A club to which new or stupid pupils were told it was desirable to belong to. Membership was obtained by standing on one of the wooden benches which marked the boundary between boys and girls recreation areas and shouting 'I am a cunt!'
Your status within the club was determined by the number of shouts achieved. For instance a 25-cunter obviously outranked a 12-cunter. The shouts had to be audible to a panel of judges who stood at a safe distance.
Iain Grant's claim to be a hundred-cunter was dismissed as it was achieved outside school hours. If a teacher was on playground duty each shout counted as a shout and a half for scoring purposes.
The highest verified status was Mark Jeffries' 43-cunter and the lowest was for a shout of 'I am' followed by a punch in the stomach.
Rival clubs, such as 'I am a Bastard' and the boundary-stretching 'I am a fucking cunt' never really caught on.

For the education of those who do not know what stink palming is--
Brodie: You stink-palm him.
TS:Stink-palm?
Brodie: You take your hand and you stick it in your ass. You been walking' all day and you're nervous, so you'll be sweaty as hell... You shake hands with the guy. 'Hey, Mr.. Svening. How've you been ?'
TS:What's the point?
Brodie:You know how long it takes for that smell to come off? Scrub all you like, it'll stick around for two days. How does he explain it to his colleagues and family? They'll think he doesn't know how to wipe his ass.
TS:Meanwhile, you are left with A hand that smells like shit.
Brodie:Small price to pay... For the smiting of one's enemies.
(I've begrudgingly put this up, but I'm still not going to acknowledge that dad up a chimney is a scene out of Gremlins, so STOP TELLING ME, I KNOW)

One would shout this, extremely loudly at passing wasps. If they flew away, one would assume they had in fact gone home to fuck their mothers.

With the advent of affordable pocket calculators (and pre "Daley Thompson's Decathlon") we devised a game of Track and Field that could be played anywhere, but usually in Maths lessons.

The game was a race to 100 on your calculator, by pressing '1++' and then the 'equals' key.

Longer events did take place but the '100m' was always a favourite.

Dean Parkinson wasn't very smart. At age 11 he smoked in order to deliberately stunt his growth, because he wanted to be a jockey - that kind of not very smart. One day in Year 7 Chemistry he had a firecracker and his lighter, and was seeing just how close he could get the flame to the wick before it would light. An admirable experiment conducted by a scientific mind, but one with only one final outcome: he did find out how close the flame had to be, and the wick began to spark. Only then did Dean realise that you can't really let off firecrackers in the middle of class without the teacher noticing. In a panic, Dean quickly shoved the cracker inside his school blazer and wrapped his arms across his chest. Three seconds later he was jolting and jumping in his seat, accompanied by a loud fizzing, whooshing noise. After enduring a few seconds of unpleasantness, he opened his blazer and the cracker fizzed and sputtered across the room. The last I remember was a gently smouldering Dean being led away by a rather cranky Chemistry teacher.

Oh, he also once stuck a metal ruler inside the ventilation grid of an overhead projector while the teacher found the next slide. An amazing crunchy clank as the fan ground to a halt, followed by billowing black smoke, and the teacher revised his decision to keep Dean at the front of the room to keep an eye on him.

What a load of f**king crap this is- you bunch of white honkie crackers! I bet you're all fudge packing nancy boys!

I'm regretting showing you the site at all now, mum. Conor.

New pet adopted by Mrs Reeve's class following the sad demise of the elderly Bobby. Tragically killed on his first time out of the cage after being trodden on by promising ballerina Victoria Robinson.

Please don't take this entry as an invitation to tell us about any adult bumshits you done or done see. So, if you found a poo while working for the Guardian (nice story, thanks), or simply crimped off a monster this morning and wanted to share (thanks, * Penski), they probably won't make it in.
Take it to the Forum.

A hobby less exciting and dynamic than train spotting. Peter and Kenneth had notebooks packed with bus registration numbers which they'd show us if we feigned interest for a fraction of a second.
How Kenneth got into bus spotting was actually a charming story. "I remember seeing a book bus outside my window when I was five and it was all painted and I just started liking busses". Aw.

I fell for a similar thing, only sort of reversed. When I was a wee thing, my family had a record of songs from Disney's Jungle Book. On the front cover there was a photo of a boy about my age, reading the book in question, surrounded by loads of stuffed Disney toys. All my relatives (especially dotty old aunts) used to think I was a cute little thing and would point to the picture on the front of this record, and say "ooh, look, that's you there! Yes, it is! Oh yes, that's you" etc. I swear I used to sit for hours staring at this photo, utterly convinced it was in fact me, racking my brains trying to remember having this photo taken...