1963 to 1964 1H Mr. Morehouse
1964 to 1965 2M Mr. Richard Mayhew (?)
1965 to 1966 3M Mr. Clive Beeley (?)
1966 to 1967 4M Mr. John C.Harrison
1967 to 1968 5M Mr. Trevor Higginbottom
1968 to 1969 Lower VI Mr. John Stott
1969 to 1970 Upper VI ?
Introduction
It was a blustery winter day,
wind howling, temperature of –23oC with a wind chill of –38oC,
and I was looking for something that could be done without stirring from in
front of the warm fire. (Preferably something left-handed, so my right hand
could keep hold of the glass of Glen Morangie.)
I had just received a letter from my brother, who had closed with the question “have you checked out the Firth Park Grammar School web-site?” This seemed to me to be an activity that would fit the bill perfectly - except for the minor adjustment of moving the tumbler to the left hand, thus leaving the right free for the mouse!
Six hours, and much Morangie, later, the old ball-and-chain is wondering whether I am still alive, and I am deeply immersed in a nostalgic journey through yesteryear. Not so deep however that I miss a couple of omissions and obvious inaccuracies, so it’s into the e-mail editor and a few well chosen words to the Web master. Then more, and more, Ad Nauseum!
It was shortly after a particularly pithy exchange of e-mails that Web-Master Steve tasked me with the question, “since you have so much to say, why don’t you jot down your memoirs to form a web-page”?
As I pondered the question, one thought was uppermost in my mind, “who would want to read my particular brand of bullshit?”
God knows I’m not capable of writing a definitive history of FPGS. (Couldn’t stay serious that long, for one thing.) I could, however, write a series of short stories and anecdotes based on my experiences. The drawback to this would be that my memories, dimmed by the passage of time and filtered by self-centeredness, may not always be the exact truth (but I promise you, always the truth as I re-call it). However, these stories and anecdotes, strung together, could form a framework onto which others could tag their own recollections and reminiscences. And, surely, in the best of all possible histories, there is always room for more than one point of view. (I know “don’t call me surely”).
So here it is! An irreverent look at life at The Brushes, during the tumultuous sixties!
But remember, it’s meant to be a starting point, not a finished (master)piece. So please send in comments, differing viewpoints of re-called events, other events and stories, or even down-right contradictions; and I’m sure Web-Master Steve will post them, with attribution, in the appropriate section within this missive.
If you’re from a different era, or one that over-laps, great! You’ll be extending the framework backwards, or forwards, in time so others of your era have a starting point. Who knows, maybe we can weave the threads of our recollections into one of those giant wall hangings that Spike told us the Normans liked to produce! Maybe we can make our own Brusheaux tapestry!
(Is Brush(eaux) French for Brush(es), if not …. it seems it should be; otherwise it screws up the pun – and anyway, do you really expect grammatically correct French from an ”M” stream boy!)
As I approach the beginning to the beginning of this work, I would like to offer my thanks, and kind thoughts, wherever they are now resting, to Silas and Efty – who labored mightily, through many hours of English Lit., attempting to teach me something about prose. A little seems to have rubbed off, to the point, anyway, that I, an Engineering Science student, am now capable of stringing whole sentences together to make comprehensible paragraphs. How about that! Any mistakes and grammatical errors are purely a matter of my classroom penchant for “not paying attention” BOY! (Sorry, but that last word, shouted rather than spoken, is indelibly attached, in my memory, to the fore-running three)
Been There! ………. Back Again!
(Where do I get the T-Shirt?)
 |
A Tyke’s Tale
by Mick Palmer Chapter 1 School Play : 1967 -Alan Roebuck as Charlie’s Aunt; Yours truly as CharlieCurtain up, Charlie’s opening line: "I can’t, I can’t get into the vein. I don’t know what to say, I don’t know where to begin" |
Moving forward 38 years: same comment!
Where to begin? That’s the question! Begin at the beginning and keep going until you reach the end! A sage piece of advice as was ever found in a children’s tale, but just where is the beginning.
Did it start in the front bedroom at 330 Sheffield Road on a cold January afternoon in ’52?
Did it start when I first saw that foreboding tower (and the strange looking pre-fab. buildings nestled against the sandstone wall), on the long walk home from Longley Park Swimming Baths, on a pleasant summer day in ’60.
Or did it start when my older brother, Terry, put on that red blazer and cap, girded up his loins in dark gray, short, trousers, and departed Tinsley, bound for the mysterious “Firth Park Grammar School”, in the late summer of ’61.1
Many choices, and I am sure that you, gentle readers, will all have your own starting point for your brush with The Brushes!
But I choose to start back in my final days at Tinsley Junior. Back with the 20 or so other working class kids trying to put their best efforts into that momentous of events … the dreaded 11 plus.
A day of torturous exam questions, that would decide whether you were to stay in Tinsley, for 4 more years of second-class education, with the prospect of leaving school at fifteen to become fodder for the Steel Mills and Coal Pits. Or whether you would start on that arduous path to “higher education”, and the promise of a job that didn’t involve a shovel!
We’d all had our noses to the grindstone for the past 3 years of Junior School. (Perhaps “most” would be a better word – even then, some amongst us had decided on the shovel route, and were looking forward to that glorious event of the first ten-bob note in a pay packet). We’d all suffered, under the stern gaze of Mr. Hall, through the multitude of practice tests in English and Math during this last year, and now the momentous day was upon us.
And gone!
Wish I could remember that day; the one that formed a pivotal point in so many young lives, but I’m drawing a blank here. Put it down to a “Senior Moment”, or the amazing way the Id is selective in what goes into long-term memory. (Maybe someone else can fill in a section on this subject.)
