Credit must be given to Dov Skipper for his valiant efforts to avoid the dreaded BCG jab.

As we all remember, there was an initial jab which would inflame should the antibodies in question already be in place. For a fortunate few, this meant no actual BCG.

Dov came up with the idea of artificially inflaming his test jab. So he spent a week attacking the test spot on his wrist with an arsenal of pencils, drawing pins, fingernail etc. The result was not so much an inflamation as a gaping Richey Manic style lesion.

The nurse wasn't convinced that he was already super-immune, and that his massive trauma was the product of really fucking kick-ass antibodies.

After receiving his BCG, Duncan Horn proudly declared, "now I can't get arachnophobia".

In certain circles (such as the US Military), B.C.G. stands for birth control glasses, referring to the thick lensed and framed specs that could prevent most anybody from being pulled. Nerd Glasses.

"You can't hit me on my BCG," declared my younger sister confidently, "it's too small."

I fucking could. First try. YES.

Geography class with Mr Pickering was always full of anticipation and excitement, as we tried to predict just when and why Dean would be thrown out of class.

During BCG week he managed to top all his previous efforts (swearing, fighting, general arsing about) by eating his BCG scab. Although I still almost vomit at the thought of it, it made a change from oxbow lakes.

On the morning of our BCG, a huge mass panic was caused by the rumour that Jemma Holt had tensed her arm muscles mid-injection and snapped off the needle. Later versions of the story included the nurse being forced to remove the broken end with a pair of pliers. This caused a wave of hyperventilation, tears and fainting affecting around a third of the year, who all had to be laid out on mats in the gym until they had calmed down.

Not from an inner city comprehensive, then. They're all used to the sight of needles these days thanks to incredible amounts of intravenous drug use. According to Francis Bloody Gilbert, anyway. - Matt.

Mr. Badman, our games teacher, not only had a glass eye, but was devoted to the talent of Billy Joel. One afternoon's games session was called off due to a mix of rain and apathy on our parts, and we were forced to pack into the Biology Lab and watch Billy Joel's greatest hits on video for over an hour. Despite offerering to run laps in the rain in our pants, we were forced to sit and watch this sickening filth until our brains poured out our noses.

I went to school at what was the sad, tattered, skull-fucked remains of a Christian Brothers school, and Brother Kelly was the head. The only one of that paedophile clique still around... He used to walk around whistling, a huge fat fucker of a man, he was. When I was 12, our teacher wasn't teaching us enough, so we got BK every Tuesday instead. He'd drag you out to the front of the class for Maths all morning. If you got a question wrong, you got punched. If you were in his way as he went to punch a student, you got punched. If you got a few questions wrong, you'd have your head smashed into a wall. He also had a strap. And a banana.

A factual inaccuracy here: B.K. could not actually whistle, but it never stopped him trying.

Also, Stephen Bray ran like a girl.

Being fortunate enough not to land in dear Brother Kelly's form class, I heard only rumours of what went on. But one thing we all saw was a plastic banana. Like a dog's toy. Lying on his desk. He used to staple it. Full of staples it was. I don't know why. I don't want to.

Yeah, that was my banana. It was actually a banana-shaped biro. Very realistic it looked too. He also confiscated a cycling cap I got given by some American friends. Not available over here, that. My mum assured me that he wouldn't confiscate either item permanently. Nice one Ma. Still no novelty bananapen, nor exclusive cycling cap.

If you did something wrong that didn't merit an extra five pages of the dreaded Two Grade, you got the strap. Simple. Six times across each hand with something that no-one ever did describe. My friend had it done to him because he kicked a girl in the shins after she'd stolen our entire collection of helicopter leaves. There was supposed to be a gang you could join at the main school which consisted entirely of people who'd been strapped. Like a bondage Mile-High club. It didn't exist. Lying fuckers.

A smelly person. You don't have to be huge and black, but it helps.

Someone who has been circumcised. Effective, because people generally wonder what the hell the person's getting at. The punchline, "I've been cut off", generally pleases.

Stands for Big Tits. Requires two participants and a big titted girl. One boy shouts "beeee... teeee..", the other runs up to punch the tits and shouts "Cellnet!"

Then both parties run away, because punching girls in the tits gives them cancer.

Someone who is too poor to have a phone and so has to use pay phones. Feel free to add that the phonebox is actually their home.

"Breaker Breaker 10-4-10-4-John Wayne Payne"

Potentially the World's Longest nickname. Now there's a challenge...

John Payne was our Form Binner. The one who endured shouts of Gyp-Gyp-Gyp-Gypo! everytime anyone saw him. But, in that way that only happens at school, his life was defined by one careless statement in Second Year French.

Ms. Bissesseur, whom everyone fancied, was trying to teach us numbers in French, and so, sensibly decided to have the class recite their 'phone numbers. Not a bad idea, you would think.

This went swimmingly until we got to John. John told us he didn't have a phone, which would have been fair enough had he left there. But John decided to tell us that instead, he had a CB. Trevor Corrigan started up with 10-4, 10-4 John, and that was it for John. I don't remember where the Wayne came from. Just because John Wayne was one letter away from Payne, and because somehow saying John Wayne Payne in that 'Joey Deacon' way was somehow funnier. Made more so because one so unlike John Wayne you could not hope to meet.

Probably not the funniest story ever, but saying Breaker Breaker 10-4 10-4 John Wayne Payne still makes me laugh.

Babb listened to Radio 4 and collected stamps. Despite this, his fate was only sealed the day he missed the bus on the sixth form university open-day trip.

Instead of running, or walking off swearing, Babb, chose to skip contentedly behind the bus. He only fucking skipped. For long enough for everyone to see.

Subsequently, when you had a conversation with him, there were people queuing up to do a Babb behind his back. From that day, Babb was cursed to never have another conversation with anyone who wasn't laughing at something that wasn't quite him.

Baby Babylon was the name given to an appealing BusyBody character. BusyBodies were like chunkier, friendlier Lego people, with infinitely more convincing hats. Baby Babylon became the mascot for a range of cleaning products.

He was later joined by The Poo With The Flaxen Hair, who had this theme tune;

The Poo with the Flaxen Hair,
The Poo with the Flaxen Hair,
They seek him here, they seek him there,
The Poo with the Flaxen Hair.

And also Megaslap, who was the only thing I could draw. You can see this wholesome trio here.

Abusive chant directed at me by class bullies for daring to wear an iron on "Fighting Fantasy" transfer on my jumper. The chanting started in a normal voice, but was gradually replaced by a mock-spastic voice and finally stopped altogether when one of my tormentors decided it would in fact be a better idea to spit on me.