Strange club with only two members, the Doctor and the Assistant. The Doctor would perform 'operations' which - curiously - everyone willingly queued up for. His tools were a compass (for incision) and Tipp-Ex (for 'healing'). When the operation was over you had to say 'ta'. Hence the name of the club.

"Ta ra ra bum di ay,
my knickers flew away,
They came back yesterday,
Ta ra ra bum di ay."

This unusual narrative casts aside the traditional form of beginning, middle, end, by leaving out the middle section that can be so boring to people with low attention spans. The knickers are gone - the knickers are back. However, the repetition of the first line in the last reminds us that it is a constant cycle, and no sooner have one person's knickers returned, than another pair have flown away.

"Ta ra ra bum di ay, teacher did a trump today, She blew the school away, we had a holiday..."

"Ta ra ra bum di ay
I wet my pants today
What will my mother say?
Ta ra ra bum di ay"

She'd probably say "put them in the washing machine you disgusting little pikey". Or simply sigh and look a bit sad while inwardly worrying about her child's lack of bladder control.

What dicks taste like, according to a file we found on the school network during Computer Science one week.

The photography darkroom became home to Michael Steele's pornography stash (second roof tile along on the right) and after-hours masturbation club. That was until he discovered that his entire collection had gone missing, and that every word spoken in the darkroom could be heard in the staff room next door. Headmaster - ton of bricks - you get the story.

During a school field trip, one of our number (who was already cursed with the name Matthew Winkle) went to the toilet for an excessively long time. When quizzed about the duration of his visit, he claimed to have been 'talking to Frostie' - Paul Frost being a fellow pupil. 'Talking to Frostie' has thus become a euphemism for masturbation, with such derivatives as 'shouting at Frostie' and 'being ignored by Frostie' unfortunate - but natural - consequences.

Posh and less patriotic version of British Bulldog. One person started as the "catcher" and everyone else had to get from one side of playing area to the other. To catch someone you had not only to dob/tag/touch them, but to pin their shoulders to the ground by all means necessary for 3 seconds, thus increasing the potential for face-to-face spittle flecked mania from the more frustrated.

Without entering into the class divide, anyone running across a field screaming Tally Ho! is begging for beating round are way. Then again, I did sing "Great minds think alike, do they not, my friend?" without getting beaten up, so perhaps Comps were more tolerant than I remember.

When we were 14, and after much pleading, me and a friend managed to persuade a naive Tamara to show us her left breast on the way home. As it was my first glipmse of live female flesh my groin responded as only it knew how. By lunchtime the next day my public erection had made it round the school, although the tit flashing element had been conveniently left out of the story.

Even in my final year, it wasn't unusual for a 12 year old girl to run away from me in the corridor screaming 'run, it's the sex addict!!'.

Tango Advertising Boardroom, 1993

Exec A : What's Tango like?
Exec B : Dunno. Orangey.
Exec C : It's more than just Orangey, my friend. It's got zizz, it's got zazz. The bubbles suck up your tongue like the kisses of goldfish.
Exec B : Oh, stop it. You always get carried away like this.
Exec C : It's an experience, a lifestyle. It's a path, a method. A liquid universe with CO2 planets constantly being created and destroyed. It's a cosm.
Exec A : I'll get some coffee.
Exec B : No, stay. Please.
Exec C : It attacks you. It gets onto all fours behind you while its friend pushes you over it. It bites you during a kiss. It slaps its hands over your ears.
Exec B : Ha. We used to do that at school. It was funny.
Exec A : Didn't it hurt?
Exec B : Dunno. Never had it done to me. Did it to the fat kid, though. Ha. Fat kids. Haha.
Exec C : So that's it. We get a fat bloke, and he slaps this guy over the ears. The guy is drinking Tango.
Exec B : Haha. Fat bloke. Let's paint him orange. Then he'd look like an orange, all fat and orange.
Exec C : You're on fire, Jeremy.