Then it was off for the long summer Holidays. Cricket and Football in the rec.; walks and fights on the woods and fields; and hunting for lost Golf Balls on Tinsley Golf Course (sometimes not so “lost” … boy with Golf Ball runs faster, and further, through long grass, than man with Golf Clubs and Pull-Cart. Life Lesson # 1 – Always have your line of retreat planned)
What should have been idyllic days, …… but tainted with that slight twinge of apprehension about an uncertain future. Would the postman, and the letter from the Sheffield Board of Education, ever arrive?
But Time and the SBE wait for no boy, and eventually the letter arrived with the morning postman (No “owl” delivery in Tinsley in those days!), and I can recall hanging out of the front bedroom window to call across the street, to my chum, John Mills, precariously perched in similar fashion, “I’m off to Firth Park” (He got into the Something Something Technical School …. Anyone remember its official name? )
Also later that summer I received a certificate, in the post, for a “Birley Scholarship”. That’s it! No explanation! Nothing! Later inquiries, through Flossie (Warm memories of this gentle soul; but even warmer ones of Sue and the mini-skirt!), revealed that it was something to do with being in the top 3 (?) in the city in English or Math, on the 11 plus. At one time it also involved a cheque, but wouldn’t you know I’d win it after the cash ran out!
(I mention this hoping that someone out there has a fuller explanation of what it was; and possibly that the surplus cash in the disbursement fund has been gaining compound interest for 40 years.)
So here we are in September, school year starting, and me with no uniform! (Financially embarrassed is a phrase that aptly applied in those earlier years.) Brother in the same boat! What use is last year’s tie if the shirt and trousers are too small?
After we’d had about 7 extra days of summer hols, HJS arrives at the door to see where we are! Listens to our explanation, and then drives off. Don’t know how he did it, but next day (paternal) grand-ma shows up with her Co-op dividend book, and it’s off downtown 2, to the Brightside and Carbrooke Store, for the Red Blazer, Cap, Tie, Short Pants etc. The following morning it’s “goodbye” jeans and T-shirt, “hello” uniform, and off to the bus and Firth Park.
Better late than never!
Notes:
1. He also got a new BIKE!!!!!!! From our Uncle, for being the 1st kid in our tribe to go to Grammar School. Me, as the second kid – nada! Envious to this day, but I console myself with the fact that at least I’m better looking than he is! I refer anyone disputing this statement to the photograph section, Prefects, 1967 to 1968, for comparison.
2. For the younger reader: If you wanted shopping, in those days, it was a choice between Attercliffe Common, or Rotherham or Sheffield High Streets. Meadowhall was the name of the Power Plant and the Sewage Works, and the Mall was just a gleam in some Architects eye. Meadowhall Road and Weedon Street were just another area of somber steel works, and Vulcan Road was where the trams used to turn around …….. no the real tram, not that present day “super” monstrosity that’s screwed up the streets and traffic flow making everyday driving an adventure for us expats visiting the family for a week or two. (Am I getting old, or what?)
Chapter 2 First Day
The old ball-and-chain, during proofreading, had the one-word comment “confusing” for this section.
So for those of you that already have the school layout firmly planted in their minds, please skip the sections in italics and go directly to the regular prose.
For those of you who are here solely to be entertained, and wish to avoid the long boring bits, please skip the sections in italics and go directly to the regular prose.
For those of you wishing to peruse a literary treatise of everyday life at an English Grammar School in the Sixties, please skip the sections in black letters, and go directly to the “back” button on your browser!
Bus pass in hand, courtesy of the General Post Office and the Yorkshire Transit Authority, and it’s off to Tinsley (Highgate) for the No. 24 bus to Attercliffe Common, and then the No. 17 bus for Sheffield Lane Top.
Waiting for the No. 17 I’m introduced to my brother’s friends as “kid brother”, and then summarily ignored - except for the occasional “cap knocking off” episode.
Getting off the No. 17 at Stubbin Lane,
and following the crowd down the street, past the police station, through back streets until we finally reach a set of large, green, railed, gates and we’re into the schoolyard. Turning right, past the old stables (Tuck Shop and then Dining Room) on the right and the Woodwork/Metalwork Shops on the left, and then sharp left
and into the main Yard, to join a throng of people pushing and shoving in the area in front of a set of small, green, double doors, waiting for the bell to sound and authorize our entry into the main building.
I’m being jostled more than is necessary, and my cap is getting knocked askew more frequently than mere chance would allow and I realize that I am being picked on. Picked on by just about everyone not wearing a new cap!
As someone used to being the big fish in Tinsley Junior’s small pond it’s a tough awakening to realize that you are now something lower than low, something so low that it would have to look upwards to see a rattlesnake’s belly in a wagon rut1, I am, in fact, officially, and for the next 365 days ……….. a FAG.
Up until this point, to me a fag was a word that came with a gizza, attached, as in “gizza fag”, a colloquialism for a cigarette. Now I was to learn another use for the same word, as in a first year boy whose sole purpose in life was to be the butt of every abuse and indignity that older people could heap on him. The more you complained or fought back, the more got heaped. Everyone from Masters, Prefects and boys down to, and including, the second year, – in spite of, or perhaps because of, the fact that they had been fags themselves just a few more months earlier – got into the act!
So here I am being pushed and shoved, simply trying to fade into the brickwork whilst at the same time keeping my red cap firmly on my head, when from within this sea of humanity comes a life-line. A lifeline in the form of Jimmy Prince, my best mate all through Tinsley Infants and Junior, and now destined to have his fate intertwined with mine for a further 5 years.
He quickly established that he and I were in the same Form (another new word – what was wrong with the “class:” that I’d grown up with), namely 1H, which stood for Haig (not the slightest clue who, or what, that was) and that a Mr Morehouse was our Form Master. No time for more as, at that moment, the bell rang, and the pushing, shoving mob turned into a living organism as everyone surged, as one, towards those small, green doors.
Hanging onto Jim for dear life, I was pushed and jostled into a small holding area, past another set of doors on my left and a cloakroom on my right; and then up a short set of steps. Here the path ahead turned right, single door on my left at the top of the steps, and narrowed into a long corridor, pinched between the staff room then lunch room on my left and a set of washrooms and then a kitchen area on my right.
