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Tuesday, November 8th, 2005 07:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caddymanOver on his LJ, my old friend ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
telemeister and I have been reminiscing about school days at Adams’ Grammar School in Newport, Shropshire back in the 70s. The days when the world was garish, the music glittery, shoes platformed and clothes flared.
The mullet was the hair style of choice for many a spotty oik, and those of us who didn’t have one generally had long hair with centre partings. I recall that we were not allowed to grow a beard at school (one or two of us thought we could, but they were distinctly nu-metal Belgian beards, and hideous). I myself, in one of those rebellious streaks that you spend the rest of your life regretting1, had sideburns that stopped exactly one razor’s width apart. You couldn’t call them mutton-chop sideburns unless you were taking your sheep from Belsen, but they would have been had my face follicles been more accommodating between the ages of 16 and 20.
My mother told me that I looked like an idiot, and Dad (unwittingly quoting Rod Stewart) said we looked ridiculous.
You have to remember that I was only half the man then that I am now, almost literally. (I believe the weight gain over the past 25 years puts me officially one steak dinner away from being two people – neither of them anorexic).
This has sent me into something of a reverie, as I am choosing to remember the bits I liked, or rather of which I have fond memories. My good friendtelemeister has rather darker memories of being bullied on occasion, but advancing senility has largely edited that sort of unpleasantness from my bonce. Thus it is that I can recall standing in the sun on the lawn behind Beaumaris House in the late summer of 1973 with a bunch of friends listening to Suzi Quatro singing Can the Can on the tranny,2.
The masters (for they were masters: no mere teachers for the likes of us) were an odd and unlikely bunch. Most of them (but not quite all) now retired, and many sadly deceased.
There was old Motty Mottershaw, the senior historian: a man with breath that could drop an elephant at twenty paces. His successor in waiting, one Rodney Rodders Jones, the cheery young history master who liked to pretend he was one of the chaps. A man who looked rather aghast when a friend of ours, John Cotterill (who later joined the army and who I believe is currently a major serving in Basra), hauled him over the coals in class for disparaging the achievements of the army in the First World War3.
And what of old Bernie Deakin, the world-weary giant of a chemistry teacher who would look balefully at miscreants and announce that he would “come down on them like a sack of bricks from a very, very great height” if they didn’t mend their ways?
There was, for a while, Tony Cave, the English Master who was also an Old Boy. This gave him an unfair advantage, because he always knew exactly where people went to skive off, carve their names in the masonry, or just have a smoke. He’s done it all himself ten years earlier. He like modern jazz, and drove around town in a half-timbered estate car with a double-bass sticking out of the back.
I think he may have been a Time Lord.
My favourite teacher was the eminently laidback Jerry Chambers, denizen of the art room and Beatle fan. He was permanently sad that the school no longer had a skiffle band, and bemoaned in a gentle way the fact that it (skiffle) had died out after a brief flowering, some 15 years earlier.
It transpired that my cousin was going out with, or was at least a friend of my old geography teacher, Tom “Master” Bate. In those days he was fresh from teacher training college and a dead shot at ten paces with a wooden board cleaner or piece of chalk. Of course, I had a certain licence in his class on account of my cousin. This was rather wasted by the fact that I quite liked geography, so paid attention instead of up.
Lastly, the man who closed the world of mathematics to me forever, with his cheerily boring lessons: Mr Edgoose, or Spock as he was known. He meant well, and wasn’t a particularly nasty man or anything like that. But Lord, could he bore for England. I do recall, though, his exasperated catch-phrase, “Watch the board while I go through it again.”
There were many, many more notably Flash Newton, the communist biology teacher who had the good grace not to mention to anyone outside the staff room that in one of my essays on bird reproduction, I had consistently used the word ‘clitoris’ instead of ‘cloacae’ much to my later mortification and his amusement. These are the incidents that scar us, and the fact that he didn’t take the piss out of me in front of my class mates gives me just about the only fond memory I have of that man.
Still, that’s all for another day.
1Largely because you are never entirely sure that you have destroyed all the photographs
2I have covered this ground in previous entries: in the far more naïve 1970s a tranny was a radio, not a bloke in a dress saving up for the operation.
