Bath Tech School Teachers 66-73
There were quite a few characters among the staff at the City of Bath Technical School.
Killer Keating, aka The Killer or just plain Killer, absolutely terrified the 1st Year pupils. After two or three years he would relax his iron grip just a little as long as he was sure everyone knew their place. I remember vividly on my first day at school, timetable in hand and trying to work out which classroom to go to. A couple of second year boys pointed us in the right direction.
“Who have you got squirt?” One of them enquired. The other looked down at the scrap of paper.
“They’ve only got Killer haven’t they!”
I said hesitantly, “No it says Mr Keating.”
“Yeah, Killer Keating, and you’re gonna die!” He insisted.
We all walked into our first maths lesson absolutely petrified.
Killer was in his mid 50s and always wore a grey suit. He was a cripple and used crutches to help him walk. He spoke with quite a strong south welsh accent and unlike most teachers he wasn’t sarcastic. I don’t know whether he was injured during the war fighting the Germans or suffered from an injury resulting from playing rugby fighting the English! Killer would enter the classroom shuffle over to the desk and slam his crutches down hard on the table; everything on the desk would jump a couple of millimetres usually causing a pencil to roll over onto the floor. A child sitting nearby would quickly seize the opportunity of ingratiating himself into Killer’s favour by leaping over to the fallen pencil and placing it back with the deftness of a skilled conjuror. The child would say, “Sir” as the errant pencil was placed exactly back to the spot where it had lain. Killer may or may not have said thank-you in return. Polite acknowledgement or silent scowl was a lottery dependant on mood. He would then lower himself into the chair wincing with pain slightly, but not encouraging, or for that matter, receiving any sympathy from the gathered congregation. He would then begin the lesson. Nobody would dare speak unless spoken to by Killer himself, everyone even breathed silently. Killer was very short tempered and always went straight for the jugular; he would shout, look very fierce and hand out detentions, as if they were invitations to a summer sale. Everyone would feign interest and understanding in order to survive the session unscathed.
Many years later I learnt of an incident involving Killer a few years before I was welcomed onto the hallowed ground of the City of Bath Technical School. Apparently the music teacher in a nearby class was having difficulty controlling his gathered flock. I can imagine The Killer getting a little restless hearing excited noises interspersed with high pitched cackling laughter and… fidgeting in his chair for a few seconds, debating with himself whether to use overwhelming force to quell the source of the irritation. The Killer of that time would almost certainly not have required crutches and would have only demonstrated a slight limp, and even that, he probably could disguise pretty effectively. As he scanned his own class to ensure that there was not even a scintilla of sympathy with the boisterous behaviour exhibiting itself nearby, there would be building within his whole psyche an irresistible call to arms to eradicate the mutiny.
Half a league, half a league, half a league onward…”Forward the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!”
Killer immediately rode to the rescue and left his class probably with dire warnings of unimaginable consequences if any advantage were to be exploited from the absence of the said Killer.
Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred, Killer rode to subdue the unruly and vanquish the scoundrels, his fate not to make reply, his fate not to reason why, and his fate but to do and die!
Indeed The Killer found mayhem amongst the ranks, children in a state of as near to revolt as makes no difference.
Miscreants to the right of him, miscreants to the left of him, and miscreants in the front of him!
One of the children on hearing Killer’s orders for silence and an immediate return to desks defiantly produced a knife and threatened Killer with the weapon. Big mistake!
Boldly Killer rode, and rode well, into the jaws of Death! His was not to make reply, his was not to reason why. His was to do and die!
These days if that incident happened, the other children would be ushered out, the police called and a retinue of psychologists and half the department of Children’s Services would be on site to assess the situation and advise the hooligan of his rights. So much attention would be lavished on the offender that there would be a real danger of a repeat offence in order that the offender could rekindle some of the attention received. Not so in the early 60s and definitely not so if Killer was on the loose! Apparently Killer cool as a cucumber pounced on the miscreant and disarmed him, once he had possession of the knife he frog marched the child down to the headmaster and the child was expelled on the spot!
There is nothing like instant retribution to ensure that everyone walks the line. At that time most of the teachers and parents had fought during WW2, they might not have been commandos or fighter pilots but were easily capable of seeing off a spotty kid with attitude who happened to be armed with a weapon.
One thing that Killer was quite famous for, which became a kind of well-rehearsed party trick which he would perform on special occasions, especially if he was in a reasonable mood, was his half-crown trick. One needs to bear in mind that in the mid 1960’s a half crown was a considerable sum of money, equivalent to several pounds in today’s money. If a child started to hiccup within the silent classroom, Killer would identify the child and fix him with a steely glare. He would hold the child within his glare for a few unnerving seconds and then reach into his pocket and pull out a half crown. Holding the coin aloft he would announce to the child as if he were the only other person in the room, that if the child could hiccup just once more he (the worthless minion), could keep the half crown. Needless to say the child was so shocked and petrified, he could hardly breathe let alone hiccup, that no hiccups were ever forthcoming and so the half-crown would end up back in The Killer’s pocket. However if Killer was not in a good mood he would just send the hiccuping child out of the classroom with a flea in his ear! I witnessed the performance twice and it really was pure theatre; it had everything, danger, drama, uncertainty and humiliation.