In hindsight I’ve seen more manners in a school of salmon surging up a ladder on their way up-stream to spawn, than was obvious in that unruly mob. However, giving as good as I got (Cap now firmly tucked in jacket pocket and elbows and knees in defensive/offensive mode) I followed Jim down that picture lined corridor and then out into an open area. Some surged straight ahead but Jim, with me in tow, stuck with the stream turning left and I faced what can only be described as a “Grand” staircase.
Imagine the awe of someone who up ‘til now has only been in single story schools, and to whom a staircase was merely a narrow set up stairs going up to the bedrooms. This one was at least 3 times wider than anything I was used to, it had a polished wooden rail on the right, delineating an open drop into a large hall, and miracle of miracles, bent backwards upon itself by means of a landing half-way up, Said landing being back-dropped by a beautiful stained-glass window.
No time for gawping! The thronging surge of humanity carried us upwards, around the bend, further upwards, to disgorge us upon a small landing
Heads study and Vice-Heads Form room on the left, Office in front, and the current here splits into two distinct streams. One heads forward and into a corridor to the right of the office, the other turning right and continuing upwards via a much smaller, rickety looking staircase.
Jim picks up the stream going ahead, and I follow him into a right turn, past the staff lunch room, then a right into a doorway, across from the first-aid room, and we come to rest in what is to be my home away from home for the next ten months – the 1H common room.
This is a small, squarish, space; with desks in rows, facing a larger desk in front, and a blackboard behind the larger desk. A window in the wall opposite the door looks out into a green space, with buildings lining either side, and a third building at the rear.
Still no time for sightseeing as Jim points me to a desk in the front row, which he tells me is mine, and heads towards the back of the room and his own desk. I’m just introducing myself to a small bespectacled kid next to me (Paul Beresford) when my jaw drops, as in walks a guy in a batman’s cape. I kid you not, an honest-to-god black cloth draped around his shoulders that the caped-crusader would have been proud to own. You could have knocked me over with a feather. (By now you should be getting the idea that my life up until this point has been somewhat parochial; the sheltered life of a working class kid, whose idea of the visiting the big world is the local Working Man’s Club outing to Cleethorpes.)
With a loud “sit-down”, he’s leaning on his desk and calling the role. When he gets to me I get a gruff “glad you could finally join us” and that’s my first introduction to Mr. (Jammy) Morehouse, House, and English, Master to Form 1H.
Once attendance is taken we’re up and out the door,
retracing our steps down the magnificent staircase and back along the narrow corridor. As we turn left, down the short flight of concrete steps I can see in front of me, between the doors that we entered from the Yard, and the set of doors on my right, a small set of stairs leading upwards. The Form turns right through the double doors and we’re now in a wide corridor leading to another set of doors through which I can see another Yard and what look to be Bicycle Sheds.
The wall to the right is bare, and dotted along it are clumps of Blue-Blazered Prefects. The wall on the left has 3 sets of double doors, which are open. We pass down to the third set and enter into the Great Hall/Gymnasium.
Great Hall is two stories high, and in the facing wall are tall windows, protected by the horizontal bars of the climbing apparatus that lines the whole wall. Other assorted equipment such as ropes, frames, and rings are dotted along both the far wall, and the wall through which we have just passed. These are tied back now, but appear to be capable of being pulled out, along over-head track, towards the center of the room. On my left, at the rear, is a Minstrels Gallery, obviously accessed by the set of stairs noticed earlier. Below the Minstrels Gallery, the back wall appears to be made up of a series of doors leading into a storage area. Immediately to my right, running the width of the Great Hall is a raised stage area, about 3ft. off the ground.
We are quickly lined up single-file, facing the stage, across the width of the Hall. Other Forms join our file at the front, while larger boys file into lines behind us. It soon becomes apparent that we’re grouped front to rear by school year, and the Minstrels Gallery fills up with Sixth formers and Masters. Interestingly enough not all masters are wearing gowns, I’d guess at 50/50 with the preponderance being worn by older staff members.
The clumps of prefects now move away from the corridor wall, close the doors, and take up watchful positions, facing inwards, at the end of each line. (This memory was brought vividly to mind last year, when I was doing the tourist thing around Alcatraz, and saw photos of a typical mealtime in the mess hall.) Under their withering gaze silence slowly settles, and the final hush descends as a small group of people access the stage via a door, and short flight of steps, on the right.
Yep! It’s morning assembly time. A daily ritual (except for Mondays) of parochial CE hymn singing, with piano accompaniment; followed by a reading from the King James Version, and announcements by The Head (Mr. Henry John Sylvester (HJS) Wilson – of the Wilson Snuff Clan) and/or Vice-Head (Mr. (Duke) Weatherall).
We all stand quietly, apart from some feet shuffling, during this ritual, and then the on-stage party departs, the prefects re-open the doors, and we file out, in an orderly fashion, to commence our educational endeavors.
On this first morning I still haven’t managed to snag a time-table, so I’m going with the flow and following Jim, who advises me we’re off for French.
It’s back down the narrow corridor, but this time we go straight past the bottom of the stairs, down two short steps and were into the front-hall. Darkened area under the stairs, fireplace and FT Woods English room on our left, Staff washroom and Staff/Prefects Entrance on our right, and we’re angling through a set of doors into the music wing.
This building has a concrete floored corridor, running backwards from the main building. The top half of the wall on our left is metal framed windows, through which can be seen a flag-stoned area, approx. 4 yd. wide, running the width of the main building, and then a small, 2 ft. high, flagstone wall, behind which is the green grass of the Quadrangle. On our right is Dr. Machin’s Physics lab, followed by an entranceway which leads into a small vestibule; entrance to Dr. Machin’s Lab on the right and Mr. Parry’s Music room on the left. In the left-hand wall, the windows give way to a set of doors, which lead out into the Quad. Staying with the main corridor we go up a couple of concrete steps. Continuing along the corridor we pass the entrance to Alf Prince’s Chemistry Lab (Jim’s middle name is Alfred – go figure the odds on that one!) on the right, while the windows continue on our left. Up a few more stairs and were out of the Music Wing and into the Library wing.
