School
daze
Memories
of my school days
by
Stuart
Fernie
Contents
Introduction
Starting secondary school
Friends and the
occasional enemy
Enter the steam train
Get Gus
Hypnotherapy
Aptitude and inaptitude
Buddy romance
Disco night fever
Bloody business in the
common room
Teachers
Introduction
Having written about some
of my experiences and recollections as a teacher for some 35 years, I turned my
thoughts and my memory to my own time at school (particularly secondary
school). I realised I hadn’t thought about that period of my life for some
considerable time and my recall was quite hazy, so I set about trying to
refresh my memory and make note of some of my experiences and recollections
from that time, though these notes are somewhat sketchy and fractured.
I thought I would share
these notes as they may be of some historical / social interest in the future
(I frequently suggested to older relatives and colleagues that they should jot
down their memoirs if only as a kind of journal of events and attitudes of
their time, but they never did).
Such notes may also be of
interest to family, friends or anyone who has shared such experiences, thoughts
and feelings. They may also be of interest to me in the future as my own memory
starts to fade even more than it is now!
Starting secondary school
Secondary school provided
a much-needed change of environment, stimulus and pace. Primary school had
become comfortable, homely and somewhat barren. Having spent seven years in one
another’s company, the pupils were so familiar that contempt was beginning to
brew. All the goals of our primary education had long since been tackled if not
achieved by all, so the staff were padding much of the time, and although I had
done reasonably well throughout my schooling at Grange Primary, the standard of
my work deteriorated in the last couple of years. In retrospect, I think I was
becoming stale and was uninspired by my all too familiar surroundings and
routine, though such thoughts would never have entered my head at the time – I
thought I just wasn’t coping and started to lose confidence in myself.
It was time to move on to
pastures and challenges new, yet the very familiarity that appeared to cause
problems for my educational development also offered emotional support and
comfort, so it was with considerable trepidation that I entered Grangemouth
High School mid-August 1970.
Events and experiences on
my first day made quite an impression, though none more than our introduction
to the school ethos. Grouped together in register classes, our group was
dispatched to a hut in the playground where we were addressed by a fairly
authoritarian (bordering on aggressive) teacher of History who went through the
school rules and expectations, and culminated in suggesting that the only
circumstance in which we should not turn up for school on time was if we were
on our death bed. I have to say that even in my state of fear and apprehension,
it seemed to me that such an extreme statement only served to diminish the
man’s stance of authority as it was so unreasonable. Nevertheless, he got his
message across and it was clear that this establishment was going to be more
serious, demanding and impactful than my previous school. The effort and
choices made here would have an influence (at least to some extent) on what I
did for the rest of my life, and I found that quite terrifying yet engaging.
In other words, it made
me feel I had to buck up my ideas.
One feature of school
life that particularly appealed to me was the fact we moved from room to room
to attend classes in the different subjects, and the fact we had a different
teacher for each one. I just loved changing rooms, stretching my legs and
having a brief break between classes, and seeing our teacher for less than an
hour at a time. The division of the school day into set period times, combined
with distinct subjects and teachers lent a certain clarity and organisation
which also appealed to me and encouraged me to make more of an effort.
The element of going to
secondary school that had the most immediate (and enduring) impact on me was
the social aspect. Of course, the academic input significantly influenced my
career and professional destiny, but when I think back to school, I struggle to
remember the facts, figures and knowledge whose imparting formed the core and
very purpose of our going to school. No, I think immediately of my friends,
teachers, relationships and the social structure of the school rather than the
work we did there. This social aspect of education underpins and supports all
other elements of schooling – it provides the security, comfort and reassurance
that enable pupils to evolve culturally, personally and socially, as well as
academically.
Friends and the
occasional enemy
I enjoyed making new
friends and extending my group of acquaintances, all of whom were in the same
situation and wanted to mix, share and go forward together.
All of a sudden, I had
friends coming to my door offering to accompany me to school either on foot or
by bike. We would discuss school work, teachers, friends, music, television,
films and even occasionally national events and politics. This was heightened
by the considerable number and variety of friends with whom I could discuss
these topics – different school subjects often meant different classes and a
change of classmates. I seemed to get on with most and be reasonably close and
friendly with a broad spectrum of people, which was not what I was used to, but
I appreciated it very much.
However, not everyone was
as friendly and sociable as I may be suggesting …..
One sunny late summer
morning early in my last year at primary school, I was making my way to school
through the park as usual, walking along the bank of a small “burn” (or river)
that flowed on the edge of the park and eventually past my school. There were,
of course, several bridges joining the two banks of the burn, and on the other
side of the bank on which I was walking was the town centre and, very near my
own primary school, another primary school for a different catchment area. I
seem to recall a fair bit of rivalry between the various primary schools, and
occasionally this spilled over into ill feeling and even hostility.