Sometimes Killer would loosen up a bit with older pupils and pose a riddle; one of them was as follows. “If it takes a flea and a half, a year and a half to crawl through a barrel of treacle with his father’s clogs on, how long will it take a man to sandpaper an elephant down to a whippet? “ Killer would not reveal the answer but simply discount any of the theories that the children had volunteered. There probably never was a specific answer to the riddle although it has been suggested that Killer later confided that the answer was, the same time as it takes a cellophane cat to catch a cellophane mouse in the fires of hell. Being a maths teacher Killer probably liked the idea of posing a question without a definite provable answer for a change and revelled in the puzzled look on children’s faces without the hassle of explaining the answer.
During dinner time Geoffrey Clarke and I must have infringed a minor rule while waiting in the queue and all of a sudden Killer descended and we were hauled out for punishment. He frog marched us down through the hall and through the forbidden office corridor to the head masters office. Killer pressed the traffic light button and we all waited the perfunctory twenty seconds for the light to go from red to green. This would have given Fred Naylor ample time to put his book or crossword safely away in his desk drawer and pretend to be absorbed in a complex study of the school accounts or other important affairs which required great intellectual input. The puzzling incident had the air of overkill writ large all over it! On a scale of zero to ten we were all petrified of Killer and so when he admonished us for breaking a petty rule we were already at a fear factor of ten plus! Being frogmarched down to the head masters office and getting a dressing down and a detention from Fred Naylor as well couldn’t have made us any more frightened. It was a bit like the Russians informing us that they had an inter-continental ballistic missile aimed right at us that would turn everything to dust. Then the next week telling us that instead of one missile there is now a hundred missiles! Nobody would feel a hundred times more scared. I think Killer was making a point here and we were mere pawns in the affair. Killer was probably making a protest about the number of dinner duties he had been allocated and the most effective way of protesting was to interrupt the head masters crossword puzzle! We had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time!
Ray Jones was one of the woodwork teachers. He must have been quite old because he taught my dad in the 1930s. Ray would play the organ at assembly deftly manipulating the pedals of the organ with his small feet squeezed tightly into shiny black winkle picker shoes. He always wore bright tightly fitting shirts in lurid colours. Usually bright pinks or yellows with a tiny tie fixed under a loose collar. His trousers would be hitched up and skin tight. His thinning grey hair would be swept back over his head and smeared over with Brylcream. He would strut about in the clothes of a 1950's teenager even though he was approaching sixty. Ray was quite unlike the other teachers at the school. He wasn’t sarcastic or strict, but always managed to keep good order in his woodwork shop. He spoke with a kindly, slightly high, lilting West Country voice. Ray always began his lessons in the same way. He would have a white apron wrapped around his front and he would be standing by one of the work benches as if he were in the middle of doing something important. We would enter the workshop quietly grinding to a halt a little way into the room. Ray would then say,
“Come on boys, gather round… gather round.”
Beckoning us over to his bench with a friendly welcoming wave of his hand, the lesson would begin.
Ray Jones would love showing us how to sharpen chisels.
“Right boys you’ve got to wrap your hand around the handle, and hold it firmly!”
The wooden handle of the chisel was a phallic symbol and was handled by the tutor, in our minds, as if it was the real thing.
“Now grab the end and push firmly, keep that pressure on… firmly now boys, now stroke it backwards and forwards, try to build up a rhythm!”
We would be sniggering; any loud laughs would be camouflaged with a coughing fit. Ray would continue with his instructions.
“Now boys push the handle into your body and use your body to push in and out!”
Ray would then gyrate the centre of his body pushing the chisel against the grinding stone. He would stop every now and again and wipe little beads of sweat that had gathered from his forehead. Sometimes he would stop and say.
“Gosh that was hard work…I think we need a bit of lubrication here boys!”
He would reach for the oil and pump the plunger a few times; a few drops of oil would spurt out on the grinding stone. “That’s better boys!”
There would always be a flourish of activity near the end of the sharpening demonstration as Ray thrusted in and out with his hips pushing the chisel against the sharpening stone in a final honing climax. It was all screamingly funny and at the end of the session we would all have stomach cramps with the effort of keeping in all of those laughs.
At the end of one session my friend Ian asked Ray a question about furniture.
“Please sir, my aunt has a very old and valuable table, but it’s got woodworm! What should she do?”
Ray looked down towards us, “Woodworm you say?”
