Whilst having a piss, it was imperative that you touched the “k” in “Shanks” making you The King. Of, er, going to the toilet.

However, if there was more than one person in the toilet, you could lean over to someone else’s urinal and press the “g” in “Armitage” because that meant that, far from being King of doing a wee-wee, the user was gay. And you would shout ‘GAYYY’ just to drive the message home.

This is one of those pastimes I wouldn’t really recommend continuing into adulthood.

[anon]

We ‘fine tuned’ it to the point where we actually just beat each other up whilst yelling “KABBADI!”.

Although the casual racism was the cherry on the cake, it was those two key elements - shouting and fighting - that made it such a hit.

Scott D

[anon]

steve b

Name W

Bearing the ultimate hallmark of an urban myth, everyone knew of this happening at another school.

Kindie K

This name must be unique to my school. As a group of us were engaged in some light vandalism of the sixth form common room, the head caretaker walked in and caught us.

Angry, but not having enough respect or guts to challenge us directly, he said “stop that, or I’ll go and get Mike Webber”. The idea of our Deputy Head, Mr Webber, having an informal first name didn’t register, so there was a moment of confusion before someone asked “what’s a kwebber?”

The only thing that made sense was that he was offering to tidy up our mess with his massive sandy-wheeled machine. So on we carried.

[anon]

During one day of particularly heavy taunting, Ross tried to escape by climbing the side of a building. There he hung by one arm, and with the other swiped feebly at his tormentors ten feet below, emitting a low guttural moan.

It later turned out that Ross was a very sick young man, and had suffered abuse at the hands of his family from an early age. Nonetheless, I would like to take this opportunity to thank him for providing me and my friends with the wonderful phrase “King Mong”. Long may it continue.

The Boy T

This is a better insult than “you’ve dropped your bender card”, because you had proof that they were not only members of the gay club, but also such trusted members that they were keyholders of the Gay Club HQ.

Charlie Webb spots a flaw…

Surely this is ruined by the fact you’d have to - presumably - throw your own keys, thus leaving you to sheepishly ask for them back, after declaring them gay?

You : No, seriously. Can I have them back? I need them.

Them: You need the keys to the gay club?

You : No, they’re my house keys.

Them: YOU LIVE IN THE GAY CLUB HQ?

Potential nightmare.

Charlie W

The solution to Webb’s Flaw, clearly, is to steal Pupil A’s keys and use them to employ the Gay Club Key Ruse on Pupil B. This allows you to establish that Pupil B is a key-holding member of the Gay Club, and that Pupil A actually lives there, as A tries to get his keys back from B while you roundly mock them both.

David M

His crime was to get an erection one rainy afternoon after double games whilst in the post match showers then wander bold as brass into the changing rooms with his engorged member standing to attention.

The appreciative cries of " Look at the size of Paddys dick! “, " Nice one, Patrick " and " Ha ha ha! Patrick’s got a big dick! " were followed by a whimper of “Leave me alone! I havent got a big dick!” as Patrick fled from the changing room in tears.

Thanks to this baffling reaction, the rumour spread like wildfire that Patrick has an oversized man’s cock. From the sixth formers to the braver first years, all would chant “King Dong”, “Donkey Dick” and “Patrick’s got a big dick”

Saying “Patrick’s got a big dick” never failed to cause the well-endowed fella to run off, crying “I haven’t got a big dick! Leave me alone!”

Steve M

I’m sorry, Nigel, for making you sit on a table and say " chocodooby " before i pushed you off the table backwards, hilariously. You must admit though, you did look like the character in the advert. And it was funny. In fact, I’m not sure I’m that sorry.

David M

[anon]

Anyway, the girl discovering this definition would ask the boys if they played football. Of course we did - we were boys. So she replies “you wear knickers”, to which we, in turn, would say “don’t be stupid”.

Craig H

If you got tired of having to keep your fingers crossed, you could ‘swallow your keys’, by miming sticking your crossed fingers down your throat. This provided germ protection for a considerably longer, although undefined, amount of time.

‘Keys’ also worked for some things that weren’t germ-related. If someone was doing the “I’m crushing your head!” bit with their thumb and index finger, as seen on the TV show Kids in the Hall, you could hold up your crossed fingers and say, “Nuh-uh-uh! I got keys!” This rendered their crushing of your head ineffective, so then you’d probably just punch each other for a while.

Adri M

Woe betide the white-sock-clad rebel whose name really is Kevin.

[anon]

[anon]

Daniel S

Whoever said punk’s dead is a Cnut

At least that’s what I thought it said. Eight years old and convinced that it was a grave insult to compare someone to the viking king of England (1016-1035).