Accompanied by a small
group of girls (neighbours and friends of varying ages, but mostly younger than
me), I approached the bridge next to the children’s play area of the park and I
noticed a group of some five or six young lads (late primary age) huddled
together at the end of the bridge on our bank. My recollection is fairly hazy
(as I write, this incident took place almost 48 years ago), but I do remember
some threatening remark being made as our group walked past them. My mistake
was to look back after some 15 yards or so. They appeared to take that as a
challenge and three or four of them started running in our direction, shouting
threats and shaking fists, yet smiling and seemingly jocular. In my innocence,
I thought for one fleeting moment that it might be a prank just to scare us,
but when they showed no sign of slowing down and their aggression showed no
sign of abating, I thought it best to run as the others had already done. I no
longer recall if I was tripped or if I fell, but in no time I was on the ground
and blows from feet and fists were raining down upon me.
My friends yelled at them
to leave me alone and once their desire for violence and impressing one another
with their aggressive manliness was sated, they did indeed leave me alone and
headed off for their day at school. No great damage was done, but I was
bloodied, bruised and humiliated because I hadn’t defended myself.
Once I got to school, I
told one or two friends about it and, as soon as classes got under way, one of
them told my teacher and all of a sudden, I was whisked off for treatment and
the incident escalated into a major discipline issue.
Basically, I just wanted
to put the whole thing behind me and pretend it had never happened. But, when I
confirmed I would be able to identify my attackers, that meant official action
could be taken. For all I know, there might have been other such incidents and
those in authority were just desperate for evidence and the opportunity to
punish those responsible. In any case, I was marched over the burn to the other
school, and I was dreading having to sift through countless pupils to find my
aggressors. To my astonishment, however, the five or six who had been gathered
at the bridge end were now presented to me (clearly these guys were known to
staff), and I was invited to identify the culprits who actually assaulted me.
Very nervously, I pointed out the three I knew to be responsible. They were all
belted in front of me, and I was left feeling somehow rather guilty even though
I had been their “victim”.
There was no recurrence
and there were no immediate repercussions. Although somewhat shaken by the
whole experience and deeply disappointed in myself, I fairly quickly put it
behind me and focused on my last year in primary school.
As I said, once we went
to secondary school there was a great mixing of pupils, characters and
attitudes, and it was a coming together I thoroughly enjoyed. I made friends
from all the feeder primary schools and appreciated meeting their friends in
turn. Everywhere there seemed to be new people, new acquaintances and new
friendships.
Early in my second year
at High School, I met and became friends with a lad who had gone to the primary
school across the burn from my own. By this time, such details were of no real
interest to me. Primary school was becoming a dim memory as I focused on the
present and the immediate future.
However, one sunny
lunchtime as this friend and I (and what seemed like half the population of the
school) walked along the street that led to the park on our way home for lunch,
my friend introduced me to one of his former classmates who was also heading
toward the park with some of his friends. I said hello and exchanged a few
pleasantries, but I was conscious of the fact this pasty-faced, dark haired
bespectacled lad was looking at me fixedly and almost with expectation as he
smiled and returned my banal banter. I turned away to continue on my road home
when I was struck by sudden recognition – he was one of the lads who jumped me
on my way to primary school! I turned back in his direction to find him still
staring at me and smiling. “You!” I cried, and he nodded confirmation, smirking
almost with pride. Once again, I took his smile as a sign of friendliness and
was actually pleased that it seemed like it was all behind us and we had both
moved on and grown up a little. I turned away and took a few more steps toward
home. Suddenly, I was struck once again, this time not by recognition, but by
the lad’s arm around my neck. He was applying considerable pressure to my
throat while at the same time forcing me downward toward the pavement.
Although somewhat taken
aback by this attack from behind, I can remember thinking “No, not again,” and
I realised I had to defend myself – more than that, I wanted to defend myself.
I am eternally grateful
to Saturday afternoon wrestling and the likes of Mick McManus and Jackie Pallo.
My dad loved them and watched the wrestling avidly and, I discovered, so did I
as I instantly thought of wrestling moves I had seen countless times and
applied them to my current predicament. The lad’s left arm was round my neck
and he pulled on his left elbow with his right hand to push me to the ground.
This meant his stomach was wide open to attack and so I stopped gripping the
lad’s arm and instead raised my left arm and pushed my left elbow into the pit
of his stomach with as much force as I could muster. It had the desired effect
– he released his grip on my neck and I grabbed his now vacant left arm,
straightening it out over my left shoulder and in front of me. I hauled it down
toward the ground as I bent over, pulling the lad up until his feet nearly left
the ground. “You’re breaking my arm!” he yelled with some urgency. “I know!” I
yelled back with not inconsiderable satisfaction. “All right! Stop!” he shouted
as he tapped my right shoulder. I released him immediately, looked at him
angrily, then turned and walked away.
I had no more trouble
from him, though I saw him from time to time and we exchanged meaningful
smiles.
