What was the worst punishment you received at school? I asked myself that question and came up with a few possible candidates for the award.
Was it getting caned with Mr Cox's metal tipped cane at Hawthorn Rd Junior School? Perhaps it was feeling the shovel like hand of G. Evans, the Headmaster, at the same school?
Was it getting caned with Mr Cox's metal tipped cane at Hawthorn Rd Junior School? Perhaps it was feeling the shovel like hand of G. Evans, the Headmaster, at the same school?
That's me at the school, taken in 1965 when I was nine. I am the third boy from the left.
Then there was the memorable teacher at another school, who we called "Liz Tit". Aged about 25, big boobs, (hence her nickname) and long black hair, she wore leather skirts, drove an MG sports car and could sing, "All Along The Watchtower" in a voice that made you melt.
I wont mention the name of the school as it was the best school I ever went to and is still operating. I learned more in that school than in schools that were supposed to be among the best in Wales.
Liz had a cane she called 'Sammy' (after Sam Cook for some obscure reason) and was renowned as being the hardest caner in the school. She was also a damn good English teacher and only raised her voice or arm when pushed into a corner. In any case, if a teacher looks like she did, no schoolboy is going to complain! In fact we used to egg each on other on to see if we could "get it", which shows you just how effective the whole concept of teachers legally assaulting kids in school is.
Nope - none of the above qualify as my worst school punishment. That honour belongs to the "punishment" meted out by Mrs Morris at my old grammar school. Mrs Morris, was the music teacher, Deputy Headmistress and the one who called the girls into the assembly hall for, "the talk" once a year - a time when the whole area surrounding the hall was a no-go zone for the boys. What did she do to punish me?
She played the piano.
Aged about 50, Mrs Morris gave every impression of being a battle-worn veteran who had seen it all and was as tough as old boot leather. A sort of grammar school version of George C Scott. However, I never heard her raise her voice to any girl or boy, or in fact even punish them. It just seemed as though she did. In fact, she actually cared about the kids which was a novelty in that school.
I remember a school trip when she took us to see the opera 'Carmen'. During the interval she took me aside and pointed out that a girl from another school kept looking my way - she even gave me tips on how to start a conversation with said girl. I was an extremely shy 14 year old, but took her advice. Where Mrs Morris went wrong however, was not telling me how to continue the conversation. Within five minutes the girl thought, "sod this for a game of tin soldiers" and cast her eye on another likely target.
But I digress.
At school I virtually refused to do homework. I did not believe in homework then, and I still don't. In fact an increasing number of parents are now refusing to let their kids do homework and the idea of abolishing it altogether is gaining momentum. That of course is fodder for the highly influential talk back radio, and no doubt politicians listening to all the, "Disgusting innit like..never did me any harm" mob, will ensure the continuation of a pointless, counter-productive, privacy invading tradition.
However, when Mrs Morris set homework, I did it. Except on one occasion.
The assignment was to write a 16 bar piece of music which she would play in class. I forgot all about it until I was on the school bus the morning it was due. I quickly took out my music book and jotted down notes that on paper at least, looked like they would go together - more or less. When the time came, I confidently handed her my assignment.
The music class was very small - three girls, three boys. I was sitting next to my friend Nigel, a blonde lad with a roguish sense of humour. Mrs Morris played the other five pieces first, making complimentary remarks or constructive suggestions after each one.
Then came mine.
She looked at it, then placed the book on the piano with exactly the same expression as she had with the others. Then she started playing.
A blackboard being scratched with fingernails would have been more melodic than my piece. Mrs Morris however, did not bat an eyelid and continued playing with the same enthusiasm and gusto as though she were playing a much loved piece of music by her favourite maestro.
Of course the rest of the class were trying very hard not to laugh, and at one stage I thought we would have to call the ambulance for poor Nigel, who appeared screwed up in agony.
Before long I felt as though I had been sitting in a sauna for about an hour, though in reality the piece lasted only a minute or so. Finally to my relief, she finished. She turned round, put her hands on her knees and said, "Very innovative. In fact, I think I will play it again"
You bastard!
Play it again she did and I had no choice but to sit through the excruciating experience once more.
Piece finished, she turned once more to me, this time with an over-the-top inquisitive look on her face.
"Tell me Michael, (she was one of the few teachers who used first names for pupils) what do you call this piece?"
"Dunno know Miss" I answered, "never thought about it." She of course had a suggestion.
"How about, 'Opus Written On The School Bus?" and with out anything more said, continued on to the next part of the lesson.
She may well have been a teacher - but gee she had street cred!
