Trying to laugh without making a noise is a misunderstood and difficult art, much like referees running backwards. It proved too much for five-year-old Richard Knightley, who, upon being told of the colour of Wendy Jones's pants, tried too hard to keep it in and emitted the kind of grunt rarely heard outside of a West Country swine pen.

The result was extraordinary. Layer upon layer of creamy green goodness, dispensed from a nostril into his cupped hands like so much Mr Whippy, before the poor sod was escorted from the class to see the nurse with all around him staring in wonderment and disbelief. Where it came from, we would never know. But the Gush had been born, and we knew we would never be the same again.