Although I would never
advocate violence, and indeed I will generally go to great lengths to avoid
conflict of any kind, I have to say defending myself that day helped build my
confidence and taught me that I am willing and able to defend myself if
circumstances dictate I must.
Enter the steam train
As I said previously,
there was a large mix of pupils in the town and we often wandered in and out of
one another’s lives both socially and educationally (due in part to the “middle
school” system in vogue in Grangemouth at the time, whereby year groups were
divided into two sets alphabetically, and attended different lower secondary
schools). We were pally enough, largely due to shared age and educational
experience, but often without developing particular bonds of friendship.
One such pal was Jim,
whom I met in the park where many of us would congregate in the evening. Jim
was of slightly less than average height, red faced and fairly rotund. He was a
tremendously jovial chap with a pleasant disposition and a winning personality
who could have represented his country if there was an international talking
competition. He never seemed to stop, and the real problem was that he almost
invariably brought the topic of conversation round to his favourite subject –
trains. He knew a lot about trains. Actually, he probably knew everything about
trains – history, engines, speed, dimensions, times, destinations, routes – you
name it. He wanted to share his passion. And his detailed knowledge.
The result was, to my
shame, that I made little effort to develop our friendship. I found him very
likeable and often funny, but I just couldn’t bring myself to share his passion
for trains, while he found it hard to show much interest in the pursuits of
others and tended to be impassive in the face of others’ efforts to interest
him.
Around this time (1974),
there was much interest in Kung Fu. Bruce Lee died in 1973 just days before the
release of “Enter The Dragon”, and interest in Kung Fu was at fever-pitch in
1973 and 1974, especially among teenagers. This clearly affected another lad I
knew vaguely who was a couple of years younger than me and who came across as
pleasant if slightly gormless. He was truly inspired by the Kung Fu craze – he
took it very seriously, trained regularly and was more than happy to discuss
his training, his prowess and anything to do with Bruce Lee at some length. I
remember him only as “The Kung Fu Kid”.
By the autumn of 1974 the
new Grangemouth High School was completed (it has since been demolished) and
due to limited space in cloakrooms and corridors, pupils would often gather in
the canteen area in the morning. On this particular day, I arrived fairly early
and so headed for the canteen to chat to people. I met Jim and was having a
conversation with him when The Kung Fu Kid came up to join us. Jim had little
to say if it wasn’t about trains, so I turned to The Kid and stupidly asked how
he was getting on. Needless to say, he embarked on tales of training and the
development of his Kung Fu skills.
I have to confess I was
quite interested in The Kid’s progress as I had been very impressed by Bruce
Lee in “Enter The Dragon”. Jim, however, showed scant regard for either The Kid
or his claimed skills.
I no longer remember how
the conversation developed, but it took little time before The Kid decided the
best way to share his passion was to demonstrate his skill and speed. He threw
a few punched in my direction, missing my face by a matter of millimetres, and
then demonstrated a couple of high kicks which came close enough to allow me to
feel a slight draught as his foot narrowly missed my cheek. I must admit I was
impressed by both his skill and his speed, and my feelings showed clearly on my
face. Jim, however, was obviously more difficult to impress, so The Kid decided
to make him the target of his lightning-fast fake blows.
The Kid set himself up
just a few inches from the implacable Jim and released a volley of punched into
the air which stopped just short of Jim’s nose. The Kid stopped for a second or
two to take up position for the kicks and no doubt to allow Jim to express his
admiration. Instead, out of nowhere, Jim smashed his schoolbag, which he was
holding in his right hand, across the left side of The Kid’s face, pushing his
head forcefully to the right and causing him to lose balance and take a couple
of steps backward. Apart from the sweeping movement of his right arm, Jim never
moved a muscle.
I cracked up immediately
– the look of stunned surprise and defeat on The Kid’s face was priceless. The
magnificently dismissive and simple move in the face of intricately measured
and proudly delivered martial arts was devastatingly effective and utterly
hilarious. Jim clearly appreciated my admiration for his move as he grinned
broadly and produced a high-pitched giggle. The bell rang and we all went our
separate ways, at least two of us bucked up for the day.
Get Gus
For a couple of years, I
was particularly friendly with a chap called Gus. We shared a few classes and
he lived in a street along from my parents’ house. We didn’t see much of one another
in school, but after school and during holidays we would listen to music, go to
the cinema or go on bike trips together.
About five miles from our
homes, in the grounds of Callendar Park on the outskirts of Falkirk, there was
a sizeable Pitch and Putt course which I loved. In the summer of 1972 I tried
to go at least once a week. It wasn’t expensive and all the necessary equipment
was provided (I quickly learned to insist on white balls as, due to my
colour-blindness, the orange balls appeared to just merge into the green grass
and effectively disappeared). We would cycle up, sticking to the back roads as
far as possible, complete the 18 holes (with an average of about 100 yards per
hole) and cycle home again by late afternoon.
