The Law of the Playground
the pupil report of
anonymous user
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In geography lessons, any mention of the country of Yemen MUST be said loudly as "Yeah Mon!" in the style of Porkpie from Desmonds. Similarly, Oman must be said in the tones of a tired hippy. Deviations will not be tolerated.
approved Jan 2 2006, submitted Nov 23 2005 by anonymous user
This means "seal egg" in French. It is a great tragedy for pupils in French lessons everywhere that seals don't lay eggs. Or that you can't ask for one in Paris restaurants.
approved Jan 2 2006, submitted Nov 22 2005 by anonymous user
1994 was not a particularly good year for Mike Swinburn. During the months that PJ & Duncan topped the charts, he lived in fear of the sudden cry of "LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLLLLLLLE" resonating throughout the playground, followed by a chant of "watch us wreck the Mike, watch us wreck the Mike, watch us wreck the Mike - psyche!"
Unfortunately for Mike, "psyche" meant a punch in the stomach. Sorry, Mike.
approved Nov 22 2005, submitted Nov 21 2005 by anonymous user
...can I just add to this that Mr Sheldon was the uncle of Bob Sheldon (see: 'Bob baiting'). If you could provide some sort of link between these two entries, it will give readers a chance to reflect on the way in which being a bullying cunt can be genetically inherited.

No sooner said than done, Simon.
approved Nov 23 2005, submitted Nov 17 2005 by anonymous user
You call that a death book? (them's fighting words - jamie) Richard Burns' dad was a forensic scientist, and one day Richard smuggled one of his dad's books into school. It featured full-colour glossy photos of atrocities. These were way, way beyond the coping abilities of the dozen or so 12-year-olds who clustered innocently around to look. I remember a stab victim with multiple wounds, a shotgun-in-the-mouth suicide, a woman who'd died in the bath from loss of blood during an attempted DIY pregancy termination, and a guy who'd had a heart attack and fallen chest-first onto a circular saw.

Now that's a death book.
approved Nov 17 2005, submitted Nov 16 2005 by anonymous user
For advanced pinfingerers there is pin-needling, which goes as follows;
Push needle with thread through the top of every finger.
Dip newly webbed hand in fairy liquid solution.
Wave your hand around to create multiple bubbles!
approved Nov 18 2005, submitted Nov 16 2005 by anonymous user
Our maths teacher was of much the same bent, although he added a rather sinister twist:

After doing the usual inoffensive "Mexican on a bicycle", "Mexican on a bicycle going up a mountain" and so forth, he then drew a circle with three pointy triangles inside it, radiating from the inner circumference.
"What's that?" he asked.
After a few guesses, we relented.
"What is it then, sir?"
The maths teacher looked pleased with himself, and proclaimed:
"The last thing a black man sees after the Ku Klux Klan have thrown him down a well!"

Silence. Utter silence.
approved Nov 13 2005, submitted Nov 12 2005 by anonymous user
Back in the ealy 1970's at Borough Green CP in Kent, the toilet block was separate from the main school, with lads and girls entering via doors at opposite ends. Inside the building was a partition wall to keep the boys and girls apart, but, inexplicably, it only reached to within a foot of the ceiling. This left a clear opportunity for scat-based mischief:
1) Help yourself to a lot - say 6 yards - of bog roll.
2) Fold it over a couple of times so that it forms a thick, 18 inch long strip.
3) Use your arse cheeks to hold it in place hanging above the water in the bowl as you drop off a steamy bob into the waiting dung 'hammock'.
4) Gather the two ends that have been sandwiched between your buttocks and the bog seat and, in a David and Goliath stylee, sling your cack grenade over the top of the partition wall and into the girls' side.
5) Listen for screaming and walk out, whistling and with your hands in your pockets.
Considering how crap at lying 6 year olds are it is a miracle I got away with it.
approved Nov 15 2005, submitted Nov 11 2005 by anonymous user
Also the name given to a retaliatory attack following a fart. A cry of 'beats!' would be the call to arms for those nearby (the fartees) to quickly deliver painful blows to the farter's face, chest and lower torso, and so the previously disrupted moral equilibrium of the playground was restored (although the amount of 'beats' were probably never entirely proportional to the offensiveness of the fart).

More devious students would carry out controlled, easily transferable farts in the company of an individual for whom they concealed intense and sinister hatred. This would allow for a beating to be administered without revealing any dark, evil intentions/repressed sexual feelings to the victim.
approved Nov 12 2005, submitted Nov 10 2005 by anonymous user, matronboy ngggg.
My old school still sends me its twice-yearly magazine, and in it I recently read that Mr Sheldon is retiring. That's the Mr Sheldon who formerly gloried in the title Master of the Lower School at the risible Eton-wannabe institution I had the misfortune to attend for six years. In an interview for the magazine, Mr Sheldon said that he'd enjoyed his career, but the one thing he could never bring himself to enjoy was having to administer corporal punishment.