“Yes sir, yes sir”
Ian replies nervously, since he realises that if we are all delayed listening to Ray answering stupid questions and we miss part of our break time the class heavies will almost certainly give him a duffing over in the playground. Ray continues once he is sure that he has the ears of all the children.
“The first thing you need to do is to pick the table up carefully and take it outside, into the open air.”
Like most teachers Ray then waits for confirmation that Ian had grasped the first step. Ian confirms that he indeed has adequate hearing and a reasonable understanding of the English language by repeating his earlier answer of “yes sir, yes sir.”
Ray carries on with his valuable advice. “Get some petrol from the garage!”
Ray nods knowingly, putting his index finger to the side of his nose and tapping it gently and Ian instinctively responds.
“Yes sir, yes sir…petrol…yes sir!”
Ray now starts addressing the whole class, sensing an opportunity to impress everyone.
“Now splash the petrol liberally over the table, and make sure you use plenty of petrol.”
That was Ian’s cue for another, “yes sir, yes sir.”
By this point most of us had twigged what was going to happen next. Ian definitely hadn’t which was making the proceedings immensely funny and would probably save Ian from being roughed over. After all entertainment like this was far better than playtime! After a short pause Ray said softly.
“Then you will need a box of matches’ boy!”
Ian still was none the wiser where the story was going and predictably replied.
“Matches… yes sir, yes sir,”
In fairness, Ian did have a very puzzled look on his face but he still thought Ray was being earnest. Ray then delivered his coup de grace and put Ian out of his misery.
“Stand well back and light the match. Now throw the match onto the table and watch it burn! There’s no cure for woodworm, boy! Burn it boy, burn it!”
We all fell about with laughter and Ray beamed with glory. Even he couldn’t resist the opportunity of humiliating a child given favourable circumstances.
Jack Cossnet was our metalwork teacher and he would like nothing better than to tell us stories about the war. There was a large blackboard behind his bench and he would gather us around to discuss the good old days. Obviously bored with the prospect of another metal working lesson, one day he wrote P.L.U.T.O. on the board and invited the class to explain the significance of what he had written. Promising ideas ranged from planets to Popeye. Then Jack set the scene with hastily drawn maps of Western Europe circa 1944 showing the defensive positions of the Germans and the planned thrust of the attacking allies. After five or ten minutes, although it was all quite interesting, we were all thinking but what has all this got to do with P.L.U.T.O.? Then he said in hushed tones, as if it were still some kind of state secret.
“Pipe line under the ocean!”
We all looked at him dumbfounded, which was of course playing exactly into his hand, since now he could go on to explain in more detail.
“If it wasn’t for P.L.U.T.O. the invasion of Europe after D-Day wouldn’t have worked!”
He announced with absolute certainty. When he inserted the route of the pipeline on his map of Western Europe on the blackboard, I remember thinking, that’s not an ocean that’s the English Channel; still I considered P.L.U.T.E.C. wouldn’t have had the same ring!
Another time somebody had done something inappropriate and he didn’t know who it was and on making the necessary enquiries he was still none the wiser.
“No names… no pack drill!”
He announced knowingly. The trouble was that nobody knew what the hell he was talking about so he used the situation to his advantage and insisted on telling us all about army training and sergeant majors and punishments in the army. To this day I’m still not sure what the phrase actually means, but Jack Cossnet obviously thought it was worth knowing!
Every week we had lessons in woodwork, metalwork and technical drawing so most people would assume that we were all quite good at making things, wouldn’t they? Anyone harbouring those misconceptions would have been bitterly disappointed when looking at the array of items that were Made in School. In fairness, it should be stated unequivocally that no blame should be levelled at the teaching staff, who endeavoured to teach the necessities with some considerable determination and skill. Or for that matter, The City of Bath Education Committee, who provided one of the most modern and comprehensive teaching facilities in the country. No the blame lies squarely on the shoulders of the ham fisted wooden heads like myself who stubbornly resisted all attempts to turn us into the engineers of the future. So what did the eleven and twelve year old boy make in their metalwork lessons?
Among the assorted treasures were; a copper ashtray (nice…), a fork and trowel for the garden (useful…), a dibber (don’t ask…), a plantsman’s string line (very useful…) and a G cramp (what?). There did seem to be a kind of pattern in the output of the metalwork class. The treasures either seemed to be smoking orientated or garden inspired, maybe Jack Cossnet got all of his ideas having a fag down on his allotment! The produce lovingly prepared courtesy of the woodwork class reads like the contents of the conveyor belt from the original series of the Generation Game. Bruce Forsythe and the audience would be willing the lucky contestant to remember every single available prize stacked up on the conveyor belt, whilst the frankly worried contestant would be utterly determined to forget each and every one so that they would be saved the trouble of finding them houseroom! With one exception all the treasures quickly gravitated to a holding place at home, situated between the outside toilet and the outhouse. There they remained seemingly defying the ravages of time, age shall not weary them, nor do the years condemn. The only treasure that was ever used was the shoe cleaning box, which gave sterling service for over forty years at my parents’ house and that lived in the outhouse next to the outside toilet!
