The Law of the Playground
the pupil report of
anonymous user
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Popular yet confusing insult at our West Midlands primary school. Was it based on a huge misunderstanding about what "blow job" meant? Was it some kind of drug reference? Or just an accusation that your dad liked humping machinery? I'm still baffled.

Log says:
Here, let me help - it's a quote from the movie Short Circuit. Here's the clip, which also features the excellent line "this little fart of a robot is giving me the red-ass". By the way, if any of your friends said "don't get your mum wet after midnight," that wasn't a reference to two of the three rules about keeping a Mogwai. They said that because your mum is a massive slag.


approved Feb 17 2013, submitted Feb 17 2013 by anonymous user
How are you supposed to know that a word isn't acceptable? If your dad stroked the hair gently around your mother's face, and cooed "gargle my balls in Listerine, you grotesque slag", you'd grow up thinking that it was a loving and romantic thing to say.

So when my grandfather called our battery powered stereo with Dolby and auto-stop cassette functionality a "wogbox", with no hatred or racism in his voice, we didn't bat an eyelid. "Slap some Paul Young on the wogbox," we'd yell out the windows. "Turn up the wogbox, I'm trying to dance over here."

Wogbox. To this day, it's a word that's frequently leaps into my mouth. I'm painfully politically correct by nature, and I hate that I'm not supposed to say it. It's such a great word. "I'm not racist, but wogbox Wogbox WOGBOX. Wogbox." Thank you.
approved Feb 15 2013, submitted Feb 15 2013 by anonymous user
Nicky was a hulking child of Eastern European lineage who had the physical structure of a 38-year-old dock worker and a thirst for violence that simply could not be quenched. His entire secondary school career was spent in the position of the undisputed tough of our year - a tenure that was peppered heavily with savage beatings and a management style that could be characterised as an iron fist inside a steel glove.
Like all repressed peoples living under a totalitarian regime, a creative outlet for dissent will always be found. Our's was through the underground communications network of scribbles in the back of Auf Deutsch textbooks. 'Nicky is a gay ape' being the most profound entry into the history of people's resistance.
Like all tyrants, Nicky too ended up on the ash-heap of history as shortly after leaving school he promptly stabbed someone. Say what you like about Stalin being hard, but I'm pretty sure he never killed anybody.
approved Jan 30 2013, submitted Jan 26 2013 by anonymous user
Our farts were so listenable, they were not only unmissable - they had received exposure on national TV. Here it is, in the key of F major.
approved Feb 18 2013, submitted Sep 24 2012 by anonymous user
For those intrigued, Track 21 of Anal Cunt's It Just Gets Worse album should read "Hitler Was A Sensitive Man"

Love, from the people at Earache Records who don't think this should have been censored.
approved Sep 27 2012, submitted Sep 18 2012 by anonymous user
Me and Tony Jenkins were sliding down the old grassy slope known as "Ballas Hill". It was called that because it was made up of the ballast from the ships which had visited Llanelli to take on coal from the local collieries.

Log says:
That's very interesting but you've called your story Bloodshot Buttocks, and when you've got a title that magnificent it behooves you to get on with it. I'm a busy man and I demand my bloodshot buttocks.

We were using bits of corrugated iron we had found as sleds, and we were going higher and higher up the hill to gain more speed each time.

On what would turn out to be the last run of the day, I was in the lead - but I fell off my sheet after hitting a bump. Tony came down after me, slid over my sheet, and screamed.

Skimming over my sheet had had an effect on his buttocks not unlike taking a large ham slicer to them. He lost two large round chunks of buttock muscle, and his bum ended up looking like two bloodshot eyes staring out of his shorts.

Log says:
Is Tony Jenkins reading this? Can we have a look at your buttocks please? We tried looking you up on Facebook but we just got some sex pest from Kentucky
approved Feb 11 2013, submitted Sep 12 2012 by anonymous user
Nottingham boasts a number of bands that sound like they were made up by schoolkids. Enjoy the melodic, Half-Biscuitesque strains of "Arse Full Of Chips" comes the wonderfully juvenile "Jesus Of Spazzareth".

What do Jesus of Spazzareth sound like? It is a noise that cannot be tamed and contained by microphones.

approved Feb 16 2013, submitted Sep 6 2012 by anonymous user
If you're going to insist on having a war about fish with a country as silly as Iceland, then you could be accused of trying to engineer a real-life Monty Python sketch. But the Icelandic Cod Wars were a real thing, not a whimsical Footlights jape. And the dispute over fishing rights had a very real impact in British schools. Namely, primary school boys would grab each others dicks and scream "COD WARS".
approved Feb 17 2013, submitted Jul 28 2012 by anonymous user
For a short period in Year 6, a few boys discovered and promoted the practice of making a pile of sherbert in one hand, blowing it in someone's face and saying "black magic, man!" in a Jamacian accent.

If they'd just used a bit more French language and Catholic
imagery, it'd basically have been voodoo.
approved Jun 9 2012, submitted Jun 7 2012 by anonymous user
Hello Mrs Murphy
How's your heart and soul
I tried to ride your daughter
I couldn't find her hole

At last I found her hole
Covered by her frock
For fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
I couldn't find my cock.

At last I found my cock
as straight as a pin
For fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
I couldn't get it in

At last I got it in
And waved it all about
Fot fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
I couldn't get it out.

At last I got it out
All sloppy and sore
For fuck's sake Mrs Murphy
your daughter wanted more.


This is kinder to the daughter than the original, giving her a nice frock instead of a hairy fanny, and enquiring into the "heart and soul" of Mrs Murphy before regaling her with the tale of fumbling, wild-eyed sex with her daughter.

It also enjoys a certain level of exasperation with the voraciousness of Mrs Murphy's daughter, who seems unsatisfied with someone sticking it in, panicking, and pulling it out again.
approved May 28 2012, submitted May 27 2012 by anonymous user
Written on a toilet wall at school was the legend "Dai Cooney hates hard work". It was only some time later did we realise that he'd probably written it himself.
approved May 9 2012, submitted Apr 30 2012 by anonymous user
In Yorkshire in the 70's, we managed to have awards for the first ten places.

First the worst
Second the best
Third the royal princess
Fourth the King
Fifth the Queen
Sixth the witch of Hallowe'en
Seventh the Executioner
Eighth the Dirty Donkey
Ninth the girl
Tenth the boy

There's such an impressively deflating failure of imagination in the ninth and tenth positions that you kind of feel like you're letting yourself down as you chant them.

"You're a boy."
approved Feb 16 2013, submitted Mar 23 2012 by anonymous user
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
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
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)
HOLY SHIT
approved Jan 3 2012, submitted Jan 1 2012 by anonymous user
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
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
"My name is Mr. Reese. Don't call me grease!", snapped Mr Reese one day. To be honest, the thought had never occurred to us, so it was good of him to make us aware of the possibilities.

More than earning himself a new nickname, Mr Reese's outburst had such a satisfying rhythm to it that it quickly became a popular playground chant.
approved Oct 23 2011, submitted Oct 21 2011 by anonymous user