVC in the middle of the playground.
An unsolveable enigma, a confounding mystery a poo conundrum. Based on a time when an orderly queue of some twenty or so pupils had formed outside our boys’ toilets, eager to steal a glimpse of the wonder within. Somebody or something had somehow managed to deposit a spectacularly healthy looking stool, right at the absolute, trigonometrically-perfect-epicentre of the large tiled floor. This wondrous turd-column was 10 metres away from any wall, appeared to have suffered no impact-collapse from its deposition on the floor and was unaccompanied by wee-wee or any other form of calling cards. The party responsible was never found. After weeks of analysis we failed to identify anyone bright enough to work out the maths involved, or, thoughtful enough to have carried out such a needlessly well-considered act of dirty genius. It was a poo conundrum.
I also recall a wimpy special that was available for public consumption for a short time in Birmingham ... 'The Big Bender in a Bun'. Thankfuly it was served on a real plate and could be consumed with a real knife and fork. Greedily shovelling a whole bender into your face would have been a little... gay.
(Why you chose to put this under Terrance Trent D'Arby is beyond me, but thanks for sharing, Stephan - Log)
(Why you chose to put this under Terrance Trent D'Arby is beyond me, but thanks for sharing, Stephan - Log)
A method of protecting your favoured place in a canteen. A pritt-stick, lid off, was hurled to the ceiling directly above your chair. The threat of non-toxic adhesive looming ever above would deter any pretenders to your plastic throne.
Leaving you to sit under it, instead. A mixed blessing.
Leaving you to sit under it, instead. A mixed blessing.
I have heard that the female participant should have a mouth chock-full of jizzum ready for when the male participant offers her his gift. It is said that the ensuing mix of bodily fluids affords a far more appealing 'rainbow' effect.
Small multi-couloured puffed sugar rice. On sale at the breaktime tuck shop for 5p a bag. Contained enough E-Numbers to fell a mechanical horse. Guaranteed to induce raging spasms, violent behaviour, and epileptic fits in anyone fortunate enough to try some. And that's before you even get started on the name.
Just a fairly shit – if charming - insult song; sung to the tune from the Pet Shop Boy's hit single 'Go West'.
Pascal, wrestles grizzly bears.
Pascal, in the open air.
Pascal, in his underwear.
Pascal, that's why we don't care.
If we were really so indifferent to Pascal’s habits, however, it’s odd that we spent so much time singing about how much we didn’t care.
Pascal, wrestles grizzly bears.
Pascal, in the open air.
Pascal, in his underwear.
Pascal, that's why we don't care.
If we were really so indifferent to Pascal’s habits, however, it’s odd that we spent so much time singing about how much we didn’t care.
Something the hard lads at school devoted much time and effort to achieve. By vigorously rubbing the skin on the back of your hand with a two pence piece (tails down was best) you could friction-burn away the top few layers of skin. When repeated enough times this would lead to a much-admired thick brown scab about a cm wide and up to an inch long. One of the more unhinged hard knocks at my school had perfected this art to such a degree that both his lower forearms came to resemble Tony the Tiger's hind legs ... At the time it made no sense either.
"Go ape shit", to spazz-out, have a benny, throw a wobbler. Extreme versions include "ape shit crazy on all fours" (Stephen Fry) and "ape shit on toast".
Someone severeley lacking in co-ordination, motor-ability and self-control (an Arch-Deacon). Once identified you must approach, force your tounge into your lower lip (as ever), slap your left wrist with the back of your right hand and shout "duuurrrr... watch breaker".
The Midland Bank's least kudos-bequeathing playground fashion accessory, which doubled as (someone else's) curling stone during icy winters.
In hindsight I wish there had been a branch of NatWest closer to home - those shitty pottery pigs they doled out go for a minty bundle nowadays.
In hindsight I wish there had been a branch of NatWest closer to home - those shitty pottery pigs they doled out go for a minty bundle nowadays.