We always referred to our technical drawing teacher as Jammy, I can’t remember why he was given this particular moniker, but the name stuck. The technical drawing room was long and narrow with large wooden benches down each side. Each bench would seat two boys and there would be ample space for every child to have a large drawing board and a tee square so that we could attempt a third angle projection engineering drawing. There would be space right at the front of the room for a large upright drawing board, where we would gather round and Jammy could explain what we were going to do that particular day. Then we would all retire to our benches to complete our own drawings and Jammy would wander up and down the aisle looking left and then right, but never behind!
That was his undoing because certain children would take it in turns to sit at the back and walk behind Jammy tip toeing gently, so as not to be caught out. As the miscreants became bolder so the tip toeing evolved into all sorts of funny walks, gestures and rude signs. Events reached new depths of depravity when Daniel J. decided to get his todger out so it was dangling right in front of him and walk the entire length of the drawing room behind Jammy. He always just managed to get back to his bench at the back of the room before Jammy reached his chair and turned around. At the time it was absolutely hilarious, how Daniel managed to run all the way back to his bench with his todger jumping up and down as he took long quick silent steps back to the safety of his bench I will never know.
Teacher’s nearly always acquired nicknames. Often they would be their Christian names as with Fred (Mr.Naylor), Bill (Mr.Hayman), Hugh (Mr. Mills) and Barry (Mr McManus). Sometimes they borrowed Christian names of famous personalities, for instance Mr Harris would always be referred to as Jet or Mr Cannon as Frank. Mr Paulson was called Pinky and for some reason Mr King had always been known as Pimple. “Pop” Webb possibly had an avuncular nature at one time although I can’t say that I noticed. Other nicknames were Sammy, Jammy, Jock, Ben, Dickie and Wally. The names were passed down from year to year, the younger children simply accepting them rather than thinking up new ones. Mr Harris was Jet many years after everyone had forgotten about the pop star Jet Harris. Maybe Mr King had a pimply face when he started at the school, so Pimple it was to be for all time!
The giving of nicknames is really a friendly gesture on the part of the children toward their mentors. Children are fantastically good at finding some traces of humanity in people who displayed no outward signs of that most human of all traits. Even some of the fiercest and most merciless teachers occasionally would let their guard down thus exposing the fact that they were, after all, part of the human race, along with the rest of us.
There were two teachers that didn’t have nicknames. Mrs Edwards and Mr Cowley were always referred to by their full names for completely different reasons. They were The Beauty and The Beast of The City of Bath Technical School. Both teachers for very different reasons never let their guard down, never gave a gram of themselves and so never had a nickname.
Mrs Edwards was the only female member of the staff at the school. But what a female! She was in her late 20s and was absolutely beautiful. Mrs Edwards would have looked stunning anywhere but in the crusty impregnated environs of City of Bath Technical School where Mr Chips would not have looked out of place; she took on the form of an ancient Greek goddess, a kind of Venus in red dress. Mrs Edwards was of average height, but her height was the only physical trait that was average about the gorgeous Mrs Edwards. She had a slim body, long dark, almost black hair, big brown eyes and a tanned complexion. She walked elegantly around the school, often wearing a red skirt worn just below the knee. She could have been a model, but she was here at our school, teaching us history and religious education. How lucky were we?
As 11 year old children, we found her irresistible, but it must have been awkward for her working with the older children awash with pubescent hormones. Not to mention the randy lecherous teachers, who would have been falling over themselves to gain her favour? That is with the exception of Ray whose eyes were elsewhere and Bill who was too much in love with the school. As a result and quite understandably the fantastic Mrs Edwards had to maintain a certain dignity about the place and remain very professional, almost cold, never shouting but never laughing, always with her guard up. That’s why she never had a nickname; she was always called Mrs Edwards.
Everyone was petrified of our physics teacher, Mr Cowley. He simply had no redeeming features what-so-ever. Mr Cowley was in his mid to late twenties, shortish in stature and slightly built. He had thinning fair wavy hair and spoke in a slightly high of normal simpering fashion. He was extremely generous with detentions whilst being miserly with praise. Giving positive praise would be completely alien to Mr Cowley, since it would entail giving something away and that seemingly would hurt him. Any approval was so jealously guarded by Mr Cowley that the chance of any escaping from such a vice like grip was futile! We were used to strict discipline but Mr Cowley had something else. He had a cruel edge. Children would be humiliated as a matter of routine. He would almost dare you with his piercing green eyes and sickly smile to step over the line and see what would happen. No-one ever did. The reciting ritual was one of his favourite ploys.