Although I thoroughly enjoyed
the course, I came to find the shorter holes frustrating in that I desperately
wanted to strike the ball the way I had seen professionals do it on TV. I
wanted to hit the ball with all my might and see it soar, but there was really
only one hole on which you could let rip. The others required more finesse and
skill. The result was I tended to overdo it when teeing off and my shots would
overshoot the green, though I did get a certain satisfaction from the
resounding strike of the ball.
On one beautifully sunny
summer day, Gus and I headed to the Pitch and Putt on our bikes. It really was
a glorious day – the sun was streaming down and we were surrounded by lush
green countryside.
Gus hadn’t played as
regularly as I had and it showed in terms of his stance and how he addressed
the ball. He was rather stiff, didn’t raise the club very high before going to
hit the ball, and then didn’t follow through after he struck it. I did try to
offer a few words of advice but he was having none of it – he had no intention
of taking this in any way seriously. He was there just for the fun of it.
When we came to the third
hole, I thought I’d make a real effort to show him how it’s done “properly”. I
suggested we have a few practice swings and I set about demonstrating a “nice
swing”. Basically, I was showing off a little as my swing had been admired by
others and I clearly thought it was worth emulating. I swung at imaginary
balls, emphasising how far to raise the club and then following through, all
very relaxed and smooth.
Gus then teed off and
produced exactly the same swing and shot as on the two previous holes, and his
ball travelled weakly some thirty yards, almost skimming the grass as it went.
I then stepped up and was
determined to produce a soaring shot (even if I overshot the green) if only to
demonstrate the advantages of my stance and swing. I eyed the ball and tried to
relax. I raised the club and brought it round as far as I could before swinging
down, making a satisfying “clunk” as the club head connected with the ball, and
then I started to follow through to complete the circle effect I was looking
for. Unfortunately, I failed to achieve this as my club came to a sudden and
brutal halt when it made contact with the left side of Gus’s face!
Unbeknown to me, Gus had
stepped forward in an attempt to get a better view of my technique, but had
obviously miscalculated the distance required for safety.
His head actually wobbled
on impact and he staggered a few steps backwards. However, when he produced a
totally understated and feeble “Hey!” in response, I somehow found the whole
situation dreadfully funny. I did feel terrible. I did feel immensely guilty at
striking my friend’s head with the full force of a golf swing. Yet his response
of “Hey!” under those circumstances made me break up in laughter. I was
probably just relieved and seized on the fact he was clearly ok, but within a
minute or so I realised the serious injury I could have inflicted on him and
felt absolutely awful. I apologised profusely to the point where Gus pointedly
told me he was alright and just to let it go.
We continued on our round
and over the next ten holes I did occasionally repeat how sorry I was, but Gus
manfully wanted to put it behind us and enjoy the rest of the round.
Any competition between
us became irrelevant and we just focused on enjoying our attempts to do the
best we could and sink the balls in as few strokes as possible. Although of
reasonable lengths for a Pitch and Putt course, most of the holes required
skill (to avoid bunkers, play on hills and calculate slope) rather than
strength, and I was itching to see my ball travel a good distance.
If my memory serves
correctly, I think the 14th hole was the farthest from the start
point and it was the second-longest – something just in excess of 100 yards. I
was quite excited at the prospect of finally being able to see my ball soar. I
teed up and took a couple of practice swings with which I was rather pleased. I
took up position and could feel the adrenalin pumping away. I raised my club
and swung down, only to hear a sickening “thunk”. I miss-hit it, making contact
with only the upper half of the ball, and it trickled off on its way in the
general direction of the hole. It travelled about 25 yards, bouncing weakly
along the fairway and certainly not taking off and flying through the air. Gus
didn’t do much better, but that was of no consolation – I was terribly
disappointed in my own performance. We completed the hole in a very
half-hearted way.
The 15th was a fairly lengthy
(about 120 yards) but relatively narrow and slightly downhill hole flanked on
both sides by huge and ancient trees forming a sort of widening avenue down
which you hit your ball.
It was decided that Gus
would tee off first. He jokingly said he wanted to be out of the way if I was
going to belt it – just in case. I appreciated his attempt at humour about my
earlier faux pas, and I watched him tee off. It wasn’t a great shot, but it
travelled some 50 yards and ended up to the right of the fairway. For some
reason, we decided he should take his second shot before I teed off. Another 50
yards or so, still on the right of the fairway.
As Gus headed for his
ball, some 70 yards from me, I set up and teed off. This time I heard a “clunk”
and felt a most satisfying connection with the ball. It flew! It didn’t have
much height, but there was plenty of power behind it and it was travelling at
speed. What a beautiful sight as the ball headed straight toward the green.
Then, all of a sudden and for no apparent reason, it veered to the right. I
charted its predicted path in my mind, trying to judge where it might end up,
and I couldn’t believe my eyes – it was now hurtling straight for Gus who was
peacefully walking to his ball. “GUS!” I yelled, trying to warn him. He turned
around, and as he did so, my ball struck him in his chest!