3I believe Johnny came very close to accusing him of treason and calling him out.
telemeister and I have been reminiscing about school days at Adams’ Grammar School in Newport, Shropshire back in the 70s. The days when the world was garish, the music glittery, shoes platformed and clothes flared. The mullet was the hair style of choice for many a spotty oik, and those of us who didn’t have one generally had long hair with centre partings. I recall that we were not allowed to grow a beard at school (one or two of us thought we could, but they were distinctly nu-metal Belgian beards, and hideous). I myself, in one of those rebellious streaks that you spend the rest of your life regretting1, had sideburns that stopped exactly one razor’s width apart. You couldn’t call them mutton-chop sideburns unless you were taking your sheep from Belsen, but they would have been had my face follicles been more accommodating between the ages of 16 and 20.
My mother told me that I looked like an idiot, and Dad (unwittingly quoting Rod Stewart) said we looked ridiculous.
You have to remember that I was only half the man then that I am now, almost literally. (I believe the weight gain over the past 25 years puts me officially one steak dinner away from being two people – neither of them anorexic).
This has sent me into something of a reverie, as I am choosing to remember the bits I liked, or rather of which I have fond memories. My good friend
telemeister has rather darker memories of being bullied on occasion, but advancing senility has largely edited that sort of unpleasantness from my bonce. Thus it is that I can recall standing in the sun on the lawn behind Beaumaris House in the late summer of 1973 with a bunch of friends listening to Suzi Quatro singing Can the Can on the tranny,2.The masters (for they were masters: no mere teachers for the likes of us) were an odd and unlikely bunch. Most of them (but not quite all) now retired, and many sadly deceased.
There was old Motty Mottershaw, the senior historian: a man with breath that could drop an elephant at twenty paces. His successor in waiting, one Rodney Rodders Jones, the cheery young history master who liked to pretend he was one of the chaps. A man who looked rather aghast when a friend of ours, John Cotterill (who later joined the army and who I believe is currently a major serving in Basra), hauled him over the coals in class for disparaging the achievements of the army in the First World War3.
And what of old Bernie Deakin, the world-weary giant of a chemistry teacher who would look balefully at miscreants and announce that he would “come down on them like a sack of bricks from a very, very great height” if they didn’t mend their ways?
There was, for a while, Tony Cave, the English Master who was also an Old Boy. This gave him an unfair advantage, because he always knew exactly where people went to skive off, carve their names in the masonry, or just have a smoke. He’s done it all himself ten years earlier. He like modern jazz, and drove around town in a half-timbered estate car with a double-bass sticking out of the back.
I think he may have been a Time Lord.
My favourite teacher was the eminently laidback Jerry Chambers, denizen of the art room and Beatle fan. He was permanently sad that the school no longer had a skiffle band, and bemoaned in a gentle way the fact that it (skiffle) had died out after a brief flowering, some 15 years earlier.
It transpired that my cousin was going out with, or was at least a friend of my old geography teacher, Tom “Master” Bate. In those days he was fresh from teacher training college and a dead shot at ten paces with a wooden board cleaner or piece of chalk. Of course, I had a certain licence in his class on account of my cousin. This was rather wasted by the fact that I quite liked geography, so paid attention instead of up.
Lastly, the man who closed the world of mathematics to me forever, with his cheerily boring lessons: Mr Edgoose, or Spock as he was known. He meant well, and wasn’t a particularly nasty man or anything like that. But Lord, could he bore for England. I do recall, though, his exasperated catch-phrase, “Watch the board while I go through it again.”
There were many, many more notably Flash Newton, the communist biology teacher who had the good grace not to mention to anyone outside the staff room that in one of my essays on bird reproduction, I had consistently used the word ‘clitoris’ instead of ‘cloacae’ much to my later mortification and his amusement. These are the incidents that scar us, and the fact that he didn’t take the piss out of me in front of my class mates gives me just about the only fond memory I have of that man.
Still, that’s all for another day.
1Largely because you are never entirely sure that you have destroyed all the photographs
2I have covered this ground in previous entries: in the far more naïve 1970s a tranny was a radio, not a bloke in a dress saving up for the operation.
3I believe Johnny came very close to accusing him of treason and calling him out.