“Boy, Archimedes Principle, stand up, one mistake… one detention. You may start now.”
He would yap between clenched teeth like a demented weasel. Mr Cowley never revealed a vestige of humanity and maintained a kind of Flashman personality throughout, so he didn’t have a nickname and was always referred to as Mr Cowley or more often just plain Cowley.
Life at high school might not have been very enjoyable but the facilities were very good, far better than at most schools nowadays. We had 2 fully fitted chemistry labs, 2 biology labs, 2 physics rooms with banked seating, a fully equipped large gym, a large hall complete with a huge stage and lighting and a computer room linked to a mainframe in the city. All the classrooms were of a good size with large windows providing plenty of light. We also had a lovely art studio, technical drawing room, drama facilities and a music room.
The metalwork room had a forge, 2 big lathes, welding and brazing equipment and much more! We also had 2 large, well-resourced woodwork classrooms both with benches and vices for a full 30 pupils. These days however it is not uncommon to find children working in cramped mobile classrooms, which can be cold in winter and boiling hot in summer. In the 1990's I spent 6 years teaching in a mobile classroom featuring running wet windows and damp walls in the winter and stifling heat in the summer. On a hot day with all the windows and doors open the classroom temperature would often reach 95 degrees Fahrenheit! When my daughter went to high school in the mid 1990’s when having a tour of her school (built in the 1980’s) I was quite shocked to discover that there was nowhere near the facilities that we had enjoyed at my school in the 1960’s.
We had an assembly every morning led by our esteemed headmaster Mr. Fred Naylor. All of the pupils would be seated in the hall, then suddenly the double doors would fly open and Fred would emerge and glide through the hall, as if he were on casters propelled by a divine wind, with his graduation gown fluttering in the wake of his purposeful silent strides. The other teachers by order of their seniority would follow until there was a veritable swarm of gowns flickering and waving, like a migrating flock of birds heading for more favourable climes. The teachers would take up their places on the stage and the assembly would commence. It was all pure theatre.
Ray Jones would play the organ situated just below the stage and the senior staff would either look with awkward embarrassment or a pained air of disdain as the gaily dressed sexagenarian played the keyboard and flexed those so tight trousers as his winkle pickers danced along the pedals of the organ. Invariably hymns with an obvious message designed to promote an esprit de corps among the faithfully gathered would be played especially if they had a stirring melody. We would have, “When a Knight won his spurs” and “Onward Christian Soldiers” and “I vow to thee my country” and many others. These hymns would be sung at least once per week! The teachers wore their gowns back to the classrooms just to keep the spectacle in our minds a little longer, the gowns tended to be hung up toward the end of the first session.
Fred would then disappear back to his office and wrestle with really important matters for the rest of the day. He would emerge the next day ready for morning assembly; it must have been a lonely life! Occasionally his busy schedule would be interrupted by some unfortunate child being sent to him by one of the teachers. Outside the headmaster’s office mounted on the wall was a set of lights, each one about the size of a table tennis ball. The red light at the top would always be on when anyone arrived. Everyone would have to knock and wait until the light changed to green. There would always be a considerable period of time between a change of light, thus promoting the myth that there was a hectic schedule of important business being conducted behind the formidable door.
On entering one would gaze in wonder at the sumptuous proportions of the Headmaster’s office. It was palatial in design and scale but at the same time austere in appearance. Anyone entering the inner sanctum couldn’t fail to be impressed and intimidated with equal measure. Like a senior officer in the British army Fred always remained cool and dignified. He never raised his voice or became angry, he would simply reinforce whatever the teacher had complained about and add his stamp of approval to whatever punishment the teacher had in mind. I only went to see Fred twice and that was two times too many!
Bill Hayman, deputy head really ran the school as far as organisation and discipline were concerned. Fred was a career educationalist and would often disappear on secondments for months on end. It didn’t really matter because Bill ran the school whether Fred was there or not! Bill didn’t have any of the trappings of power like a fancy office, traffic lights or a secretary. He didn’t need it! Bill had been at that school since before the war, indeed he had taught my dad and he left school in 1936! Bill had a small narrow office; he had just about enough room to swing a cane and be confident that the tip of the cane wouldn’t graze the side wall when he was at full stretch. It was a utilitarian office for a practical efficient schoolmaster. Fred would know how to impress and schmooze with fancy guests and important dignitaries, Bill could teach effectively, organise the staff and dispense six of the best with consummate skill. Each to their own!