I tried to explain to my peers that Cnut had been a good king, that the popular myth of him trying to turn back the sea was wrong, and thus this was not a very effective insult. It was about that time that the beatings began.

Phil G

Wayne Hales would generally win, not through athleticism, but through brute force. He would swing and maul his way to the title, then set about daintily sharpening crayons for us for the rest of the lesson.

[anon]

Laura H

Kudos is still in circulation. It said I would make a good floor manager or wigmaker. So many people would seem to make good wigmakers; I’m surprised there aren’t more wigs in the world. Perhaps there are… I mean, if everyone turned out to be really good wigmakers, I suppose I wouldn’t realise everyone was bald. God, is everyone bald?

Captain D

I got told i would be suited to the professions of dog groomer, wig maker (perhaps this was because of my surname, though), beautician, and deep sea diver (ie sailor). I must have ticked the I a big gay box. By accident. I’m not gay.

Tom W

One week he shot the sergeant with a sub-machine gun.

john w

[anon]

Annoying face-fungus’d history teacher: “Kier Hardie was a bastard. What’s a bastard, Lavery?”

Kieran: “Man with a beard, sir.”

Poker-backed Principal trying to be witty, pointing to dog-end in the playground: “Is that cigarette butt yours, Lavery?”

Kieran, feigning politeness: “Oh, no, sir, you saw it first.”

When we recorded a punk version of the school song (originally to a Bavarian drinking tune), Kieran did the vocals, and it degenerated into a chant about the same Principal: “Tommy Garrett, Tommy Garrett, Tommy Garrett, Tommy Garrett, anal stricture, anal stricture, anal stricture, anal stricture…”

He took a commission in the Army.

Roy W

Barry Symonds was thrown out of maths for telling our teacher about kiss flaps.

Scott A

…and a cue for the entire class to drop to their knees.

Emma C

Buttocks S

You will need:

• 1 Yamaha PS110 per pupil, with The Entertainer as the feelgood ragtime demonstration tune.

• 1 Soft Music Teacher.

Stage One : Any one class member pretends to lean on the demonstration start button at irregular intervals throughout the lesson. Ensure the volume is at maximum. The surprise this may cause the other pupils in the class may cause them to slip onto their demonstration tune buttons, too.

Stage Two : Use the bonus comic effect of setting the tempo to maximum. Scroll through the different sounds to be had - Trombone was the best - whilst pretending to try and find the stop button. “Eh! It won’t stop, miss!”

Stage Three : After the teacher blows her top, it is stylish to remain silent, and bask in the electric atmosphere, knowing that sometime soon , a synthetic trombone rendition of The Entertainer will start up again, at full volume and tempo.

Final Stage : Plug in a set of headphones to an unattended keyboard, and leave The Entertainer on a loop at a barely audible level, and watch innocently as the teacher psychologically degrades throughout the lesson. Once she leaves in hysterical tears, abandon subtlety and start up 30 simultaneous full volume renditions of The Entertainer.

Smiler S

Raise the volume and tempo on the keyboard to maximum. Then, start the Bossa Nova drum pattern. This will transform a GCSE music class into an impromptu early-90s hardcore techno dance club.

Recreate the rave piano effect by pressing one note with the forefinger of each hand, like a retarded typist.

[anon]

We had the keyboard that recorded your voice which could then be used to play back all the swear-words, at any pitch you desired. What my mate didn’t know was that when the keyboard was left idle for some time the memeory bank would discharge itself in a low slow tone. This happened to be when the class was now quiet after practising, as a Yamaha keyboard responded to its neglect by croaking an angry “fffffuuuuuuccccccckkkkkkk yyyyyyoooooouuuuu”.

Mark H

The “DJ” button on some Yamaha keyboards has to be the greatest ever button ever made ever, anywhere, on anything.

Pressing it unleashes a loud shout of “DJ!”, which for some strange reason seems to infuriate music teachers. It also changes all the keys to various “DJ” sounds, including several orgasmic moans.

When our music teacher told Alan to press the DJ button until he got bored of it, I think Alan believed he had died and gone to heaven.

Dunc C

It seems that Dunc Cameron’s entry about the DJ button has sparked a wave of nostalgia amongst our contributors. Here are just a few (all) of the many (some) we received.

The DJ button is indeed the finest thing ever put on a keyboard. Our Music lessons were a doss at the best of times, but the day we discovered the uses of the DJ button was like finding the Holy Grail.

This culminated in a couple of lads using the moaning sounds to recreate a porn soundtrack. All it really needed was the kid next to them playing a bit of 70s funk guitar, and if you shut your eyes, it’d have been perfect.

