The Law of the Playground
the letter t
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Strange club with only two members, the Doctor and the Assistant. The Doctor would perform 'operations' which - curiously - everyone willingly queued up for. His tools were a compass (for incision) and Tipp-Ex (for 'healing'). When the operation was over you had to say 'ta'. Hence the name of the club.
approved Nov 24 2002, submitted Nov 24 2002 by Jake Denham
"Ta ra ra bum di ay,
my knickers flew away,
They came back yesterday,
Ta ra ra bum di ay."
This unusual narrative casts aside the traditional form of beginning, middle, end, by leaving out the middle section that can be so boring to people with low attention spans. The knickers are gone - the knickers are back. However, the repetition of the first line in the last reminds us that it is a constant cycle, and no sooner have one person's knickers returned, than another pair have flown away.
approved Dec 10 2002, submitted Nov 24 2002 by Jon Blyth
"Ta ra ra bum di ay, teacher did a trump today, She blew the school away, we had a holiday..."
approved Nov 24 2002, submitted Nov 24 2002 by Kev Williams
"Ta ra ra bum di ay
I wet my pants today
What will my mother say?
Ta ra ra bum di ay"

She'd probably say "put them in the washing machine you disgusting little pikey". Or simply sigh and look a bit sad while inwardly worrying about her child's lack of bladder control.
approved Apr 15 2005, submitted Feb 15 2004 by Nick Platt
What dicks taste like, according to a file we found on the school network during Computer Science one week.
approved Dec 15 2002, submitted Dec 14 2002 by Dupli Citous
The photography darkroom became home to Michael Steele's pornography stash (second roof tile along on the right) and after-hours masturbation club. That was until he discovered that his entire collection had gone missing, and that every word spoken in the darkroom could be heard in the staff room next door. Headmaster - ton of bricks - you get the story.
approved Nov 24 2002, submitted Nov 24 2002 by Harry Grout
During a school field trip, one of our number (who was already cursed with the name Matthew Winkle) went to the toilet for an excessively long time. When quizzed about the duration of his visit, he claimed to have been 'talking to Frostie' - Paul Frost being a fellow pupil. 'Talking to Frostie' has thus become a euphemism for masturbation, with such derivatives as 'shouting at Frostie' and 'being ignored by Frostie' unfortunate - but natural - consequences.
approved Nov 24 2002, submitted Nov 24 2002 by Loz
Posh and less patriotic version of British Bulldog. One person started as the "catcher" and everyone else had to get from one side of playing area to the other. To catch someone you had not only to dob/tag/touch them, but to pin their shoulders to the ground by all means necessary for 3 seconds, thus increasing the potential for face-to-face spittle flecked mania from the more frustrated.
approved Nov 24 2002, submitted Nov 24 2002 by Leo Farthing
Without entering into the class divide, anyone running across a field screaming Tally Ho! is begging for beating round are way. Then again, I did sing "Great minds think alike, do they not, my friend?" without getting beaten up, so perhaps Comps were more tolerant than I remember.
approved Nov 24 2002, submitted Nov 24 2002 by Jon Blyth
When we were 14, and after much pleading, me and a friend managed to persuade a naive Tamara to show us her left breast on the way home. As it was my first glipmse of live female flesh my groin responded as only it knew how. By lunchtime the next day my public erection had made it round the school, although the tit flashing element had been conveniently left out of the story.
Even in my final year, it wasn't unusual for a 12 year old girl to run away from me in the corridor screaming 'run, it's the sex addict!!'.
approved Sep 30 2003, submitted Aug 20 2003 by the mysterious watters
Tango Advertising Boardroom, 1993
Exec A : What's Tango like?
Exec B : Dunno. Orangey.
Exec C : It's more than just Orangey, my friend. It's got zizz, it's got zazz. The bubbles suck up your tongue like the kisses of goldfish.
Exec B : Oh, stop it. You always get carried away like this.
Exec C : It's an experience, a lifestyle. It's a path, a method. A liquid universe with CO2 planets constantly being created and destroyed. It's a cosm.
Exec A : I'll get some coffee.
Exec B : No, stay. Please.
Exec C : It attacks you. It gets onto all fours behind you while its friend pushes you over it. It bites you during a kiss. It slaps its hands over your ears.
Exec B : Ha. We used to do that at school. It was funny.
Exec A : Didn't it hurt?
Exec B : Dunno. Never had it done to me. Did it to the fat kid, though. Ha. Fat kids. Haha.
Exec C : So that's it. We get a fat bloke, and he slaps this guy over the ears. The guy is drinking Tango.
Exec B : Haha. Fat bloke. Let's paint him orange. Then he'd look like an orange, all fat and orange.
Exec C : You're on fire, Jeremy.
The advert was banned, when parents complained that their children had been sent deaf by thousands of copy-cat ear-slappings around the country. Tango's attempts to distance themselves from this "dangerous" behaviour were damaged by the fact that the children were shouting "YOU'VE BEEN TANGO'D" as they did it.
See the revised version of the advert at Absolutely Andy. It's some way down the page, so search for "Tango".
approved Jul 14 2004, submitted Mar 20 2004 by Name Withheld, Jon Blyth
Nickname bestowed upon George Cornish after he managed to nick roughly half of the contents of the Imperial War Museum's gift shop, using only his trouser and blazer pockets to stash the booty.