I picked up my stuff and
ran toward him. As I approached, it was clear he was perfectly alright as he
yelled, “You did that deliberately!”. As I started to stutter a denial and
another apology, even he saw the funny side this time and started to laugh.
Needless to say, I joined in immediately and we ended up in tears of laughter.
I have no recollection of finishing the hole, or indeed the one that followed,
but I do recall us struggling to take our strokes as we continued to giggle.
The second last hole was
slightly uphill and I made a mess of my tee shot, ending up in a position from
which I could only see the upper half of the pole and Gus sitting on the bank
on the far side of the green. His tee shot had been very successful and he
jokingly insisted on finishing the hole before I took my second shot,
suggesting he wanted to keep an eye on me.
I did my best to aim for
the pole but I overcompensated for the uphill angle and struck the ball hard.
Once again, I heard the satisfying “clunk” and felt the powerful connection,
but I knew immediately the ball was going to overshoot the green by some
distance. I was following the path of the ball somewhat despairingly when once
again it seemed to take on a mind of its own and it veered this time to the
left, straight toward Gus who was seated on the bank above the hole!
Fortunately, he was watching the ball carefully and this time he managed to
duck just in time to avoid its wayward trajectory.
As my ball bounced along
the road on the outskirts of the course, we looked at one another and fell to
the ground with laughter. This time even Gus could see I hadn’t taken aim at
him, though we were both left wondering what dark forces were using me as an
instrument of vengeance, and just what Gus had done to deserve such
victimisation and punishment.
Hypnotherapy
When he was younger, my
dad was interested in hypnotism to the extent he studied it and even practised
it to a minor degree. He would do party tricks and entertain friends on nights
out, but he never took it too seriously and in any case the potential serious
benefits of hypnotherapy were recognised by very few and so it remained an
interest and hobby.
I discovered his interest
and skill only in my early teens. It had been some time since he practised, but
some story in the newspapers concerning hypnotism caused him to pass comment
and all was eventually revealed to me. I was stunned and wanted an immediate
demonstration. He tried on a few occasions to hypnotise me but he couldn’t
manage it – I was far too nervous and self-aware for it to work. I just wasn’t
able to relax and so his efforts were ineffective.
He did, however, tell me
a hypnosis-related tale from his relative youth. Apparently, in the dim and
distant past, a stage hypnotist was in town and he claimed to be able to
hypnotise anyone. Dad knew this was not strictly possible, so he went along and
volunteered for the show, challenging this hypnotist’s claim. He failed to hypnotise
my dad during the show and invited him to stay behind when he could give my dad
his full attention, but he failed once again.
I’m not sure of the
circumstances or details, but according to my mother, it was around this time
that dad was given the chance to develop an act and go on stage himself. He
didn’t take up the offer and never discussed it with me, beyond simply saying
he turned it down.
The upshot of my
discovery of his interest and knowledge, and hearing these stories, was I was
very proud and keen to see him put it into action, and consequently told
several of my friends about it.
One New Year we were at a
neighbour’s fairly noisy party and I found some way of slipping dad’s knowledge
of hypnotism into the conversation. Naturally, there was quite a lot of
interest and a few people requested a demonstration. I had put my dad in a
difficult position as this was hardly a suitable environment – music blaring
from a record player, people dancing merrily in the background and a general
atmosphere of excitement and anticipation as midnight approached. However, he
conceded and said he would give it a try.
A young lady volunteered
and dad did his best to relax her so she would be open to the suggestion her
left arm was an iron bar and nothing or no-one could move it. She appeared to
go under and dad went through the various stages to make her believe her arm
was made of immoveable metal, despite constant noise and distraction.
There was general
disappointment when the suggestion failed to take and the young lady’s arm
remained steadfastly human and weak. Of course, dad was disappointed too, but
was hardly surprised given the circumstances.
However, some twenty
minutes later the young lady approached dad and explained that since her
session she had experienced pins and needles or numbness in her left arm.
Clearly, the attempt at hypnosis had been partially successful, though had not
led to the expected outcome. Dad set about putting her under and ensured her
arm was once again completely normal.
Naturally, I mentioned
this event to a number of my friends, some of whom poured scorn on the very
notion that my father could successfully exercise the skill of hypnotism. I
took this as a challenge to my dad and encouraged him to prove himself by
hypnotising a handful of my friends. Needless to say, he had mothing to prove
to himself, but he accepted my request doubtless for my benefit.
One summer evening in the
early seventies, I invited three of my friends to witness a demonstration of
hypnotism by my father in our living room, and they were to be the subjects of
the demonstration. This invitation, and the obvious collusion of my father,
brought about a subtle change in their attitude – they were no longer entirely
dismissive of my claims, but suggested instead they were simply sceptical but
were willing to come along and participate.