A corridor now stretches off to our left, running across the rear of the quadrangle, with three classroom doors leading off the right side, and a continuation of the glass windowed wall on the left. We however swing right, through a set of doors and onto a staircase that bends upwards to a second floor corridor directly above the first floor one. Similar layout.
We turn into the first classroom on our right and take our places at the desks. A few minutes later in walks the short, plug-like, gowned, figure of Dr Eker. I notice that his gown differs from the others I’ve seen so far, in that his has a piece of dead animal fur attached around the collar.
I am later to learn that the thicker, and more luxurious, the dead animal fur one has on ones shoulders, then the more parchments one has on ones “ego-wall”, the more letters one can jumble after ones name, and the higher up in the pecking order one is. (It strikes me that apart from the letters and parchment, this group is similar to Neanderthals.2)
As Dr. Eker enters the room, a curious phenomenon occurs. The form rises as one, stands politely in their desks and proceeds to mouth, as one voice, a complete string of gibberish
“JeSuisTuEsIlEstElleEstNousSommesVousEtesIlsSontEllesSont”
and then sits back down.
Having missed the first weeks worth of French I am bewildered and puzzled by this – a feeling that is to follow me to every French Lesson for the next 5 years. I am eventually to figure out that this is the conjugation of the French Verb Etre (To be), and get the phrase down pat, only to find that the form has moved on to
“J’aiTuAsIlAElleANousAvonsVousAvezIlsOntEllesOnt”
a head start that I was never to make up!3
The next 90 minutes pass in a dazed fog, then the bell rings and we’re packing up and heading out.
This time we turn right out of the door and follow the corridor along to the end, art room stretches out in front of us, and we take the staircase on our left down to the first floor. We turn left here, past the library, up some more steps, out a set of doors in the end of the building, and into the upper corner of the quad.
We turn left and follow a path, running at approx. a 30-degree angle, behind the quad, down to Spike’s Wing. (I know it was called something else in those days, but I’m hoping starting a new trend, and re-name it in honor of a Great Teacher, Mentor, and last, but not least, Humanitarian!)
Spike’s wing is the building that runs off to our left, making up the fourth side of the quad, as it joins onto the main building. The path takes us along the end-wall of the wing, towards a set of outdoor Toilets. Before we reach these. we swing left, through a set of doors in the center of the end-wall, into a corridor running straight down the center of the wing, towards another set of double doors in the distance. There are lockers lining both walls, and doorways into classrooms, to left and right, at regular intervals.
We enter the second room down on the left and find a youngish man sitting in a chair, feet up on desk, cow-lick of fair hair falling over one eye, strumming an Acoustic Guitar. A pose, I was to find out over the next 7 years, that was not unusual for Mr. Barry (Crispy) Smith, - an ex-boy now doing the “Welcome Back Kotter” routine in the Math Department.
A couple more minutes of chord strumming and nail paring, during which the stragglers meandered in, and then it’s into 90 minutes of math. Considering that I spent the better part of 7 years learning Math and advanced Math from Crispy, and was proud to call him a friend as well as “Sir” we didn’t start out too well!
He was the first (but not the last) master to mutter the phrase “Palmer Hmm! Related to Terry, Hmm! If you do half as well as him you’ll do fine” This phrase was a “red flag to a bull” as far as I was concerned. I was an individual, not an appendage to my brother, and I’d been hearing this phrase all my school life. Proving I was different from my studious brother had led me into many a scrape and escapade throughout infant and junior school, and was to become, in part, the driving force behind my obdurate nature in FPGS.
So here I am, first day, starting to dig my heels in! I’d like to think that my response was something along the lines of “Sir, I’m sure that although you will find there are many similarities between my older sibling and I, you will also find that there are a number of striking differences.” Unfortunately I suspect that my vocabulary, at the time, led to the scintillating “Yeah, Right!”
I wish I could recall an anecdote from that first day with Crispy but my mind draws a blank. So we’ll draw the curtain on first day math as the dinner bell sounds, and once again, we’re up and out the door.
This time we continue down the corridor towards the main building. Passing two, or three, more classrooms to left and right, and a small corridor going off to our left. (The last classroom on the left, prior to the small corridor, is Spike’s, Although many Masters were subject to the vagaries of fate, and were to switch classrooms seemingly at random, Spike’s was inviolate.) Through a set of double doors, we find ourselves in a dark, wide, locker-lined passageway. Down a small flight of steps, past the gymnasium changing rooms on our right, down a few more steps, past a cloakroom on our right, and we’re back in the corridor alongside the Great Hall; having successfully circumnavigated the whole school in the course of one morning.
Some boys head home for lunch. Some boys head to their favorite locations to gorge upon packed lunches. Some choose to head into Firth Park to purchase lunch. For those wishing to partake of the School Dinner Program, Dinner is served in one of three rooms. The main dining room is in the main building, on the left at the end of the narrow corridor, just before getting to the main stairs. Two smaller dining rooms can be found to the left and right of the kitchen section, converted from the old stables, nestled between the Caretaker’s cottage and the Workshop’s. Entry to the Dining Room requires a previously purchased dinner “ticket”, which one can obtain individually at the office, or in Bulk every Monday morning, when the school’s Assistant Secretary makes the rounds of each class-room just for that purpose.
Is there any red blooded boy out there who’s school memories of the late 60’s does not include a vision of the beautiful, unattainable4, Sue Burgoyne, tight sweater, mini skirt and knee-high boot attired, leant over the front desk with a small roll of pink tickets clutched in her hand. (I had to think real hard to visualize the tickets.) Many a cold, dark Monday morning (and I put it to you, maybe a cold dark Monday night or two) was enlightened by such a vision. (Anyone think Sue was unaware of the effect she was having?)
