Always a pleasure to read, Mike, sparking memories both positive and (mainly) negative. The complexion of Tredgett, the French teacher, would grow excitedly florid as he made boys bend over to be slippered at the front of the class. But I'll balance that against a tiny coterie of friends that I still treasure 55 years later!
This brought back lots of memories for me. I do wonder at the level of nostalgia people have for the seventies. Not only was there the ever-present threat of corporal punishment, along with kids having board rubbers and pieces of chalk randomly chucked at them, there was also the deeply inherent racism and sexism of the time, and as you mentioned, the horrors of PE when children who struggled with physical coordination were regularly ritually humiliated. This all seemed to get worse as you got older, with the PE teachers’ delight in cold showers and making children who didn’t have kit do sport in their underwear particularly unpleasant. Not exactly the good old days!
Absolutely Ali. You have recalled horrors that I omitted to mention in above, but that I remember so well. I have shied away from the racism and the sexism, partly because, whilst not an energetic perpetrator, I was certainly complicit in it. Of course, I and the other kids were young and unformed, and our role models, on the school staff, on the television, and in many other areas of popular culture, were not quite up to the job of guiding us. I think it was the music magazines response to the emergence of the National Front in Britain that opened my eyes, starting me on the journey to becoming "woke" That and my own experience of ill treatment at the hands of a predatory male.
There were some good times in the seventies, but it certainly wasn't all curly wigs flares and disco. In fact all of that could easily be the subject of another piece of writing.
How many parallels can lads my age draw? Mostly unpleasant I'd imagine. 1970 would have been my final year, if I'd stayed to do exams. I was anxious to go to uni, but more anxious to escape. Caning wasn't counted - you were thrashed like a dog. All over, depending on your defensive moves. The deputy head (Harry) had a purpose-made leather strap, so thick the impact was more like a cosh. But you have to understand, they were doing the work of god.
I like the poem/butterfly concept. Mine might be more dinosaur. And I piicture most of them burning. Except for the few, like Kath Brennan who taught English. Not god, not screaming at snotty noses or sniggers -teaching English. So well, you wiped, shushed and pinned your ears nack. She got a record player and asked to bring our favourites in - to discuss, describe...try to interpret lyrics.
From the sliding inkwell cover to the inanity of mint hate, I went on the journey - I was going to say 'enjoyed the ride', but that in't right. I have to agree with 'best days of your life' disbelief; they perhaps should have been. But school was different, society was different, from when our parents had gone (mine went 1910s n 20s...). Perhaps in degrees of perceived cares and actual threat, pre-war compared to post-war governmental brutalism.
My solution was to wag off. Stop sniggering boy, it means 'take forbidden time away from lessons'. In my case, I Elvissed the building and went for walks in the country - or hung out at a mate's house (no mum, dad at work), making radio shows on his Elizabethan reel-to-reel. We recorded fart noises and played them backwards at high speed - try it - and laughed. THOSE I wanna tell yer, were some of the best days of my life (cue Bryan Adams, as it was indeed that summer, that year).
Always a pleasure to read, Mike, sparking memories both positive and (mainly) negative. The complexion of Tredgett, the French teacher, would grow excitedly florid as he made boys bend over to be slippered at the front of the class. But I'll balance that against a tiny coterie of friends that I still treasure 55 years later!
This brought back lots of memories for me. I do wonder at the level of nostalgia people have for the seventies. Not only was there the ever-present threat of corporal punishment, along with kids having board rubbers and pieces of chalk randomly chucked at them, there was also the deeply inherent racism and sexism of the time, and as you mentioned, the horrors of PE when children who struggled with physical coordination were regularly ritually humiliated. This all seemed to get worse as you got older, with the PE teachers’ delight in cold showers and making children who didn’t have kit do sport in their underwear particularly unpleasant. Not exactly the good old days!
Absolutely Ali. You have recalled horrors that I omitted to mention in above, but that I remember so well. I have shied away from the racism and the sexism, partly because, whilst not an energetic perpetrator, I was certainly complicit in it. Of course, I and the other kids were young and unformed, and our role models, on the school staff, on the television, and in many other areas of popular culture, were not quite up to the job of guiding us. I think it was the music magazines response to the emergence of the National Front in Britain that opened my eyes, starting me on the journey to becoming "woke" That and my own experience of ill treatment at the hands of a predatory male.
There were some good times in the seventies, but it certainly wasn't all curly wigs flares and disco. In fact all of that could easily be the subject of another piece of writing.
How many parallels can lads my age draw? Mostly unpleasant I'd imagine. 1970 would have been my final year, if I'd stayed to do exams. I was anxious to go to uni, but more anxious to escape. Caning wasn't counted - you were thrashed like a dog. All over, depending on your defensive moves. The deputy head (Harry) had a purpose-made leather strap, so thick the impact was more like a cosh. But you have to understand, they were doing the work of god.
I like the poem/butterfly concept. Mine might be more dinosaur. And I piicture most of them burning. Except for the few, like Kath Brennan who taught English. Not god, not screaming at snotty noses or sniggers -teaching English. So well, you wiped, shushed and pinned your ears nack. She got a record player and asked to bring our favourites in - to discuss, describe...try to interpret lyrics.
From the sliding inkwell cover to the inanity of mint hate, I went on the journey - I was going to say 'enjoyed the ride', but that in't right. I have to agree with 'best days of your life' disbelief; they perhaps should have been. But school was different, society was different, from when our parents had gone (mine went 1910s n 20s...). Perhaps in degrees of perceived cares and actual threat, pre-war compared to post-war governmental brutalism.
My solution was to wag off. Stop sniggering boy, it means 'take forbidden time away from lessons'. In my case, I Elvissed the building and went for walks in the country - or hung out at a mate's house (no mum, dad at work), making radio shows on his Elizabethan reel-to-reel. We recorded fart noises and played them backwards at high speed - try it - and laughed. THOSE I wanna tell yer, were some of the best days of my life (cue Bryan Adams, as it was indeed that summer, that year).
Keith Brennan sounds rather like my old teacher John Shearring with his style of delivery and his use of music to draw us in.
And amazingly, I also had a pal with a reel to reel tape recorder, but we didn't record a lot on it, apart from maybe us singing along to Bowie stuff,
Kath not Keef🥴😹. I wish I had those tapes now. Found some experimental b/w pics though; a hand beneath a lit plastic chandelier from below….