Although why anyone would want to steal powdered egg or a pencil sharpener shaped like a nazi is a mystery.
approved Nov 4 2003, submitted Sep 17 2003 by Jon N
A chant from the glorious summer of 76/77.
What d'yer think of Tarzan undies?
Do they scare yer?
Do they scare yer?
approved Dec 10 2002, submitted Nov 24 2002 by Eval Sabino
This method of attack on the dignity of fellow pupils progressed thus:
1. Creep up behind intended victim.
2. Place your hands either side of victim's mouth and pull.
3. To compliment the now mongish expression on said victim's face, shout out "TATEY FACE!" in a Joey Deacon-esque voice.
4. Depending on size of victim relative to self, either pause to bask in the approval of your peers, or run like fuck.
approved Apr 23 2005, submitted Nov 1 2003 by Adam Nelmes
Enjoy this attempt at catharsis from Miss b, who uses The Law of the Playground as a forum for a very public apology to her spud-headed daughter.

Oh my good god! My poor beautiful daughter I'm soooo sorry! As a baby we nicknamed her Tatie Kate, and it dogged her through school. At 17 years old and with the face and figure of a goddess she still gets called it by everyone. I honestly don't know what to say.
approved Dec 3 2005, submitted Nov 23 2005 by Name Withheld
At Shortlanesend Junior School, Cornwall, when you had farted you said 'Taxi' while putting your thumb on your forehead. There were no recriminations or other rules - this was really just a badge of pride in case anyone hadn't heard/smelt the guff. You were really saying: 'I've farted! Woo-hoo!'
approved Nov 24 2002, submitted Nov 24 2002 by Iain Mason
A song which was inexplicably sung by Robin B on several occasions at school, accompanied by a bongo-style drumming on his nipples:-
"Tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tchaikovskeeee;
Here he comes, banging his drums."
approved Dec 14 2002, submitted Dec 13 2002 by Dupli Citous
Is that not in some way derived from a song that Bruno, the fabulously permed keyboard spanker from Fame, played about Mr. Shorofsky, his music teacher?
The song in question is featured in the episode "A Musical Bridge" from Season One. Another episode where Bruno agonises over writing music when Montgomery tries to persuade him to cash in on his ability to produce "a mindless cacophony" (Sho-Sho-Sho-Shorofsky, Do The Gimme That).
I didn't just know that, by the way. I looked it up. - Ponky
approved Jun 30 2005, submitted Jun 28 2005 by Drew Styles
In the days before Madonna got her whamblers out willy nilly, a picture of her chebs carried top-rank cachet. When presented with a grubby page ripped out of the Sunday Sport of Madonna, chebs akimbo, it became my avowed mission to show everyone in the class.
As the Queen of Pop's paps were returned to me, our teacher, who shall be known as Mrs X, demanded to know what was going on, and that I bring the paper to her. This is a classic scene, we all know it.
Whilst huffing and looking hard-done-by, I managed to secrete another shred of newspaper from my bag and take that to her instead.
Unfortunately, my plan was rumbled and I was moved to the front of the class.
The walk of shame was crappy enough, but when that fat bitch Mrs X went to my bag to try and see what I was really passing around, I was outraged; that was my bag. It was bag rape. Plus it had my Maddybaps in.
I sprinted to the back of the class to intercept her, and we locked horns in an ugly tug-o-war. Panicked, I gave one almighty heave and Mrs X went sprawling backwards, legs everywhere. Her mood wasn't improved when Isaac Martin yelled "fucking hell, you can see her snatch".
Although threatened with expulsion, I was eventually just made to copy out chapters of a science book, in the technician's room with the stuffed albatross and the terrapins. I can't see a terrapin to this day without thinking of Madonna's tits and my teacher's fanny.
approved Oct 21 2004, submitted Dec 12 2003 by Anthony Williams
Teacher Teacher, I declare,
I can see your underwear.