Dinner consisted of a meat dish, potatoes and a veg., followed by some form of desert, generally covered in custard. All of which had been scientifically designed for the right combination of vitamins and minerals necessary for a growing boy. (Sometimes, those with cast-iron stomachs were lucky enough to get second helpings.)
Such gourmet delights, lovingly served in a manner pleasing to both eye and pallet, by the happy, smiling, green-smocked, hair-netted, kitchen ladies.
Law and Order kept by a couple of Prefects and a Master.
There has to be hundreds of “dining room” stories out there – looking forward to hearing a few!
After Dinner it’s out the main gate, across the road to the playing fields and a pick-up game of footer, until the bell rings and were headed back to class, usually covered in mud and grass-stains, for 4 more periods; and then the long bus-trip home.
Notes:
1.I once had a Regional President, a true Texas Aggie who used the expression “lower than a rattlesnake’s belly in a wagon rut” at every opportunity. I always did want to work it into a sentence somewhere!
2. Ouch, the old ball-and-chain, who has her own collection of sheepskin, parchments and letters, just whacked me for that one. But gently, as she knows I have never been one to equate the size of the Ego-wall with the size of the intellect. After all, I have a thermometer in my bathroom cabinet – it has a hundred degrees, but it still can’t THINK!
3. Why did a Tyke, from Tinsley, need to speak French anyway? Were we not Britannia, rulers of an Empire on which the sun never set? Surely any native wishing to communicate would learn English! Little did I know that for 20 years or more of my adult life I’d be in and out of the Province of Quebec, trying to converse with said natives and decipher technical spec.’s written in Quebecois. Eh bien, c’est la vie! (Sam can be much consoled by the fact that he who laughs last etc (assuming he even gives a damn) .… refer to the Chapters on 4M & 5M) )
4.For anyone wishing to submit a thread on how the unattainable was attained, I would like to point out that one of the main points of the 7 year exercise was to turn us into young gentlemen, and young gentlemen do not kiss and tell.
Authors Note: As an old gentlemen, I now know that what cannot be discussed publicly can often be discussed privately. Typically over cigar and brandies. You have my e-mail, and as Mr Spock would say – I’m all ears!
Chapter 3: The First Year (1H) 1963 to 1964
I went into quite a bit of detail covering the first day. Partly to give non-pupil readers a feel for the physical lay-out of the school. Partly to refresh ex-pupils dim memories of the daily grind of school life. But mainly to try to give readers a feel for how emotionally overwhelming an experience this transition was for me. In retrospect I have to believe that most other first year boys were in similar straits. Small town hick being hit with big city life. So many new customs, roles and experiences to swallow in one big lump ……. . and the promise of more on the following day!
There is not enough time or space (or memories) to go into such detail for every day, so from here-on-in we’ll hit the highlights and fill-in with anecdotes and thumb-nail sketches.
Our Form was 1H, which was short for Haigh (a WWI General I was later to find out – probably in Spike’s History class). The school was split into four “Houses” – Foch, Haigh, Beatty and Kings. Each house had a house color (Red, Green, Light Blue and Dark Blue respectively) and specific House Masters. First years were assigned on an ad-hoc basis I assume, since I never saw a Sorting Hat or other such device, to a specific house, and consequently a first year Form.
Although your Form was likely to change during your tenure at FPGS, your house allegiance was settled forever! Each house was responsible for forming sports teams, debating teams etc. and inter-house leagues and rivalries were part of everyday life. I seem to recall house points were part of the mix, but nothing specific on that point. (Thread anyone?) Houses met each Monday morning, in lieu of a general assembly. Haigh House met in the music room, and Monday morning meetings followed the usual line of hymn, reading and announcements. Here, the announcements were specific to house issues such as Football Team, Cricket Team etc. and whatever inter-house events were planned for the forthcoming week or so. House cups were common for most sports, competed for throughout the year. I seem to recall that school sports day also involved Houses competing against each other in various Athletic events. More on sports day later!
Talking of the Music room, I’m sure that for most of us, the first year memories include Mr. Parry and the school choir. Once a thing of renown within Yorkshire and environs, by now the choir’s role is somewhat tarnished and faded, but still a thing of pride for the school in general and Mr. Parry in particular.
Who can forget their first music lesson? On entering the music room one is standing facing an upward tiered set of stalls, split into two sections by an aisle. The aisle is not quite centered, and the left-hand rows are shorter than the right-hand rows. Mr. Parry’s lectern, desk and blackboard; along with piano, drums and other assorted instruments; are at the front. One is asked to sing a selected piece, evaluated by the discerning ear of “The Master”. Oh happy is the day when you are assigned to sit in the right-hand rows and join the ranks of the singers. Woeful be the news that one is assigned to the left-hand side, the segregated habitat of the “Non-Singers”.
Singers get to be in the choir. Which means that, for the next two years, the first period on Monday morning is spent in choir practice in the Great Hall. Non-singers are required to show up in the music room, where, under the watchful eye of a prefect, they can do anything they want, so long as it is done quietly. Singers get to actively participate in the music lessons. Non-singers can listen quietly, but any “hand-in-the-air” is studiously ignored.
Having a somewhat melodious voice (actually I’ve always loved to sing) I was assigned to the singing section. Furthermore I was then informed that I had been given the singular honor of being in the “Special” Choir.
This was the section of the general choir made up by those who had been blessed with above average voices or tonal range. This group got to stand segregated, a little, from the main choir, and was charged with handling the “difficult” bits. Such an honor, and all I had to do was show up for Special Choir practice, every Monday lunch-time, and sing.
Hang on a minute! I don’t mind singing. I actually enjoy singing (although nowadays it’s mainly proscribed to the Shower.) But don’t ask me to give up my personal time, and footer on the playing fields! This was not at all good, and lasted for only a couple of weeks until I worked up the nerve to tell Mr. Parry that I no longer wished to be in the Special Choir.
