The Law of the Playground
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Our teachers’ admin and staffroom corridor was, for some reason, painted a bright pink. Pupils would occasionally be dragged up for various disciplinary matters.

Fortunately, we were sophisticated and mature enough to appreciate and capitalise on the significant double-entendre opportunities. "Sir had to take her up the pink corridor for a punishment." Teachers could be asked if they were "going up the pink corridor for lunch".
approved Apr 12 2012, submitted Apr 10 2012 by Skid Marx
Generic name given to those crap, plastic unbranded trainers that were sported by remedials, dirty schemers, and one-parent children in the 1980s. They got their name from the price - about 20p - and the fact that they only seemed to be sold by Pakistani gentlemen in their emporia of miscellany. Also known as Borstal Break-outs.
approved Apr 12 2012, submitted Apr 10 2012 by Skid Marx
Fraser Bairstow's arm ended just above his wrist. If you passed a piano, it was therefore an option to thump the keys with the back of your wrist, declaring that you are "Bairstow playing the piano".
approved Jan 23 2012, submitted Jan 9 2012 by Barber Smith
For a further verse:

Down at Happy Shopper,
they're on special offer,
but beware,
Trevor is there
approved Jan 23 2012, submitted Jan 21 2012 by Winter Mute
I would like to share this lovely homage to the '70s hit "Seasons in the Sun" Courtesy: Southfields Infant School, Peterborough.

We had joy, we had fun
Flicking bogeys at the sun
But the sun was too hot
And the bogeys turned to snot
approved Jan 22 2012, submitted Jan 20 2012 by anonymous user
It's the late 70's, it's going home time, and Darren is well impressed by the hard kids leaving the school gates with "AVFC" written on their foreheads in marker pen. Darren thinks it's the finest thing he's ever seen, and asks the lads to write "AVFC" on his forehead too. OK, say the hard kids.

Darren walked home that day with "FUCK OFF DAD" written on his forehead.
approved Jan 3 2012, submitted Dec 27 2011 by Ivan Vasiilevich
The full story behind how a sixty-nine titted lady became boobless? Allow me:

There once was a woman with 69 boobs
(press 69)
which was too, too, too many.
(press 222)
So she went to 51st Street
(press 51)
to see the mysterious Doctor X.
(press the times symbol)
Eight surgeries later
(press 8)
she was completely
(turn the calculator upside down)
approved Jan 3 2012, submitted Jan 1 2012 by anonymous user
An optional "sniff sniff" sound effect may be added between the third and fourth lines.

To create the impression that you are actually getting an intimate faceful of your victim's mother's vagina, lean forwards as you sniff. Otherwise, it's just a basic "phwoo, I can smell it from here".
approved Jan 3 2012, submitted Jan 1 2012 by anonymous user
Erato, The Creature From The Pit, is the Dr Who Penis Monster par excellence - just penis-like enough so that it's unmistakably a massive penis, and just green horror-blob enough so that children could say "why are you laughing, mummy? And why have your fingertips risen to your nipples?"

Here, see for yourself - to the tune of The Spanish Flea.

approved Nov 28 2011, submitted Nov 28 2011 by Jon Blyth
After listening to a fantasist regale us with tall tales, we would sing the theme tune to Storybook International. This was an ITV programme with animated opening titles of a suspiciously elegant bard. His beautiful singing would attract the attention of a fox, until he transformed without warning into a naked black man, scaring the shit out of his vulpine chum. Look, I'm not making this up.

Anyway, when he sings about his name in many countries, that's your opportunity to work in the insult. For example: if Roly claimed that his brother had a fight with Wolf from The Gladiators, you would sing:

I'm the Storyteller and my story must be told,
In Germany I'm Johannes, in England I am John,
In Cheltenham I'm Roly, and I'm a lying cunt.

If the liar was actually called John or, God forbid, Johannes, the last line could simply be repaced by a mongoloid impression, and a celebratory flid flippers dance.
approved Nov 21 2011, submitted May 16 2005 by Andy Mansh
Robert Birrell was an excitable child of short stature with twiglet legs and a tendency to cry easily under pressure. His wholesale lameness worked in his favour, in that it placed him outside the radar of even the most desperate bullies.

Until the day that teacher Miss Belcastro decided to make a big thing of his birthday. She called him out to the front of the class, stood him in front of the blackboard and said "Now everybody, today is a very special day. Today... is... Robert's... birthday!!!"

It was all too much for Robert Birrell. Overcome by the emotion of the moment, on the word "birthday" he leaned forward and projectile vomited.

