#1 in the lies of Troy Hawkins series.
Troy's hacking powers were legendary. He hacked into the UN mainframe computer, and sent 800 tanks to Egypt. However, his actions were traced, and he was fined fifty million pounds, which would have financially crippled most schoolchildren. Troy, however, was lucky in that respect, as his father invented Windows with Bill Gates. Bill Gates was more than happy to pay the bill, what with his good friend having invented Windows with him, and that.

A brief round-up of the hair options available to the child who considers themself special...

Toners
Suitable for Duran/Japan fans, these came in sachets, the contents of which you 'washed in'. They lasted for between zero and one washes and came in the following tones: 'Mahogony', 'Copper', 'Fox' and 'Creosote'.

Sun-In
Suitable for Wham fans, sprayed onto towel dry hair, it gave you that 'just been to Club Tropicana' look. At Club Tropicana not only are drinks free, but people have hair like hay, coloured in with yellow felt-tip pens.

Henna
Suitable for Goths with crusty leanings. Users normally stank of patchouli.

Spray-In Colour
Strictly for the mummy's boys who weren't allowed to do anything even semi-permanent to their hair, these came in ridiculous fluorescent colours and earned the user no respect whatsoever. Nobody likes a tourist, especially "wacky" fuckers who rinsed their hair in the sink at the end of the day, so they don't get told off at home.

Proper Permanent Hair Dye
Two colours - Black. Or Blue/black. Can you hear me calling, Mari-aaa-eee-aaa-eee-anne?

The number rises if the haircut is particularly severe, or ridiculous. The most I have heard is Haircut 1000, which is somewhat reserved considering that children say 'gazillions' and 'babwillions' to mean anything more than 50.

The city in which puddingbowl lane is the high street. Based on the mid-80s advert on Anglia TV for Carpet City. A squeaky voiced squirrel-man-creature would ask "Mexico City? London City? New York City?" and the booming-voiced continuity dude would assert "No! It's Carpet City!"

Hang on a minute, wasn't this the other way around. Wasn't the continuity bloke lost, and the squirrel-man calmed him with the reassuring notion that he was, in fact, in Carpet City? The continuity man then went on to discuss the prices of carpets, which is odd to say that three seconds ago he didn't even know where he was. I don't think he was ever lost at all.

Sean turned up to school one day with a particularly bowly haircut. When this fact was pointed out to all and sundry using the pithy parody, "Mexico City? London City? New York City? No! It's Haircut City!", Sean's astonishingly violent response was surely a tad OTT.

Rupert Pratt (for 'twas his name) sported a floppy fringed centre parting. One Sociology lesson, Mrs Livesy directed a question at Rupert. We all looked up from our textbooks and turned to look at him. His hair had relaxed into a perfectly straight bowl-cut. The fact that so many of us loudly exclaimed "Dwayne Dibbley?!" at precisely the same moment made it all the more satisfying.

A child at my school attempted to evade the associated pounding of turning up to school with a spanking new basin hair cut by claiming that it wasn't a basin, it was 'curtains' which where "closed".

I've never seen such a beating.

Michael's mum cut his hair into a long page-boy style some time in the late 70's. We would take turns sneaking up behind him with scissors and cut a big chunk out of the perfect hair to the rally of hair cut! His mum would then cut it again to even it up. Within a matter of weeks he was a skinhead. Bullying with scissors was great if he started to lose it you could wave them in his face and he would quickly back down. This was a valuable introduction to weaponry. NEVER run with them though.

Said instead of 'Hello' as you approach someone who has had a particularly noticeable haircut. Only really funny when a whole group of people hear and understand, and the unwitting recipient just dumbly replies 'Alright, mate'.

A bonus branch of mathematics not generally taught in most A Level courses. To be taught this topic, simply write "HAIRY BALLS THEOREM" on the blackboard before the teacher enters, and as they wearily start to rub it out, insist firmly that Hairy Balls Theorem is all you wish to learn.

A large brown birthmark on Simon Pickard's wrist that grew frighteningly luxurious thick black hair.

To send him into a screaming eppy, you simply asked Simon the time. Then, when he looked at his black plastic Casio, you would tell him you meant the time on his 'hairy' watch.

I'm sure he hoped the game would die out in secondary school as we all matured, but instead, having started French lessons, the wording simply changed to 'No, what's the time au naturelle?'

If anyone is queer and gay enough to ask you what time it was (the stinking pooves), the proper response was to look at your bare wrist and inform the aforementioned cock-fairy that it was,

Half past the monkey's ass, and a Quarter to his balls.

Honestly, where do these gaymosexuals get off?

"Put some jam on your trainers and invite your trousers down for tea" Insult for someone whose trousers are too short.

What followed was the most wonderfully-timed fart by, otherwise spoddy, Ross Laidler in assembly. Had me in tears, and also proved to be one of the most pungent in school history causing a first year girl to be sick into her hands.

An arbitrary standard of quality devised by Phil to assess peoples technology projects. As in if it doesn't withstand being battered with a huge mallet then it was obviously a piece of crap anyway. In retrospect this may be a slightly unfair test of ply-wood and dowling strength. Note that passing the test did not exempt you from further retestings.

Hold out your palm and tell someone that you have a three inch man standing there. Ask them to tap the man on the head. Then ask them to shake his little hand. Then ask them to close their eyes and poke the man up his little arse. At this point you quickly place your pursed lips where the man's arse would be, so your friend sticks his finger in your puckered, wet arsemouth.

At this point, your friend will probably open their eyes, as they weren't expecting the little invisible man to have a tangibly wet anus. You will be looking up to see their reaction, pretty much like a dog. It's difficult to know who's in the most undignified position, really.

In a different version, you stopped after the "shake the little man's hand" part, looking in shock as we exclaimed "That wasn't the man's HAND!"

This version is less likely to fail thanks to your friend's reluctance to close his eyes in the middle of what is clearly a piss-take.

The practise of gobbing, flobbing, or grollying, on to the inside of the roof of the bikesheds, to see who could get the longest "hanger". The length of time it remained suspended meant extra kudos. A kid called Terry Nugent was the undisputed champion, because his invariably contained blood. Which is probably why you don't see Player's No. 10 much anymore...

With the correct consistency of phlegm, hangers could remain hanging from the ceiling for weeks, even months. It's a volume to consitency ratio. Particularly good on textured ceilings.

A penis, A penis, The greatest thing which I posess, I thank The Lord that I am blessed, With more than my share of a pe-e-nis.