Remember the scene in Sleeping Beauty where the prince is forcing his path, through the thorns, to the castle? The wicked witch transforms into a fire-breathing dragon, the skies darken, thunder booms in the distance and jagged forks of flaming dragons-breath strike all around the brave prince!
A mere Fairy Tale! Nothing, compared to the fury of a special choir master scorned. If looks could kill I’d have been neutered on the spot! A loud screech emanates from anger-swollen lips, and I translate it as “If you’re not going to sing in the special choir, you are not going to sing at all!” And in one, sad, megalomaniacal moment I am cast down, into the dark nether world of the untermenschen. I become a Non-Singer!
Wait a minute. Now I get 45 minutes, every Monday morning, to do anything I want. Could there be a better time for doing the weekend homework (or copying from someone who already had!). Life is good! Life is great! And all I have to do is give up singing for the rest of my tenure at FPGS. Such a deal! 1 (One could still find ways to sing, unofficially – more later.)
Who remembers the 63-64 Staff Dining Room Prank, pulled off by the Prefects?
To appreciate this you have to picture the layout. Staff dining room is on the second floor of the main building. Access is through a single small door, and the room has a large picture window in the back wall, looking out over the Quad. The Prefects Room is on the third floor directly above the staff dining room, and it too has a window overlooking the Quad. Lunch is served at 12.00 PM, and Masters make their way into the lunchroom and serve themselves from the steam tables. At around 12.15PM a purloined key is used to lock the door from the outside. At the same time a second miscreant pulls the fuses for the lights (It’s an old school, no simple re-setting of circuit breakers will foil this plot.) With timing that would have impressed a member of Stalag Luft XIV’s escape committee, a large tarpaulin is lowered from the Prefects common room until it covers the window of the staff dining room, turning the interior pitch black.
Howls of rage from within. Louder howls from outside, as Efty has arrived late and cannot get in to his food! Any of the perpetrators out there, now’s the time to stand up and take your place in history!
Talking of History. History that first year was under the patient tutelage of Mr. (Spike) Johnson. There is enough information written by, and about, Spike to fill it’s own Library, and anything I can add would be minimal.
Leave it that the man was a shining example to all who had the good fortune to cross his path; and I was to cross his path in a variety of different roles over the next 7 years. I never saw Spike with anything but a smile on his face, and never heard him utter a bad word about anyone.
As far as History class goes, I don’t recall much, other than he had a passion for his subject; facts, names and dates would drip readily from his tongue, without recourse to textbooks; and nobody misbehaved in Spike’s class!
It wasn’t that Spike was a tyrant, or a ready wielder of capital punishment, far from it! It was just that as the embodiment of the “School Spirit” - Spike was untouchable. While any other Master was fair game for jests and japes, the unwritten school rule was that Spike was “out-of-bounds”.
(To put it in perspective, Spike, being Spike, was such an easy target that what sort of sorry-assed jester could be so desperate for attention, so low down the chain of human evolution, as to have as his sole bragging rights that he “put one over” on Spike.)
We were also introduced to the Physical Sciences, namely Chemistry, Physics and Biology, that year – but other than a couple of tea-chests full of Locusts in the biology Lab. I can’t recall a single thing, or anecdote. Anyone want to pick up this thread?
1H English is taught by Jammy, our Form Master. Nothing startling stands out about first year English, except I would like to point out that if one has not done one’s homework, and one wishes to use the “sick” routine to get out of school for his period, one had better work on ones acting skills to the point that one gets sent home!
Simply going to the office and saying “OOH, My head hurts!” will only earn you a look of sympathy from Marcia, a short trip to the sick-bay, and a glass of water and an aspirin.
(Life Lesson #2: “Hide in plain sight” is an oxymoron! If you need to hide, far away and inconspicuous is the only way to go)
For Jammy is a cunning animal, and a few short steps across the hall, followed by the simple act of opening the sickbay door, leads to the question “Where is your homework, Boy? Since you’re now forced to fall back on such an obvious falsehood as “The cat ate it, sir!” there can be only one, inevitable, outcome – Detention.
Detention! Detention is a fact of life for Fags. Detention is a punishment that can be meted out, by Masters and Prefects alike, for any number of infractions – real or imagined. There is no court of appeal! One simply says “thank-you sir” and plans on leaving late on the next Tuesday or Thursday.
(I stand to be corrected here, but I recall that detentions were limited to these two nights of the week).
Detention is held in Jammy’s room. Perhaps because it has the best picture window view of the quadrangle and the outside world, the more to torment detainees with what they are missing. Perhaps because it had a large clock with a slow-moving second hand. (The devisers of this system were fiendishly cunning in their methods of breaking ones spirit!) Whatever the reason one showed up here at 4.00 PM, took a seat at a desk, under the scrutiny of one, or possibly two, Prefects, and proceeded to do absolutely nothing for the next 45 minutes.
(Again, I stand to be corrected. Despite the number of times I have sat there and watched that second hand make its languorous sweep of the clock face, I cannot recall exactly what time signaled The End! Since I recall the school bell rang at detention’s conclusion, 45 minutes (1 Period) makes sense.)
All good things come to an end, and the school year wraps up, as it is usually does, with written exams in all subjects. Unbeknownst to myself (perhaps it was explained in the first week and no-one thought to give me a personal review) but the school works around a system of determining ones future course of endeavor based primarily on the mark in the French Exam.
Once first year exams are finished, and marks tallied, the boys are assigned to one of five 2nd year Forms, and locked into 4 year study tracks, as follows:
First a select group is chosen for fast-tracking to their O-levels. (One assumes this is based on overall marks and not merely French.) This group of 20, or so, is streamed so as to be prepared for O-levels in their fourth year. On top of this extra workload, they’re also required to learn Latin along with their French– presumably so there’ll always be someone available to translate the school motto and song for us lesser mortals. This group becomes Form 2A.