And so, Chas, Colin
(usually known as Hawkeye) and Belly arrived about seven o’clock. They were
polite and clearly a little apprehensive – my dad was actually going through
with it and so their adolescent defiance and banter were put to one side. I, of
course, was quite excited at the prospect of seeing my friends “under the
influence” and witnessing my dad prove himself, but I was equally mindful of my
dad’s failure to put me under and I suspected this demonstration might end
similarly.
I needn’t have worried.
My friends were unencumbered by the familiarity and anxiety I felt when dad
tried to hypnotise me. Within a few minutes all three were in a trance-like
state and appeared to be sound asleep and totally relaxed. I remember Hawkeye’s
head in particular as it leaned at an awkward angle, his chin resting more or
less on his collar bone and not a flicker of response in his eyes or eyebrows
as dad issued his instructions. Chas and Belly were similarly entranced, though
looked more comfortable in their state of complete relaxation and openness to
suggestion.
Dad warned me in advance
that he would not invite them to do anything outlandish, but would do enough to
exhibit his control over their behaviour.
I was in stitches as my
friends, individually and collectively, stood up and sat down at my dad’s
command, giggled uncontrollably to the point where tears rolled down their
cheeks, and danced singly and together like puppets whose strings were being
pulled frantically by an unseen puppet master.
This display lasted some
ten minutes and then they were invited to return to their trance-like state
(which they did quickly and deeply), and were brought back to normality.
I was delighted with this
display of both my friends’ lack of self-control and my dad’s prowess. My
friends were very happy as they left the house after a cup of tea and a brief
chat, but thereafter I think some embarrassment set in and the topic was never
raised again.
Aptitude and inaptitude
It didn’t take me long at
secondary school to realise my strengths lay in languages. I was interested in
and enjoyed the clear workings and immediate results of French and Latin,
though I found English a little puzzling as I often felt the purpose of a
particular lesson was unclear. I found some of the works of literature we
studied uninspiring, though that may have been because themes were not
clarified for me – I struggled to see the interest and import of some of the
books we read.
The art and methodology
of literary analysis were only introduced to me in my sixth year when I
undertook sixth-year French and our teacher, Miss Cherry, explained and
clarified texts and themes in books in a way that was a revelation to me. Maybe
I had matured a little as well and was more able to take on board what was
taught, but suddenly a key was turned and I was able to open the door to seeing
and understanding the development of character and themes, and appreciate (at
least to some extent) literary technique.
In other subjects such as
history and maths I kept my head above water by working steadily, though I
didn’t find them particularly stimulating. I struggled, however, with science
and especially chemistry. I just could not cope with what I saw as rather conceptual
ideas and the sheer amount of seemingly notional information to retain.
Teachers were, I think, aware of the very academic nature of their subject and
tried to encourage and inspire pupils through practical demonstrations and
experiments. Unfortunately, these didn’t work too well for me ….
I vaguely remember being
shown how a few sprinklings of one element being introduced to another heated
compound caused a mini explosion. Clearly, this dramatic result was supposed to
inspire interest and curiosity and the teacher invited a handful of us to have
a go. We were to insert a powdered form of some substance into the top of a
tube and then blow down the tube so the powder entered a small heated metal
container. The powder would react with whatever was in the container and the
lid would be blown off it in a spectacular and noisy fashion, potentially even
hitting the ceiling.
Three of us were chosen
to “volunteer”. The first volunteer prepared the element and blew down the
tube. The lid on the container leapt two or three feet into the air,
accompanied by a bang.
The second volunteer, a
cool guy called Alan who often entertained us with his cheeky challenges to
authority, stepped forward and prepared the powder and the tube. He blew hard
and the lid flew off and almost reached the ceiling, producing a resounding
BOOM as it did so. Alan was very pleased with himself as we all laughed and
admired the result of his efforts.
Then it was my turn. I
had seen what the others achieved and I knew how to go about it. I placed the
powder in the top of the tube and gave it a good blow. The lid lifted about two
centimetres on one side and remained in contact with the rim of the container
on the other. This was accompanied by a slight popping sound and gales of
laughter from my classmates.
Alan was particularly
impressed as he wiped away the tears that were forming in the corners of his
eyes.
Chemistry and dramatic
chemical experiments are clearly not for everyone ….
Buddy romance
Naturally enough,
proximity, shared experience, friendship and adolescent hormones kindled
romance in the course of our school years. Several friends entered
relationships and it was common for others to tease couples about their
romance. The result was that occasionally couples tried to remain discreet
about their liaison, to the point of denying its existence ….
John joined our school in
S2. He came from Glasgow and was confident, direct (almost brash at times), a
little loud and proud of his plebeian roots. He was also sociable, genuine,
honest and hard-working. I knew Fiona from primary school. She was nervy,
chatty, arty (she enjoyed amateur dramatics from a young age), could appear a
little haughty, but was also sincere, friendly and hard-working. These two
didn’t see eye to eye. They often bickered and argued over next to nothing. Yet
in S5 I thought I detected a “rapprochement”. A closeness developed and when
they spoke (in front of their friends), there seemed to be an unspoken
understanding and sympathy. They would sit near one another and share jokes and
looks, and they stopped criticising one another and bickering. Suddenly it
struck me – they were romantically involved!