The advert was banned, when parents complained that their children had been sent deaf by thousands of copy-cat ear-slappings around the country. Tango's attempts to distance themselves from this "dangerous" behaviour were damaged by the fact that the children were shouting "YOU'VE BEEN TANGO'D" as they did it.

See the revised version of the advert at Absolutely Andy. It's some way down the page, so search for "Tango".

Nickname bestowed upon George Cornish after he managed to nick roughly half of the contents of the Imperial War Museum's gift shop, using only his trouser and blazer pockets to stash the booty.

Although why anyone would want to steal powdered egg or a pencil sharpener shaped like a nazi is a mystery.

A chant from the glorious summer of 76/77.

What d'yer think of Tarzan undies?
Do they scare yer?
Do they scare yer?

This method of attack on the dignity of fellow pupils progressed thus:

1. Creep up behind intended victim.
2. Place your hands either side of victim's mouth and pull.
3. To compliment the now mongish expression on said victim's face, shout out "TATEY FACE!" in a Joey Deacon-esque voice.
4. Depending on size of victim relative to self, either pause to bask in the approval of your peers, or run like fuck.

Enjoy this attempt at catharsis from Miss b, who uses The Law of the Playground as a forum for a very public apology to her spud-headed daughter.

Oh my good god! My poor beautiful daughter I'm soooo sorry! As a baby we nicknamed her Tatie Kate, and it dogged her through school. At 17 years old and with the face and figure of a goddess she still gets called it by everyone. I honestly don't know what to say.

At Shortlanesend Junior School, Cornwall, when you had farted you said 'Taxi' while putting your thumb on your forehead. There were no recriminations or other rules - this was really just a badge of pride in case anyone hadn't heard/smelt the guff. You were really saying: 'I've farted! Woo-hoo!'

A song which was inexplicably sung by Robin B on several occasions at school, accompanied by a bongo-style drumming on his nipples:-

"Tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tchaikovskeeee;
Here he comes, banging his drums."

Is that not in some way derived from a song that Bruno, the fabulously permed keyboard spanker from Fame, played about Mr. Shorofsky, his music teacher?

The song in question is featured in the episode "A Musical Bridge" from Season One. Another episode where Bruno agonises over writing music when Montgomery tries to persuade him to cash in on his ability to produce "a mindless cacophony" (Sho-Sho-Sho-Shorofsky, Do The Gimme That).

I didn't just know that, by the way. I looked it up. - Ponky

In the days before Madonna got her whamblers out willy nilly, a picture of her chebs carried top-rank cachet. When presented with a grubby page ripped out of the Sunday Sport of Madonna, chebs akimbo, it became my avowed mission to show everyone in the class.

As the Queen of Pop's paps were returned to me, our teacher, who shall be known as Mrs X, demanded to know what was going on, and that I bring the paper to her. This is a classic scene, we all know it.

Whilst huffing and looking hard-done-by, I managed to secrete another shred of newspaper from my bag and take that to her instead.

Unfortunately, my plan was rumbled and I was moved to the front of the class.

The walk of shame was crappy enough, but when that fat bitch Mrs X went to my bag to try and see what I was really passing around, I was outraged; that was my bag. It was bag rape. Plus it had my Maddybaps in.

I sprinted to the back of the class to intercept her, and we locked horns in an ugly tug-o-war. Panicked, I gave one almighty heave and Mrs X went sprawling backwards, legs everywhere. Her mood wasn't improved when Isaac Martin yelled "fucking hell, you can see her snatch".

Although threatened with expulsion, I was eventually just made to copy out chapters of a science book, in the technician's room with the stuffed albatross and the terrapins. I can't see a terrapin to this day without thinking of Madonna's tits and my teacher's fanny.

Teacher Teacher, I declare,
I can see your underwear.

A memorable opening couplet to a piece of junior school playground poetry. There was undoubtedly more to this rhyme, but I can't recall it. Anyone who can supply the missing lines will have my eternal gratitude, as its keeping me awake at nights thinking about it.