Next it’s a quick look at the French Exam mark, and the best 25 or so are assigned to 2R and a course in Russian along-side their French. I don’t know why Russian. Maybe it was to give Boris something to do, or maybe we had an arrangement with Her Majesty’s Secret Service. (I refer you to the Gerald Brooke story in the “Pupils” section of this web-site). I do know that they never approached me! The closest I ever got to James Bond was when our Form visited the DB6 assembly line, at the Aston Martin factory, in the 5th year.
Tracking lower down the French marks, the next 25 or so are destined for 2G, and German along with their French. At least this was logical. We’d all read the WWII POW stories and knew the value, to an English Tommy, of speaking German. Besides who knows when we’d next need a bunch of interrogators and guards for our own camps.
Really hitting the low spots now and we’re looking at 25 or so for 2S, who are going to get a dose of Spanish as their second language. Good forward thinking this. The cheap airfares and package tours have not yet come of age, but when they do these guys will be right at home on the Iberian Peninsula.
And then we’re down in the weeds with the bottom 25 or so, for whom partaking in a second language is about as practical as partaking in a second coming! For these dolts there’s no other choice than to skip the language program altogether (although they still had to take French) and settle for something more practical, and less esoterical. For them it’s the menial world of Engineering Science. Thankfully, someone was paying attention (ES was short for Educationally Sub-normal) and those of us in the Engineering stream found ourselves assigned to 2M (Mechanics) rather than 2ES2.
Notes:
1. As mentioned earlier, being a “Non-singers” did allow you to listen to the music lesson, even though one could not participate. So I would like to thank Mr. Parry for (unknowingly) sparking a lifelong interest in the world of Classical Music. An interest that took a few years to develop, but now my car radio is tuned to the classical FM station, our CD rack has a significant classics section, and both the ball-and-chain and I enjoy many a pleasant evening at the symphony. (I’m trying to get her to expand her mind into Opera, but she’s digging her heels in on that one!)
2. In defence of the Language Arts program, I would like to point out that, in my business career, I have Struggled with Spanish in conversations in Mexico, Chile and L.A.; I have Grappled with German in discussions in Munich and Vienna; I have Longed for Latin in negotiations in Bucharesti and Tergoviste; but have never (yet) encountered a situation with a Requirement for Russian!
Chapter 4: The 2nd Year (2M) 1964 to 1965
Well it’s the start of the 2nd year. Still got the red cap, still got the short pants, but at least I’m no longer a Fag!
Now I join a cast of characters, most of whom are to be around for the next 4 years. Since they’ll be the ones providing material for the bulk of the anecdotes, it’s only fair that they get an honorable mention.
Here’s the list of miscreants, as best I can recall:
Allen? Bradshaw Michael (Mick) Cawthorne
Kevin (Faz) Farrell Charlie (Chas) Roberts
James? (Tikka) Whittaker Paul Kniveton
Ian? (Bertie) Burtenshaw Ian (Snake) Bradley
James (Jim) Prince Walter (Wally) Smith
John (Leo) Lee Ian Woodhall
Ian Hendry Michael Moore
Peter (Chiz) Kozlowski Morris (Moggie) Slater
Derek Sheldon
I know I’ve missed a few, but hopefully someone else (Michael Moore?) can help out here.
Second year French was taught by Mr (Nebbie) Parker. I think. Obviously he made a lasting impression on me!
1964 saw the appointment of a female staff member to the biology department, Mrs. K (Katie) Traynor, and she became our biology teacher for this year. I recall a slim woman, of diminutive stature. I also recall the time when we were doing work on the Cardio-Pulmonary System, and one of the homework assignments had been to measure our pulse rates. Sometime during the lesson, she was quizzing people on their results. When she got to Michael Moore, his response was some ridiculously high number. Katie came back with the query “why so high”, to which Michael responded “I was on top of my sister at the time”!
Now Michael, as a boy, was small in stature, kind of mousy looking, and a bookworm to boot (He was transferred to 3A at the end of the year), so the statement was not only incongruent, it was down right ridiculous. He did attempt a second explanation, to the effect that they we’re fighting at the time, but when one considers that the class was full of puerile adolescent boys, it was way too late.
Starting at the rear, with Chas. and friends, came a whooping and hollering, followed by banging of hands on desks, and stools on floor. The wave of noise continued to grow as the whole class took up the challenge of who could laugh loudest, or bang hardest. Katie, whose control of the class had been minimal to start with, had totally lost it!
This minor riot went on for a number of minutes!
Did I mention that the Biology Lab. was on the second floor of the main building, just a few short yards from HJS’s study?
Suddenly the door flies open, and there stands HJS in full wrath. Silence descends. And stands firm. You could have heard a pin drop by the time HJS quietly asks “What is going on here?” As one, the herd turns and looks at Michael. HJS follows our gaze, and his wrath is diverted.
Now Michael has probably never been in trouble in school in his life, and here he is in the mother of all troubles, answerable to HJS for all the commotion. As he stands there tongue-tied and quaking, I will draw a veil over his next few minutes of suffering. (Thread, Michael?)
I’m sure Katie received a few quiet words of wisdom privately. Is it co-incidence that she left us at the end of this year?
Chemistry falls under the purview of Mr (Clive) Beeley and apart from the usual mixing of re-agents on the benches, so as to screw up the next form’s experiments, I recall nothing of note!
Up until now I’d been coasting along in my school life; much as a schooner, four-sheets to the wind, coasts along in the gale’s full force i.e. from one scrape to the next, totally out of control. Life was to toss me a sea anchor, two actually, in the form of Engineering and Physics, under the careful tutelage of Mr. J.C. (Pod) Harrison. At last I had subjects that were interesting, and even seemed to be of some practical value.