Of course, I just blurted
out my suspicions and they denied it vehemently – adding that such a notion was
completely absurd and they didn’t even like one another. Well, that clinched it
– they were indeed a couple and it only remained to catch them out.
One Monday morning I met John
in the canteen area before registration and I asked him about his weekend. He
had gone to Glasgow but he was strangely and unusually reticent about sharing
the details of his trip. He produced only a vague and at times stuttered
account of his time – this was in complete contrast with his usual detailed and
vivid tales which often contained references to family members or strong
opinions on who and what he had seen and done. I stored his reaction in my mind
and headed off to class.
Two or three hours later
it was time for Higher English, a class I shared with John and Fiona who sat
behind me. The teacher often chatted to colleagues between classes so we all
knew we had fully five minutes to chatter before getting down to work. John
hadn’t arrived yet, so I turned to Fiona and asked about her weekend. She went
out with a friend but couldn’t (or wouldn’t) elaborate. She became evasive when
I persisted in my questioning, and she trotted out a series of cliched weekend
activities. She was also nervous, a little breathy and talked faster than
usual. I had them!
“It’s OK,” I said,
lowering my voice to a confidence-sharing whisper, “John told me.”
She looked at me
apprehensively, unsure of whether to trust me. I smiled knowingly (not broadly
as that might have been interpreted as mocking) and nodded understandingly.
“About Glasgow?” she
asked.
“Yes, but that’s all he
said – he didn’t give me any details,” I answered reassuringly. She explained
they didn’t want to “go public” before seeing how they got on, and went on to
tell me a little about their day out and how John had shown her around Glasgow.
I found the whole
situation very touching and realised how insensitive and immature it would be
to pass any derisive comment, so I kept my mouth shut and wondered how I was
going to break it to Fiona that I had lied ….
At that point, John came
in and took his seat next to Fiona. She turned to him with a slight look of
surprise on her face, mixed with a degree of relief that their secret was out.
“You told him about Glasgow?”
– it was more of an affirmation than a question. John looked puzzled and
perplexed, though saw clearly that Fiona wasn’t angry.
“I bloody did not!” he
announced.
Fiona looked at me,
confused. I shook my head in confirmation, adding I had made it up.
Fiona’s mouth fell open
and John said, laughing, “You bastard!”
I smirked as they looked
at one another in a sort of amused defeat and then I turned to face the teacher
and pretended to listen to her lesson as I mulled over my sweet victory.
Disco night fever
As members of the sixth
year, we were expected to help organise and police events such as sports day,
concerts, plays, dances and discos. Most of these I didn’t mind and I was happy
to contribute in some small way to their smooth running, but I have never been
particularly keen on discos for the simple reason that the distortedly-loud
music hurts my ears. Any time I have attended a disco, whether as a pupils or
member of staff, I have gone home with my ears ringing and unable to hear
properly, a condition that usually lasted most of the following day.
When it came to a
second-year disco during my final year at school, I was actually pleased to be
invited to take on a policing role (which consisted of keeping an eye on
behaviour in the junior toilets and ensuring no-one opened the window to allow
free entry to their mates) rather than be present at the disco itself. Cleary,
I didn’t think this one through ….
Second-year pupils are
frequently the most difficult in a school. By the time they have reached S2,
they have generally gained a lot of confidence and feel the need to assert
themselves by being smart with their friends and by challenging any authority
figure in their presence. As Alan (a fellow sixth-year “prefect”) and I took up
our positions by the window in the afore-mentioned toilet and swaggering, noisy
and self-aware little boys started making their way into the facility to
relieve themselves, I realised this could all go horribly wrong.
To my great surprise,
however, our “shift” went remarkably well – these guys would come in noisy and
spirited, but our very presence seemed to calm them and so they did their
business and left, usually paying us scant attention and certainly not doing
anything untoward. That is, except one. He was smaller than the others, louder
than the others, tougher-looking than the others and most certainly more
attention-seeking than the others.
He continued to chat
unnecessarily loudly to his mates (apparently I wasn’t the only one affected by
loud music) as they stood, peeing, with their backs to us. Then, as he turned
around, rather than look away from us as did the others, he stared directly at
both of us and stopped. Raising his hand and pointing at us, he said I a
booming voice (clearly for the benefit of his pals who were heading for the
door) “You’re only here to look at our cocks!”
Alan and I were both
quite taken aback but we knew we had to stay calm. We also knew we had to
respond or this little gnaff would have scored points over us in front of his
friends. Our “street cred” was in the balance.
Suddenly, and out of
nowhere, I heard myself saying “Well, if you’re anything to go by, I won’t be
coming back, pal.”
