I can only assume that the little darlings are once more ensconced in their pillars of learning judging by the increased amount of traffic that greets this travel weary commuter each morning.
Tired with the incessant babble of John Humphries and crew on Radio 4 I opted to amuse myself while sandwiched between 2 over-sized rugrat transporters in a queue that I knew to be well over 3 miles, with little sign of movement, by challenging myself to recall what I regret most about my own school days.
In modern parlance you could say that I was scholastically challenged, in so far that my regular attendance at a large gothic monstrosity that formed the centrepiece of an otherwise non-descript secondary establishment of learning presented a greater challenge to the teaching staff than those fellow pupils who chose to ease their workload through lengthy periods of truancy.
These days it would appear that simply attending a class on a regular basis guarantees you at least a C grade at GCSE. In my days your reward was a warm classroom (heating system permitting) or 6 of the best if you opted not to put in an appearance for whichever class was thrust upon you.
My regrets, I could only come up with three, are:
That the so called ‘hardnuts’, who regularly threatened retribution on the school for putting them through so much pain, never, to my knowledge, even attempted to inflict the damage to the school buildings that was the focus of their wrath.
The principle aim of the school, as was so often pointed out by the governors, was to produce ‘well rounded individuals, ready and able to fit into a modern world’. To this extent the curriculum was remarkably bland and over-achievers in one subject would be given additional tasks in their weakest subject to compensate for their zealous enthusiasm. My regret is that if it was truly their intention to produce well-rounded individuals why did they opt to bar 50% of the species from sharing the benefits of their insightful goals?
It is not that I had anything against my fellow students but the concept of an all male environment seemed as alien then as it does now. Is it any wonder that there is so much misunderstanding between the sexes when there is so little interaction between them during our formative years. Growing up in a neighbourhood with an average age of 57 (the locality had a high density of nursing and care homes) I was well into my teens before I even realised that there were such creatures as girls. Up until then I feared that women were deposited on this earth in their 40’s and whisked away in their 80’s, I guess it never crossed my mind to think how they got here. All I knew was that you hardly ever saw any girls in the park and I didn’t really view my sister as a girl since it often fell upon her to make up the numbers when a group of us met up for an impromptu kick around.
My third regret is symptomatic of the era in which I grew up. As someone who enjoys listening to music it is to my eternal shame that I have to admit to growing up in the 70’s, a period that brought us the ‘concept album’, lengthy instrumental solos, dodgy fashion, heavy metal, even heavier make-up, punk and glam rock. There were a group of ‘choristers’ within the school, who shall remain nameless for their own protection, who would regularly meet early each morning to test the acoustics of the vaulted playground. 4 guys, wailing like banshees in falsetto homage to Lol Crème of 10cc and Thijs van Leer from Focus. Such pretentious tunes as ‘Donna’ and ‘Sylvia’ were never destined to be classics, and thankfully no one has thought to revive them. The fact that I can remember these particular tracks is largely due to the images that still haunt me of these individuals letting rip at full volume, in all weathers at 7.30 in the morning.
A few of my colleagues who had more liberal parents went so far as sporting the look perpetuated by icons of the day, in particular Marc Bolan, David Bowie and Rod Stewart. I trust these individuals are suitably proud of their family photo albums. Thankfully there are no dubious perms, mullets or eye-liner in mine. (not that I would admit it even if there was).
On one occasion I recall a cricket match where the 6th form common room was situated within earshot of the playing fields and our teacher was forced to call a series of no balls to one of our bowlers who was struggling to maintain composure since most of the team were ‘head banging’ in unison to a particular LP during his run up. The volume of the music would seem to rise with each delivery and drop as the bowler stomped back to his bowling mark, shaking with mirth. Our teacher did complain to his counterpart from the opposition, umpiring at square leg that this was hardly a sporting gesture, to which the young teacher replied that the behaviour of the 6th form was beyond his jurisdiction. His plaintive cries to the amassed group of 6th formers were met with signals of incomprehension, due to the volume of the music. (Secretly, I believe he was a Yes fan and was enjoying the distraction of the music, which prolonged the thumping his charges were being given by the Under-13s).
I would like to think that my taste in music has improved (or should that be mellowed) over the years, as has my hearing. It is a wonder my ears never bled during these outbursts though the recollection of these performances still send a shiver down my spine.