A memorable opening couplet to a piece of junior school playground poetry. There was undoubtedly more to this rhyme, but I can't recall it. Anyone who can supply the missing lines will have my eternal gratitude, as its keeping me awake at nights thinking about it.
approved May 8 2003, submitted Mar 21 2003 by Matt Fasham
We break up we break down,
We dont care if the school burns down,
No more English, No more French,
No more sitting on the old school bench.
Teacher, Techer, I declare,
I can see your underwear,
Is it black or is it white,
Or is it made of dynamite?
I think thats it, possibly in that order.
approved Oct 2 2003, submitted Aug 9 2003 by Tim Browning
School magazine time! It's almost the end of term of Year 12, so this self-published effort needs to be an absolute cracker.

Step 1.
Gather your material, making sure that every single satirical article, poem and/or cruel caricature targets the pathetic maths teacher Mr Wills. Don't forget to poke fun at him specifically for his shitty breath, his weight, his psoriasis-afflicted scalp, his alcohol problem, his cheap clothes, his overactive sweat glands, his effeminate girly voice and the open secret that his wife left him for a hotel manager. Don't hold back! Really go to town.

Be bloody, bold and resolute, ruthlessly suppressing any qualms you might have about the ethics of kicking this fragile shell of a man to death.

Step 2.
Print magazine, distribute on the second-last day of school, enjoy minor sensation caused. Get called up with your fellow Oscar Wildes to the headmaster's office for a half-hearted bollocking in which the headmaster more or less agrees that Mr Wills is a complete fucking loser, and why did you have to go after the poor man like that?

Step 3.
Find out the following year that Mr Wills took early retirement. See him a year or so after that in your local shopping centre, three times his previous size, barely able to walk, face covered in blotchy scabs, wearing stained tracksuit pants, pushing a slab of Diet Coke along in a trolley and looking forlorn, abandoned, and utterly, utterly collapsed.

Step 4.
Feel guilty for the rest of your life.
approved Nov 8 2011, submitted Nov 8 2011 by anonymous user
Every school has these, so a brief rundown of Arnold Hill; Mr Heeley, made to cry after relentless taunts about his sexuality. As you can imagine, this didn't help the situation at all. Mr Manicom, who returned to work full of life after a kidney operation, to find that children had become no kinder or more understanding, and died weeks later. Mrs Greaves was a balding woman, which was curious enough to be commented upon, again and again (although we were too young to think of "chemo-sabe" as a cunning nickname - that came later).
approved Nov 24 2002, submitted Nov 24 2002 by Jon Blyth
Arnold Hill, Nottingham; Mr Bunting was a PE teacher with a triple whammy of lampoonable afflictions; a monobrow, a lisp and a spazzy finger. His song went, to the tune of Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye;
Bunting,
Bunting's Eyebrows,
Bent Finger,
VALUABLphffhfpth.
Bunting-baiting had a brief renaissance when we overheard someone with a Japanese accent pronounce his name "Mr Bum King".
approved Apr 28 2005, submitted Nov 2 2004 by anonymous user
I will never forget that sunny afternoon our Geography teacher Mr Bridges left our class to collect an armful of textbooks. Much hilarity ensued when we realised he hadn't come back and it was 10 minutes to home time.

I suppose if we'd have tried to find him we probably could've helped prevent his heart attack on the stairs. Or at least seen a dead body.
approved Aug 10 2006, submitted Aug 9 2005 by Maddsy Madds
A question for Mr Wilson. Did you really think it was a good idea to leave teaching in order to pursue a career as a plain-clothes store detective? WH Smith must have lost more money than usual, as hordes of your ex-pupils descended upon the shop en masse to grab handfuls of booty, often to wave it triumphantly at you before fleeing, leaving you open mouthed and crestfallen.
I only hope you are happier now in your role as proprietor of the local "Mr Minit" key cutting and shoe repair emporium.

Over to you, Mr Wilson. No, it was a Yale, you twit. That's a shoe. - Matt
approved Jun 14 2007, submitted Feb 5 2007 by anonymous user
The greatest open goal nervy French teacher Mrs Redwood ever gifted me was sending me out of the class with the parting shot "...and don't come back until you're ready to work." So naturally, I went home.
With hindsight, I wish I'd had the vision to realise the gag's full potential and never come back.
approved Jul 12 2006, submitted May 27 2006 by Drew Styles