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AGS memories
Date: 2005-11-09 02:24 pm (UTC)To respond to all these references, I really ought to post something, but I think I've rattled on too much already on my page about AGS memories.
I will say, though, that my darkest memories are not of being bullied by other boys (it only happened occasionally), but of the asinine AGS system itself: CCF, cross-country runs and other shitty sports, and some of the teachers.
Ribble, you may want to research our respective pages for previous posts and exchanges regarding our school days, and how the heck did you know we were ex-AGS?
Re: AGS memories
Date: 2005-11-09 02:26 pm (UTC)I can field that one. When I noticed that LJ had included a schools section of the information page, the completist in me insisted that I add in a reference.
Re: AGS memories
Date: 2005-11-09 02:35 pm (UTC)CCF. Goodness gracious. The dear chap in charge of our CCF back in the day was none other than Business Studies teacher Brian "Bwi" Thompstone (so named due to his speech impediment). On my first day he found out I could play sax and drums and tried to co-opt me into joining. Until my mother came to pick me up after school one day when I was 12 and gave him a proper dressing down about trying to force small children into doing things they didn't want to. That small man marked CCF out for the rest of my days. Although his daughter was very pretty and a year older than I. I remember her and I getting along very well on a skiing trip in my 3rd year. I still see her from time to time.
I'll have a read Mr Telemeister (and also, I am a Tele man myself - here is a pic of myself sporting a Natural Ash American Deluxe) and have a laugh. I sense I may be posting up a few more AGS related stories over the next few days.
Indeed - for some reason, you were both marked up on the "search schools" page. I went from there!
Re: AGS memories
Date: 2005-11-09 02:59 pm (UTC)I'm on the "search schools" page? Yikes, I don't know how that happened, but I must remove myself immediately. Don't wish to associate myself with that place except to say unpleasant things about it.
Re: AGS memories
Date: 2005-11-09 06:05 pm (UTC)What kind of music can be found on The Legion Of Doom Myspace Page. Have a listen - I severely doubt it'll be of interest unless you still count Black Sabbath as Blues (which I do). Same with the SanZen Myspace page which is another band I've just joined.
Gear? If it's not my Tele, it's an Ibanez (I know) or a PRS (I'd recommend one) through a Marshall JCM900. Sound ballsy enough without being too nu-metal and processed like a Mesa Boogie or ENGL. Thinking about a Peavey 6505 (5150 essentially).
There's nothing wrong with saying unpleasant things about the school. I was on the slightly un-cool 'can't be arsed with Rugby so you become a social outcast' kind of chap. Did you used to drink in the local pubs? If so, which ones?
Re: AGS memories
Date: 2005-11-09 06:31 pm (UTC)I like PRS beasts, but can't afford one - can't even afford to re-fret my Strat. My amps are of the Fender variety, except for a grand old MusicMan 65-212 which seems to be the illegitimate issue of a night of unbridled lust between a Fender Twin and a Marshall of indeterminate parentage.
I see you have added me to your friends list. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
Re: AGS memories
Date: 2005-11-09 06:48 pm (UTC)Indeed; he's a hopeless old curmudgeon. But if you find the rants getting too much, just mention sloppy joes, Mountain Dew, and pretty much any food from Mexico and the chap will calm down again.
He knows what he likes, does our
Re: AGS memories
Date: 2005-11-09 06:51 pm (UTC)Re: AGS memories
Date: 2005-11-09 09:35 pm (UTC)Re: AGS memories
Date: 2005-11-09 08:58 pm (UTC)As my mates all lived outside town, I didn't go to the pub with them of an evening. After we left school and went our separate ways, I went to a few with other pals, but none specifically. I remember the Barley Mow, another at the bottom of Forton Rd and the Railway by the Wellington Rd. Never been an enthusiastic drinker, and decent dry cider is like gold dust over here.
Re: AGS memories
Date: 2005-11-09 09:34 pm (UTC)The Railway was a cracking spot. I remember a very good night in there.
The one of Forton Road - could it be The Kings Head? Or The Bridge? If not, The Swan, Victora Inn, Peacock and Shakespeare Inn are other favourites.
Re: AGS memories
Date: 2005-11-09 09:37 pm (UTC)