Pod’s domain was the left hand pre-fab. building, in the main yard. Wonderfully warm on a cold winter’s day, and, to my mind, a haven in which the workings of the physical world were slowly, but patiently, imparted in the challenging style of the inimitable Pod. A small, stocky, man. Generally attired in dark-blue, well-worn, chalk dust covered suit, and white shirt with frayed cuffs and collar. Who can forget his “in-your-face” attitude when asking a question? Little eyes gleaming, chin thrust forward, bottom lip protruding, and the inevitable small, white, clump of dried spittle in the corner of his mouth!
A tough taskmaster, especially if he thought you were slacking, but a man deeply knowledgeable in his subjects, who loved nothing more (excepting, possibly, his Jazz Records) than to teach them.
(Thanks John, if you’re out there, for all your well intentioned pushing and prodding. I know I wasn’t always appreciative of your efforts, but then again I was just a kid ………… cut me some slack here!)
Under Pod’s watchful eye I managed to settle down a little in the second year, to the extent that I came top of the year in the Physics exams and took the prize. (Never did get an appreciation for Jazz though). Being good in the subject did not, however, keep me from Pod’s propensity for passing out lines!
Lines: Lines were the bane of school life. Lines were assigned by masters for any minor infraction of the rules that did not warrant corporal punishment. Lines typically consisted of writing out a phrase covering the infraction, such as ‘I must not talk in class” or “I must not shout out in class” or “I must not run in the hallway” etc. Said phrase had to be written out, in neat penmanship, 50, 100 or 200 times – the actual number of times being at the whim of the master assigning the punishment. They were normally to be handed in at the next lesson, or sometimes delivered to the Master at the staff-room door, prior to commencement of school next day.
Put it down to my mechanical bent, but many is the time I’ve tried scotch-taping ball points together so as to quicken the task. (Sometimes successfully, often not – it all depends how much rigidity you can get into the system. After you’ve aligned the pens correctly in the vertical plane, you need to splint the assembly, top and bottom in the horizontal plane ……. but I digress!)
Some people, Ian Hendry comes to mind, seek to lighten the load by using different colored ball-points for each line. I recall one time that Ian even went so far as to use a different color for each letter; starting each line with the next color in sequence from the one starting the previous line. He produced a work of art. To no avail, the paper still ended up crumpled in the waste basket next day!
As can be seen from the examples, not many Masters bothered to put any originality into the punishment. Pod however was a different matter. Pod’s lines were not only chosen to be of such length that they tired the wrist and cramped the fingers, Pod’s lines were meant to impart knowledge.
Who can forget “The current flowing through a conductor is directly proportional to the potential difference between its ends, provided the temperature remains constant.” Ohms Law. I’ve written that one out so many times it is printed on my soul. (I’m hoping St Peter has it on the entrance exam for heaven!) Anyone want to try for another couple of Pod’s favorites – Charles’ and Boyle’s Law?
Talking of Heaven. Next door to Pod, in the right hand pre-fab was Mr Butler, the Master for Religious Instruction. I recall a tall, lean looking individual. Did he sport an Afro? Not much to say at this point, but I will refer to him later!
Second year also saw the introduction to Woodworking under Mr Page. I remember making a towel-rack and a tea-tray. (I believe one of my aunts still has the tea tray). The skills learnt in this one year in wood shop have lasted me through a life time of home ownership and DIY projects. Even though most of my current tools are battery operated, I still can’t pick up a saw without thinking kindly on the man who first taught me the proper way to use one. “Measure Twice, Cut Once” is a phrase that will stick with me for the rest of my life!
Second year was when I joined the school scout troop. Scout meetings were held on Friday evenings under Scoutmasters Spike and Das (D.A. Smith).
My most prominent memory of the scout meetings was a game called “Pirates” or “Buccaneers” or some such nautical lingo.
This involved dragging out and erecting every piece of gymnastic apparatus, and scattering it about the Gym. The objective was to move around the gym, without touching the floor, by means of the various pieces of apparatus.
To make matters difficult, DAS was given a football, to represent a cannonball, and would throw it at you in an attempt to hit you. If you were hit, you joined Das’s team. Objective, to be the last man standing! Great fun, swinging, climbing and jumping; but not sure how it would go over nowadays with Lawyers and Accident Insurance etc.
Now the neat thing about the scout troop was that the meetings didn’t actually start until 6.30PM, so one had the run of the school from around 5.00 PM, when most people had left for the weekend, and the start of the meeting. If one took care to avoid the caretaker and staff, one could roam at will.
Leo, Tikka, Faz and myself would amuse ourselves skulking through the dark corridors, playing tag; trying to get into the tower; mixing up the re-agents in the chem. Labs; glass blowing in Alf Prince’s back room; trying out every instrument in the music room; etc.
Ghost hunting was a popular (?) event. The main building sure could get scary when you’re on your own with no lights. Every creak or groan was something awful hiding in wait for you! (A steady diet of Boris Karloff, Vincent Price and “Hammer” films gives one such a vivid, if limited, imagination.) Never did find one at FPGS though!
(Where did I find one? Unfortunately that story is not part of this narrative. For that you’ll need to buy me a pint or two, one evening, when I’m in town.)
Prefect’s room was always good for a game of ping-pong. If you’d had a particularly bad run in with a prefect that week, stamping the ball flat, at the end of the game, made for a sense of pay-back. Took me a while to figure out the sign on the wall -
Nosmo
King
- how naïve can you get?
Playing tag around the buildings was a standard pass-time. In one such game of tag I’m running out the care-takers entrance, hanging a left in front of the pre-fabs, and trying to get back in through the staff entrance. Unfortunately there’s a patch of ice in the turn, right where I needed the traction the most. Now putting out ones arm to stop a fall is a natural reflex to protect ones head. Unfortunately the arm is not the strongest of materials when it comes to impact absorption – end result - greenstick fracture and an emergency trip to Northern General. No more pirates for a while.
Again, the year ends with written exams, in all subjects. No memories or tales here, so it’s off for summer hols. See you in the third form!
Michael Palmer: mike_palmer@rogers.com
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