The deputy headmaster carried a heavy responsibility. He was the enforcer. Teachers would send children to Bill for caning and he would duly oblige with either three or six of the best. Bill wasn’t a cruel or an unduly hard person, he was a pragmatist and saw caning as a necessary tool that guaranteed the smooth running of his beloved school. My year band which went to high school in nineteen sixty six had a few unruly and difficult children amongst it’s number. The same could be said for the previous year band, the class of sixty five. Prior to this the children were generally diligent, respectful and good natured. Bill even sent his own son to our school a few years earlier; he seemed quite happy and did very well. Yet by nineteen sixty six things had changed, Nigel, Bill’s son who at that time was in the sixth form would have had a very rough time of it, in our year band, with his dad running the school. Why things changed in the mid sixties is not clear, but the behaviour of pupils never improved in all of the subsequent years. In fact pupil’s attitude and conduct got a whole lot worse.
An occurrence that happened in about 1968 epitomised the changing dynamics within the school. There was a minor act of vandalism, such as writing on the toilet wall or a fire alarm being activated one afternoon. Prior to this the teachers had obviously been moaning to Bill about pupil behaviour generally. Bill saw the prospect of stamping his authority on the whole school and at the same time to impress the teachers with his no nonsense, firm but fair brand of discipline. Bill was determined to seize this rich vein of possibilities, this moment of opportunity and cleverly turn this little setback into a glorious victory.
We can imagine Bill whistling “Happy days are here again,” as he put in place his strategy for dealing with the minor transgression. He immediately sent a note to every classroom and to all staff, stating that they must assemble on the field without delay. Within minutes everyone was ushered out of the school class by class and mobilised into little class groups marching in silence across the playground. All the classes were arranged spaced precisely standing in squares all over the field, with a teacher positioned at the front left hand corner of each square. Spare teachers were fluttering between the squares delivering messages or standing around Bill, like courtiers around a king. It was a very impressive spectacle, resembling the battlefield at Waterloo just prior to Napoleon’s cavalry assault on the British army’s squares. The only things missing were the horses and the cannon!
We stood there not having a clue what was going on. Was there a plague? Had nuclear war been declared? We stood there wondering feeling slightly uncomfortable, which was obviously the purpose of the delaying tactics. Bill then addressed the five hundred plus children and staff. He told us of the mindless vandalism that had taken place that very afternoon, and then he made his big mistake. Whether this was planned or whether he just got carried away with the grandeur of the occasion or the intoxication of his power… we will never know. He overplayed his hand by adding, in a threatening voice, that unless the guilty person stepped forward one pace then we would all stay where we were for as long as it takes.
The trouble was that Bill wasn’t dealing with pre 1965 children. The new children weren’t so compliant; they came with a hardened edge, a cheeky grin and weren’t troubled by an overactive conscience. Bill was used to dealing with little gentlemen and the last couple of year’s intakes to the City of Bath Technical School were far from that. We were not surprised at all when nobody obliged him. A complete lack of honour and honesty manifested itself in rock solid static rows of defiant children. No one was prepared to do the decent thing. Some very hard staring, various threats and posturing on the part of Bill followed. He obviously had a good idea who the likely culprits were because he would menacingly pace in front of one or two of the squares zooming up to certain faces to eyeball and intimidate his small band of suspects.
For all the world Bill had taken on the hideous persona of a Second World War sergeant- major, in his own mind it was all for the greater good, but some of the teachers looked uncomfortable and nervous at the sudden turn of events. Others were totally bemused and thought Bill had taken leave of his senses and openly tutted in disapproval to trusted colleagues in the school. But the miscreants remained unmoved and stood firmly in line. It was a battle of nerves, but time wasn’t on Bill’s side, he had expected a quick and decisive victory and was unprepared for a long drawn out campaign.
After about forty five minutes the buses arrived to pick up the Wiltshire children. West Wiltshire did not have a grammar school so the children from that area were bused into the school. There followed heated and animated discussions between Bill and some of the senior teachers. Bill now had to decide whether to keep the buses waiting and hold the children where they were or to let the village children go home. Everyone stared at Bill and he glared back at us, but he blinked first. He decided to let the Wiltshire children go home and to all intents and purposes the game was up! He kept the rest of us for a few more minutes and then let us all go. I felt quite sorry for Bill because as the children dispersed and vanished so did a sizeable chunk of Bill’s authority and credibility. He was the one who had to back down and the hoodlums were seen to win. It was unfortunate in many ways, however Bill was too big a person to be down for long, but he knew that times were changing and that he had seen the best of it, in the years prior to 1965
Bill Hayman was absolutely dedicated to the City of Bath Technical School. Some teachers are motivated by the noble and high ideal of making a difference to the children they teach. Others are driven by a personal ambition to develop their career and achieve promotion and greater power. What stimulated Bill was the school itself. His mission was to develop the school and make sure it was the best establishment in the city. He was really proud of the school and saw it as a personal crusade to ensure that our school was at least as good, if not better than the City of Bath Boy’s School. Bill was totally loyal to the school and consequently every decision he made would be on the basis of what was in the best interests of the school.