(Anonymous user)

The DJ button also infuriated our teacher. When asked to go away and write a composition, those with the new Yamaha keyboards would invariably come back with a mishmash of orgasmic moans, “DJ!” and “Dictionary” (another function). We were eventually banned from using that key.

(Nicky w)

Pressing a certain combination of keys under the DJ setting can produce the phrase “COME ON! YO! MOM!”. Which is, frankly, class.

(Andrew Barnes)

I remember that you could push the keys in a certain order to make it cry out “DJ! Push the- dic- dic- dic- OH YEAH- One more time!”

(Bionic Sheep)

And lastly…

I’m still at school, and I’d like to say that making a Yamaha keyboard say “Lesbian!” on the DJ function for an hour every Monday morning brings immense happiness, as well as bragging rights.

(Anonymous user)

So there you have it. The DJ button is OFFICIALLY the best button ever. Not even the off switch on Jimmy Carr’s life support machine comes close. - Matt

Andrew B

Interestingly, even girls shouted “KING of the castle”. Presumably it’s not considered a very queenly thing to do, climbing stuff, though HRH would probably be more popular if she did occasionally tuck her skirt in her pants and got a boostie up the side of a bus shelter.

Paul C

Jon B

Paul H

[anon]

Mark B

Dom

Jon B

Alex H

A similar game to kippering is the game of ’ Aaaaah ‘! To win a round of Aaaah , simply get someone to correct a blatantly false statement. For example;

A and B are listenind to the radio. Wham!’s hit single Careless Whisper begins playing.

A : I hate Adam and the Ants

B : This isn’t Adam and…

A : Aaaaah!

Annoying yet rewarding, even as a 28 year old.

[anon]

Scott W

Kiss chase could also be extremely dangerous. I, for one, broke my arm chasing a weedy little boy. Damn, I wanted that kiss.

jenny h

When I was invited to join the Kissing Girls - the exclusive club for the most popular girls in the school - I was naturally very excited. The sole purpose of the club was to chase boys around and kiss anyone they caught, amidst vague protestations of “ick”. One day, I chased down a boy, rugby-tackled him to the ground, and then, when he refused to hold still, I jabbed him in the face with a sharp stick. I wasn’t able to kiss him, because he was too busy crying and holding his bleeding face in his hands while everyone else looked on, aghast.

I suspect that it was my failure to deliver the kiss that was the reason the Kissing Girls never let me play with them again.

[anon]

I always felt I was the king of Kiss Chase, as none of the girls could get near me. I ran like the wind and dodged tackles like a French rugby fly-half. And so I would often find myself in a corner of the playing field all on my own with nary a girl in sight. No girly germs for me thank you very much.

It was only ten years later that I realised all the other boys walked or stood still or ’tripped over’ and got to spend the entire break snogging whilst I ran round on my own singing ‘I am the Champion’ like a fool.

VK F

Giles B

My erstwhile careers advisor doubled as my woodwork teacher. For years I was told I would amount to nothing. Whilst I never despatched a copy of my P90 to him, imagine my satisfaction when he severed his finger during a 5th year woodwork lesson. Oh, and I earn what can only be described as a shitload of cash as a consultant on international contracts. I believe myself justified in saying “Up yours, Mr. Fox, you smelly short-fingered twat”.

Jason B

Yes. In a similar “boo sucks” vein, I posted a copy of first book to evil comprehensive-school-pupil-hating English tutor at Oxford who had suggested early on in my academic career that I might be happier at South Bank Poly. The fact that the book was about dance music and drug culture, rather than being called something like ‘The sonnet: wherefore? Post-feminist dialectics on a premodern form’ did nothing to prove him right, or so I felt at the time.

spadge m

I had the reverse. My headmaster was, for many years, convinced that I was going to be not only the world’s best writer and orator, but a shoe-in for Prime Minister, all dueto my charm, intelligence and acting ability.

Ironically, I’m now a drugged-up bum who amounted to fuck all!

Oh, how foolish you look now, Mr Davies!

Nick K

A mate of a mate called David Burrows was never very academic but a good footballer at school and was always told he’d amount to nothing by his form tutor. When he signed for Liverpool from West Bromwich Albion, he took his cheque for £50,000 to show the red-faced know it all.

Admin adds: A quick google search for David Burrows reveals that he signed to Liverpool for £500,000 in 1988. He played at the Hillsborough fire game, you know. So put THAT in your pipe and smoke it, Mr Form Tutor. Just be careful where you stub it out. - Matt

Lee

Nim nim nim Hillsborough nim nim nim fire nim nim nim Bradford nim nim nim.

All further whinges about tragedy inaccuracy should be submitted under the entry for the Heysel Piping Hot Soup Disaster. Now stop it. - Matt

Keeno Keeno Everybod C

Amanda

Jon B

Jon B