Alan smirked in
appreciation and I have to admit I was rather pleased with myself. It seemed to
do the trick – the lad had a nonplussed look on his face and he gave a
Neanderthal grunt as he turned to leave. His pals hurried away ahead of him and
they had the sense not to react in any way to what had been said.
The rest of the evening
passed without incident and the only other time I recall seeing that little
gnaff was when I saw a teacher carrying him under his arm as he ejected him
from the school, the lad’s arms and legs flailing helplessly as he tried to
free himself from the teacher’s grip. Apparently, that day didn’t go according
to plan either ….
Bloody business in the
common room
One of the most enjoyable
aspects of life in sixth year, if also one of the most distracting, was the S6
common room – the equivalent of a staffroom, but for senior pupils. At first I
found it hard to believe we were allowed such a luxury, but I (and the others
in S6) quickly adapted to our new-found independence and set about chatting and
socialising instead of studying and working. Such unaccustomed freedom from
discipline combined with relative comfort and opportunity to interact with
friends mean that school work took second place to fraternising and the common
room quickly became a focus for amusement, and of course that encouraged the
aspirations of a few “entertainers”.
One such entertainer was
Eric, a chap who loved to be the centre of attention and who tried constantly
to distract and amuse his fellow pupils. I often found his antics over the top
and lacking in wit, but he did pull one prank I found very funny …..
The layout of the common
room was very simple – canteen-style tables were set up along the two side
walls and in front of the windows which stretched the width of the room.
Classroom chairs were laid out on both sides of the tables, one set running
along the walls and windows and facing inward, while the others faced outward,
toward the walls and windows.
On one occasion, Eric
came in to the room to find two young ladies seated with their backs to the
left-hand wall, leaning on a table to write up some notes and do some homework.
Rather than sit on one of the row of chairs opposite the girls, Eric opted to
join them, but sat on the table between the two girls, facing the wall. He
launched into a serious conversation with the young ladies, asking what the
they were doing and if they enjoyed the subject upon whose homework they were
focused. He went on to ask if they thought they would pursue the subject beyond
school and what their general plans were for that time. This, it should be pointed
out, was most unlike Eric. Normally, he would recount some amusing tale or
simply tell jokes to distract people from their efforts, and perhaps because he
was abnormally serious and appeared genuinely interested in the girls’ progress
and plans, they went into some detail in their replies, discussing which
universities they had applied for and what courses.
As he listened intently
to their contribution to the conversation, he grimaced a couple of times,
raised his right hand to his mouth as if to contain himself, and then rubbed
his stomach as though trying to ease a pain. The girls said nothing, but
couldn’t have missed the signs of a developing problem. Once again, he frowned
and rubbed his tummy. The girls looked somewhat alarmed and asked if he was all
right. “Not really,” he answered, “I think ….”, whereupon he suddenly leaned
forward between the two girls and vomited a large globule of blood-red gooey
material which splattered against the pristine white wall immediately in front
of him and ran messily down toward the floor.
The girls’ reaction was
utterly priceless – wearing face-distorting looks of horror and screaming as
they held the sides of their faces, they bolted out of the room, desperately
clambering over tables and chairs in their desire to distance themselves as
quickly as possible from the apparently violently ill Eric. He, meantime, was
virtually convulsed with laughter, as he tried manfully to catch his breath and
fight back the tears.
The whole scene was
vaguely prescient of the sequence in “Alien” (three years later) in which the
creature bursts forth from John Hurt’s stomach. The red gelatine Eric spat on
to the gleaming white wall left a stain which must have remained for years to
come, much like the psychological scars he hilariously inflicted on those two
fellow pupils.
Teachers
I think I was very lucky
with most of my teachers. As a rule, they were hard-working, dependable, clear
and approachable. I realise now, with hindsight, that their approach had quite
an influence on my own style of teaching. For most of my teachers the crucial
element was the development of a rapport with their pupils – it surely gave
them satisfaction but more importantly (for me, as a pupil), their efforts gave
me a sense of security and the reassurance I needed.
I learned a great deal
(consciously and subconsciously) from all of them, from the teacher who first
introduced me to the notion and method of analysis of language and text to
another who opted for note-taking without personal input and regurgitation in
exams, or the teacher who recognised and acted on the need to revise 18 months’
work in six months to prepare a class for an exam, as opposed to the teacher
who claimed to mark prelim papers by throwing them in the air and writing on
them the first number that came into his head as they landed. There were the
teachers who handled classes with humour and occasional sharp-witted sarcasm,
and there were those who opted to threaten the belt if classes were not docile
and obedient.
A colleague once wisely
commented to me, “At least we know what not to do!”
You can learn from
negative experiences just as well as, if not better than, positive ones, though
you have to be able to recognise such moments and see how to transform them
into something positive. That applies not just to the world of teaching but to
life in general – everyone is a potential teacher and every experience is a
potential learning opportunity.
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