Some years later when I was in the 6th form, Clive and I went on a walking camping holiday on the south coast. We were wandering along Seaton sea front, unwashed and looking like a couple of vagrants in need of care and attention. We were just about to cross a road when we spotted Bill and his wife. At the time he had just retired. We turned on our heels quickly, desperately trying to avoid an embarrassing encounter, considering the state of our appearance. But it was too late! Bill’s keen eyes had spotted us even though we were in full disguise. He darted across the busy road with his wife in attendance, carefully ensuring her safety whilst maintaining a healthy speed. He spoke to us very pleasantly for about 5 minutes in the heat of the summer sun. Bill and his wife were really charming and although they were on holiday, they were dressed formally, as if they were attending a function. After we parted both Clive and I gasped with amazement. “Did you see the tie Bill was wearing?”
Both of us blurted out at the same time. It was of course the City of Bath Technical School tie!
One little incident stays fresh in my mind that happened in the early years at school. During a games lesson we were playing rugby on the sports field. One of the teachers pinned down Ken S. with his studded boot on the little boy’s chest. He held him there for a few seconds and Ken was in some distress. Ken was of slender build and not aggressive at all, he had probably let the ball through without challenging and the teacher was making an example of him. It seemed to us that Barry Mac the teacher had overstepped the mark a bit, but we were all amazed when Ken said that he was going to tell his dad. We all thought that this was a ridiculous idea. Most dads would have simply laughed and said.
“Well I bet you deserved it!”
Or “Good for Mr Mac! I must remember to put him on my Christmas card list!”
Ken indeed did tell his dad and what was more his dad had obtained an appointment with the Deputy Headmaster. This was almost unbelievable, but we were convinced that Bill would send Ken’s dad packing with a flea in his ear and then Ken would reap the whirlwind and be given a stack of detentions and maybe a new type of punishment which we hadn’t heard of before. Maybe poor Ken would be in line for an untested doomsday type of retribution, which had been reserved for very special circumstances such as these. One should appreciate that a teacher’s word was law, moreover they never had to account for any of their actions, and so the affair was entering what was very much uncharted territory.
What happened next was like a rank outsider winning an important race, or England winning the Ashes in Australia. Somehow Ken’s dad won the day.
I think the outcome was that Barry Mac. had to apologise to Ken for the misunderstanding and his dad received a letter of apology from the school! Of course we only had Ken’s word on the outcome of events, but I believed him and still do! The world as we knew it had indeed turned upside down. It wasn’t exactly the end of the iron hand, or even the beginning of the end, but surely it was the end of the beginning!
Although maths teacher Barry Mac was involved in the unfortunate incident with Ken on the rugby field, he was quite a decent teacher and a nice bloke. He had taken over from Killer as our maths teacher and new to the school, probably newly qualified. He would tell us of the delights of working at Bowyers in Trowbridge as a student. For years afterwards I would always half expect to come across a fingertip lodged between a bit of meat and the side crust. Apparently there was some kind of bladed mincer used for cutting up the meat that would slice an unsuspecting finger off as easy as wink! News depths of incompetence were reached at the end of our 3rd year; this manifested itself in the form of the end of year mathematics exam.
Barry Mac spent nearly two lessons giving the results of the examination. He walked into the room with the papers under his arm wearing an expression caught between thunder and complete bafflement. He was confused since we had spent the whole year learning nothing and angry because he had wasted the whole year teaching us nothing. He made a speech of about twenty minutes through which the whole class were constantly berated as to their lack of mathematical competency. We were pathetic, stupid, useless, pitiful, disgraceful, shameful, shocking, dreadful, appalling, horrendous, awful, terrible, atrocious, outrageous, scandalous and abysmal to name a few. When he had used all of the colourful adjectives (without notes), he simply carried on using them again and again to reinforce just how pathetic we were. Once the devastating artillery barrage had delivered the desired effect he moved on to the detailed analysis of the catastrophe that was our end of year maths paper. This involved the individual humiliation of each and every member of the class.
Barry had neatly arranged the stack of papers in numerical order. He looked down at the stack as if it were a pile of something that was too awful to mention and picked up the first exam paper. He looked at it in disbelief and a pained expression took hold of his face which proclaimed judgement this boy is a complete and utter idiot… and it’s not my fault! After a few seconds of silence and still wearing the expression of somebody who had trodden in something rather unpleasant only discovering the predicament after walking through the entire house, he bellowed out the miscreants name at full volume.
“Sellick you are a complete and utter idiot! One mark! One out of a possible 100, or in your case an impossible 100!”
More insults followed where the unfortunate child would be likened to animate and inanimate objects of varying degrees of denseness. Then the paper would be flung at a distance in the general direction of the errant student. In between papers there would be a long silence when Barry would stare around the room piercing everyone with his shaming death ray glare, then the next victim would be humiliated.
“Rawlings you are an absolute buffoon! You are a pathetic excuse for a human being boy; you take stupidity to new levels of senselessness! Three marks! One hundred marks available and you manage to achieve a total of three! And I think I was being generous awarding you a full three marks!”