This of course catapulted him instantly to playground stardom, especially when Alan Blackwood started calling him "Gobbert" in reference to the chunky, spattering sound he'd made during the spew. Within a short time it became customary, upon seeing Gobbert, to yell GOBBERT!!! and punch him hard in the stomach.

No-one said playground stardom was easy or painless.
approved Nov 10 2011, submitted Nov 10 2011 by anonymous user
Lessebo is a locality and the seat of Lessebo Municipality, Kronoberg County, Sweden. It had 2,623 inhabitants in 2005.

It's also the name of the IKEA sofa that your mum likes to sit on when she's making out with Sandy Toksvig.
approved Nov 10 2011, submitted Nov 10 2011 by Jon Blyth
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
The victim (let's call him Ian, for argument's sake, it was always an Ian) would be asked "Do you have a BHI?"

A positive reply would be met with the ear-splitting declaration "Ian has a baldy half-incher!"

Negative replies would be met with the slightly less offensive "What, so you don't have a big hairy invader?" On the whole, we preferred the positive response.
approved Nov 3 2011, submitted Nov 3 2011 by anonymous user
John Whirley had some sort of epilepsy. We discovered that it could be triggered in several ways: shining bright light into his eyes, sneaking up on him and yelling in his ear, and - once - a satchel full of books thrown into his head triggered it. That's serendipity, is that.

During his fits his eyes would roll up into his head, a soft moan would come from inside like he was haunted, then his hands would flutter and rise above his head. Ideally, he'd then pass out and collapse.

Obviously, these were pretty entertaining, and we got to the stage where the demands on Whirley for an eppy were so constant that he'd try to fake them. But he was the only person who'd never seen them, so he was shite at it. Not blowing my own trumpet, but I was much better.
approved Nov 2 2011, submitted Oct 22 2011 by anonymous user
I was the only one with all my stationery, so I was often subject to lending things to people. I'm only human, so the resentment at being considered the class resource for pencils and protractors slowly built up.

One day in maths, my friend leaned over and asked me for a pencil. I replied "Okay, but I sucked on it." This seemed fair - by all means use my equipment, but they shall be marked by spittle.

To make myself heard over the drone of the class, I stated this loudly and firmly; certainly, my voice was loud and firm enough to silence the rest of the class, who immediately set about imagining the scenarios that might culminate in such an outburst.

Can YOU script a scene which makes dramatic sense, and culminates in the phrase "OK, but I sucked on it"? Send them in!
approved Nov 2 2011, submitted Sep 10 2006 by Tyler Shilling
Paedophile teachers, when they do happen, can be quite charming. Most of the kids thought Mr Holdrick was pretty cool, and a good teacher.

It was only when the newspaper reported that he had been caught with a computer full of child porn that we realised that we didn't like him at all.

It didn't take us much longer to remember that we never learned anything in his classes because he was constantly running at our bums with his hands out.

In fairness to ourselves, it's quite a weak justification of the k-fiddlez to say but he could put across difficult throries well.
approved Nov 2 2011, submitted Oct 5 2005 by Alex Ryan
We had all been told that we had to be careful around Nigel. He wasn't allowed to eat chocolate, or drink delicious fizzy pops. Earwax was OK - he'd shovel that stuff straight in. He didn't eat bogeys, though - he stored those in his pencil case.

One morning our teacher walked in ashen faced and quietly explained that Nigel would not be coming to school any more. He had moved a long way away.

Our bewildered but trauma-free response clearly wasn't enough for her, as she let out the cry "Nigel is DEAD!".

Unable to process this early brush with mortality as a tragedy, we'd simply echo her heartfelt outburst in the playground, to punctuate a wide range of antics. In some cases, this would continue well into our twenties.

Nigel is still dead.
approved Oct 31 2011, submitted Oct 25 2011 by Guernsey Gwappard
Back when I was at school - and right up to this very day - there is a rule of begging forgiveness for a flatulent outburst.

Trump - excuse me
Burp - pardon me

I still look at people askance if they get this wrong. Come on - its not fucking difficult.

Log says:
If you do find it difficult to remember, simply follow this rhyme. "Excuse me poos" (because farts and poos are the solid and gaseous states of faecal matter)and "Pardon your hard-on". For this second phrase, you need to imagine that you have just burped onto a man's erection. If you don't want to imagine burping onto a man's nice erection, try "pardon my lardon", and imagine that you have burped up a bit of bacon into a priest's beard. Actually, this one makes more sense. Forget about the dicks.
approved Oct 31 2011, submitted Oct 29 2011 by Captain Crackerjack
I had a similar experience. And I still maintain that 'asswife' is far superior to 'asswipe' as an insult.

An asswife, of course, is like a fishwife, only assier.
approved Oct 26 2011, submitted Jan 24 2006 by Salad Meringue