So that'll be why he used to make you spread your legs apart, bend over on his plush red leather chair, and wait, arse up, for long agonising minutes while he stood in the corner where he kept his quiver of canes, selecting one cane after the other, flexing it between his meaty fingers and swishing it through the air a few times to test its suitability for the melancholy duty it was about to perform. He was punishing HIMSELF more than anyone else. And his distaste would be clearly evident afterwards, in the way he'd stand there puffing and blowing, sweaty and claret-faced, agitated out of all proportion to the physical extertion involved in botty-whacking a small boy a few times. It was because he HATED it.
approved Nov 9 2005, submitted Nov 6 2005 by anonymous user
Having found myself waiting outside the headmaster's office for a menial crime, I became rather bored and decided it was a good opportunity to practice my Kung Fu kicks against his door. However, mid-kick, the headmaster opened it to find an 8 year old girl in an undeniably threatening pose.
He was so horrified that he sent me to stand outside the secretary's office, a punishment, I was told, that he had never before been forced to bestow upon any pupil. As it was, the secretary was a kind elderly lady named Mrs. Brooks, who put plasters on children's knees when they fell over. She made me some Ribena and then sent me back to class.
approved Nov 4 2005, submitted Nov 2 2005 by anonymous user
Another weirdo writes:

When I turned my BMX upside down, it churned butter. So it appears that different bikes can produce different dairy products. Thankfully, I didn't know back then, so I wasn't upset at missing out on unlimited supplies of ice cream.

Did your bike make cheese? Perhaps it became the 'Magical Milkshake Machine' at the flick of an imaginary switch. Why don't you form some sort of club? - Ponky
approved Mar 1 2006, submitted Nov 2 2005 by anonymous user
This should be shouted whenever a goalkeeper ventures outside of the goal area, in football. You know, like when they go up for corners and stuff. I'm sure John Motson said this once.
approved Jan 19 2008, submitted Nov 1 2005 by anonymous user
The standard number sets you are taught in school in increasing order of complexity are natural, integers, rational, real and complex. Deciding this was too restrictive we added on the new sets of gay, lesbian and nomad numbers.

Gay numbers were any number that had a repeated digit. 66 for example. Clearly too in love with its own kind. Lesbian numbers were a complex number where the real and imaginary part were of the same value. 6 + i6 for example. Nomad numbers were numbers that changed every day depending on where you were on the world and could only be found out by connecting via satellite to the international nomad number determination board. In reality I made them up.
approved Jan 11 2006, submitted Oct 28 2005 by anonymous user
John W. achieved school-wide fame in the sixth form when he was spotted through a badly-curtained bathroom window having an energetic wank. Of course, indiscreet masturbation is hardly that unusual at boarding school, but two factors elevated John's performance to the status of School Legend:

1. In an impressive display of coordination and efficiency, he was brushing his teeth with his other hand.

2. He frequently paused in his manipulations to slap his cock energetically against the basin.

John was dubbed Basin Basher for the remainder of his school career, and "Arm & Hammer" toothpaste suddenly became hilarious. The event was immortalised in the following song (to the tune, vaguely, of Do your balls hang low?):

Is your name John or Jason,
Do you bash it on a basin,
Do you cover it in Colgate for better lubrication?
Does it give you satisfaction,
Does it get a big reaction,
Do you use Double Action for better foreskin traction?


The beauty of the final line is that John was a quiet, earnest student: the image of him diligently evaluating toothpastes until he found the one with optimum sensual enhancement was entirely plausible.
approved Oct 26 2005, submitted Oct 25 2005 by anonymous user
Once, in Biology, an amusing remark generated such mirth in me that I accidentally hawked up a copious amount of nasal mucus onto Richard Hull's biology book. The resultant beast sat there on the page, quivering like a transparent jellyfish laced with red veins. Unimpressed with the new life-form that I had created, Richard tore out the offending page and threw it away.
approved Oct 26 2005, submitted Oct 25 2005 by anonymous user
Thomas Locking made a very bad mistake in confiding to me, in nonchalant tones, for all the world as though it was nothing to be deeply ashamed of, that his dad had had a vasectomy. Within the hour, everybody knew about Tom's Dad's jaffaness, and the fact that he could no longer come.
Things became worse for him in more ways than he could ever have imagined when he informed us that, "He CAN come, there just isn't anything IN it!"
approved Oct 29 2005, submitted Oct 25 2005 by anonymous user
These days, especially amongst the urban 4x4 driving community, homemade bread will no doubt have a 'wow' factor. Children with names like 'Oliver' and 'Harvey' and fucking 'Archie' will open their lunchboxes and smugly chomp away on walnut foccacia.

But at rural schools, homemade bread was the epitomy of pikeyness. I mean, your mum can't even afford BREAD? She can barely scrape together the price of flour and yeast? AND A PINCH OF SALT?
approved Sep 22 2007, submitted Oct 25 2005 by Name Withheld, anonymous user
has anyone else noticed that this entry has appeared before but on a different month, thus highlighting the fact that all the entries on this site are from the people who put it together.

monumental twats.

Just to prove that we don't do this all on our own, anonymous user, I'm going to include your completely off-topic insult. That'll show YOU.

Sometimes I wish we did concoct the stories ourselves; it'd reduce the amount of time I have to spend wading through shit like yours.

Other readers! If you feel the need to insinuate that we make this all up, at least have the courage to pen your name alongside your insults. And try to use the shift key, too.
approved Oct 25 2005, submitted Oct 24 2005 by anonymous user
I got "Oceanic Cartographer". This was due, I suspect, to the fact that I could (a) swim, and, (b) colour-in maps really well without going outside the lines or anything.
Don't know if I could have done it underwater, mind.
approved Oct 23 2005, submitted Oct 21 2005 by anonymous user