Just one cornetto,
give it to me.
You musta be joking,
It cost feeeefty peeeee.

There was another verse, however. Can anyone help?

-Um, yeah. It went: "Theee choc and nut
it may beee niiiice
but maybe not
that bladdy high prii-ice!"
Hope that helps- An Ed.

One September the pupils of St Mary's RC School in Poole returned from the summer break amid some excitement and trepidation at the new markings on the playground. Among the typical hopscotch grids was what appeared to be an oversized compass, with Magnetic North clearly marked on it.

We were left wondering what the fuck we were supposed to do with it. A few half hearted attempts to base games around it were made (Did you play Let's Stare North!, and West-Walking Hullaballoo? They were my favourites - Log), before we decided to ignore it, as it was most likely for Muslims to point at Mecca.

Jonathan fell from the climbing rope in Primary School PE, and landed directly astride the balance beam. This had exploded one of his balls like a water balloon.

Attempts by him to disprove the rumour by stretching his scrotum for all to see, showing a clear 2-ball outline, led to accusations that he was pressing out one of the bumps with his finger.

But, eventually, we had to accept that he did have a second ball. A plastic second ball.

Whatever, it didn't affect his virility as he managed to get Angela Smithers up the duff before his fifteenth birthday.

Chris Long was rumoured to have a monoball; apparently he'd sliced his scrotum open on the brake wire of his bike.

Perhaps because of this, he was a very, very angry young man with special needs. If the special class wanted to leave early, they'd chant "remember you're a one-ball, remember you're a one-ball" at him until he started throwing things, and the lesson would be abandoned.

Legend has it that Sean Gorman was run over by a milk float and tragically lost a testicle. I've always found this confusing as the rest of Sean's body remained intact. Was he sitting on the kerb with one bollock resting on the road? Sean was always very coy about the subject...and suspiciously unsympathetic to others who suffered groinal mishaps, like his best friend Michael.

One day Michael hopped a fence to retrieve a stray football which had been kicked into a field beside the school pitches. Unfortunately for Michael said fence was of the barbed wire variety and Michael's scrotum became entangled mid-hop. Did Sean have vivid flashbacks to his milk float ordeal and run for help ensuring his best buddy didn't suffer the same fate as him? Did he fuck. He made like the rest of us and started throwing stones at Michael while singing "Always look on the Bright Side of Life".

Jonathan Evenet has a plastic testicle. As a result he always smells of wee a bit.

Matthew Jones was also lop-sided, a secret revealed to us by his little brother, Gareth.

Apparently they had been "wrestling" on Gareth's bed, Matt had gone for the piledriver, and in some unholy contortion, his balls twisted in their sack; one suffocated the oxygen to the other, which lead to its eventual amputation.

Matt's brother told this to anyone who would listen, naturally delighted in the knowledge his bullying elder brother would be mocked by all his peers. Of course he was correct, but he had failed to anticipate the beats that would be dealt to him by effectively admitting that he had been bummed by his own brother.

In fact, Gareth had insisted upon so much bumming that Matt's balls exploded. And because he couldn't satisfy Gareth's desire to be bummed anymore with his shredded testes, their dad had to take over bumming Gareth. Oh, he was a GREEDY little bummer.

Matt actually got off considerably lightly given that:

a) He'd had a ball off, and;

b) He'd bummed his own brother. Not now though. Not ever again.

Oxygen? to the testes? Are you sure you're not getting confused with lungs? - Mansh

I'm 'monoballed' and am pretty certain that I've shagged far more attractive women than you. Shame.

CHINNY.

A block of wood with a face carved in it that for some reason my class worshipped for a year and a half. We were eventually saved from cultism when the groundsman burnt him for fuel.

Often devastating put-down not very cunningly disguised as a gesture of pity.

e.g.

"What are you getting your mum for Mother's Day?

Oh sorry, I forgot. She's dead isn't she?"

A handy P.S. to any partonising put-down is the word "Bless" accompanied by a smile and a cocking of the head. - Mansh

A setup for a mischievous physics teacher's prank.

[Teacher contrives for the class to revise electrical circuit symbols]

Teach [draws a circle with a 'V' inside]: "What does this represent?"

Pupil A: "A voltmeter, sir."

Teach [draws a circle with an 'A' inside]: "That's right. Now what's this?"

Pupil B: "An ammeter."

Teach [draws a circle with an 'O' inside]: "Well done. How about this?"

Rather too keen pupil C [adopting the air of having cracked the tricky follow-on question]: "Is it an ohmmeter, sir?"

Teach: "No. It's a Mexican riding a bicycle."

A year later, Pupil C, while remaining frustratingly un-Mexican, was knocked off his bicycle by a passing car.

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.

Nickname of Steve Sampson, a christian tee-totaller who would only drink orange juice.

One fat kid's persecution was average to low, until one day a weak-minded teacher tried to make us feel sympathy. In a catastrophically stupid attempt to get us to like the big lizard, we were told that the fat kid could not wear boy's trousers, but had to have old man's trousers cut off just below the knee. The result was, spectacularly enough, a barrage of abuse that resulted in a watershed moment of growing up, the first time I heard a contemporary say "cunt", as in "Ha ha, you wear old man's trousers you fat stinking cunt." Marvellous.

Although there wasn't a teacher in the cupboard, we would convince the child that there was before locking him in there.

That was the cue for the other pupil who was in the cupboard to start hurling ink and paper at him, and shout teacherly things like "You, BOY!" at him.

Surprising fun for those outside the cupboard, who got to hear the shouting and watch a cupboard rattle around for a bit.

This isn't always a lie. Our German teacher went to the special effort of hiding in a cupboard at the start of the lesson, to see what people said about him.

It's a well-established moral to many tales, that if you have the ability to read minds, you must be willing to hear things you don't like. Such as thirty children sagely discussing exactly how much of a cunt you are, not to mention a bit late.

Our teacher wasn't nearly as philosophical about it; he burst out of the cupboard, shouted for ten minutes, and put us all in detention.

we always hide in a small storage room in an attic room before the teacher comes.

once like every boy in the class hid in there and when the teacher saw them all burst out he checked who was there...every boy but one (who just so happened to be off on that day). the teacher assumed that the boy was in the cupboard and was talking to a door for like five minutes

magic

An ollie, as everyone who's ever played Tony Hawks will know, is like when you jump, but with a skateboard on.

Aged thirteen, we would practice our ollies for hours on end. When any of us got so much as an inch off the ground, we could all get seriously amazed.

During one afternoon of such cripple-hopping, we heard the roll and clatter of a familiar crap half-ollie, followed by a loud and insincere exclamation of "whoops!".

Apparently, while we were looking the other way, Alan had accidentally ollied over his dad's car.

Now, the thing that made this especially amazing, was Alan's ongoing persistence that the trick was not in his mind. This went on for months, despite constant jeering and a failure to repeat the trick because when people were looking, it "put him off".

These lies climaxed with an audacious lie-reversal, where he shouted at everyone that he'd never said that he had accidentally ollied over his father's car, and that he hadn't maintained the opposite for the last four months at all.

Ask him today, and he still denies he ever said it, which totally proves my point.

First, write "OM" in chalk on the victims seat. If he hits down, he will have the word "MO" across his buttocks for the rest of the day.

Having the shortest word for gay written across your arse, the very place that gays have the sex, is begging for physically violent comment.

This one game resulted in some of the most fantastic and death defying crashes known to man, and also some glorious bicycle carnage. Instead of running round tagging someone with your hand, you now had to twat cycle mounted opponents with your bike. Some of the techniques involved will highlight the whole stupidity of the game.

The Graze : Used when your opponent was slightly slower than you. You´d have to get your front tyre to connect with their back, and hope the resulting wheel friction would veer your opponent into a hedge, and not yourself.

The Evil Kenevil (close range wild card) : Peddle as fast as possible, then dismount by slipping off your seat backwards. Suprisingly easy on a bmx, suicidal on a racer. Then, hope that your bike would continue in a straight line and smash into your opponent. (If your bike swerved off course after dismounting you would look like a twat, and your bike would end up in someone's garden - use with care.

The Wheelie = used liberally if you were able to perform it (forget it, racer boys). Like being attacked by a horse.

Making tyre-on-skin contact with the spinning front wheel of "The Wheelie" is known as a "Chainsaw".

Round up of the bikes:

• BMX Falcon Pro : all round winner, speed and handling.
• Grifter : bulldog of the game, slow but like a Jag through a shop window - the blaggers choice)
• The Racer : top for speed, but turning circle of a Viking longship.
• The Chopper : laid back angle would never get you to top speed and left you exposed, but who needs fast when you look that good?
• The Granny Basher : your mums bike, good speed if you could reach the pedals, though be wary of recriminations next morning when your mum finds out her shopping basket is fucked.
• The Cissy : your sisters bike, if your dad was still trying to unbuckle your wheel from the last time you played.
• The Granny Lowrider : weird-looking compact bikes, that really old people rode. This singles you out as an idiot child, and you will be constantly attacked.
  
  If using the Granny Basher or the Cissy, resist the urge to take off the shopping basket, as it adds valuable 'tagging' inches.
  
  No girls allowed to play - this is BOY stuff.