All types of put downs and insults were used over the entire two lessons so much so that had any of the older more experienced teachers been watching the spectacle they undoubtedly would have smiled approvingly and all would had agreed that the new boy was settling in rather well.
The mass bollocking and humiliation carried on much in the same vein until the end of the lesson when there were still a pile of papers left on his table. Proceedings were adjourned to the following day when the rest of the class would be informed of their relative stupidity.
It is at this point that I have to admit that I came top in that maths exam with a score of 55, a feat that had never happened before or indeed since! It proved to be the high water mark in my educational attainment at the school, a kind of swan song to achievement. At the end of the following year I was condemned to 5Y!
At the Tech’ there were 3 classes of 30 pupils and for the first day back in our O’ Level year Bill Hayman had a very important message to deliver to the whole school before we were allocated to our classes. He said that in the 5th year there were to be 2 super classes; 5L which would specialize in languages and 5X which would specialize in academic excellence, Bill then paused and then said that there was also going to be 5Y and he couldn’t think of anything to say about 5Y so there was an embarrassing silence for a few seconds and that was it! A few minutes later when the names were read out I discovered that I was in 5Y! The whole year became a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy, since the whole class was told, in front of the whole school, that there were no expectations of success for the children in that class. With hugely low levels of self-esteem and the teachers virtually told that they needn’t bother too much led almost immediately to children behaving badly and teachers not turning up to lessons.
Some teachers did carry on as normal and put effort in to their teaching like Barry Mac and Hugh Mills but others certainly did not and it was not unusual for some of them to show up half way through the lesson and just go through the motions. With no teachers in the lessons for long periods of time behaviour worsened and bullying, beatings and even mock hangings took place. It was quite scary at the time and most of the children couldn’t wait for the teachers to show up for lessons.
The anti-social behaviour within the classroom varied in scale and intensity. Minor incidents would involve projectiles wide-ranging in nature from comical to disgusting to dangerous. Comical or soft projectiles would consist of wetted lumps of blotting paper lobbed or thrown across the classroom. Small bullets of blotting paper rolled in the mouth or hard grains of rice would be shot at high speed through a Bic biro stem. Even these soft projectiles could be fairly threatening if applied in concentration; a group of six could inflict significant damage if fire were converged on a single target. A grain of rice fired at high speed at the back of the neck or face will hurt and it wasn’t unusual to see pupils jackets peppered with small bits of blotting paper as if they had been hit with a scatter gun.
Disgusting projectiles would include spit and bits of food but by far the worst was the snot ball. Only some children had the ability to produce the snot ball but in 5Y there were a few children who could seemingly manufacture them on demand. Those sufficiently clued up knew the warning signs and could take cover from being hit by this most vile projectile. The first thing you would hear would be a wet gurgley cough and several deep clearances of the throat. It was at that point that it was imperative to look around and identify the source because then effective countermeasures could be put in place like seeking cover behind a desk or another child. The source of the noise could then be seen to cover one nostril with a finger and blow through the open nostril at high speed into their other hand, ready cupped underneath. The snot ball would then be thrown across the classroom at some unsuspecting target. The snot ball would not stay in a ball shape but morph into a variety of forms whilst flying through the air, but never disintegrate; its centre of gravity would always pull in those parts trying to break free. I have witnessed those vile and revolting projectiles menacingly vectoring their way across the classroom. Pity the child who was hit on the back of the head by the cold and sticky slime, pity the mum who found the stains on the jacket left behind by such a hit, pity the caretaker who after school would find the almost living gloop working its way down the classroom wall or window!
Dangerous behaviour in the classroom would usually involve punching and kicking but by far the worst would be the mock executions. The executions would be very scary. The 5 or 6 children sponsoring the terror would select a victim who may then be bound and blindfolded depending on the time available. A chair would be set on top of a desk next to a window and the victim would be forced to sit on the chair. The chord of the Venetian blind would then be tied around the victim’s neck so it was tight. Some threats would be issued about last statements before the sentence was carried out and then the prime movers would take it in turns to kick the chair nearer to the edge of the desk. Such things were only possible if the perpetrators knew for sure that the teachers were not going to show up for the lesson, unfortunately this was a common feature of the year and so such activities carried on with impunity.
It makes me quite sad to consider that in that class there was a lot of very decent children and they should not have had to experience the kind of antics that went on and the lack of effective teaching. I believe this was allowed to happen because the school was obsessed with comparing their O and A Level results with the City of Bath Boys School, and the perceived wisdom at the time would have maintained that having a sink class would be well worthwhile if such measures fostered more passes overall. They behaved not unlike a World War One general, more than happy to sacrifice whole regiments for the greater good and a few miserable yards of useless ground gained! After surviving the rigours of 5Y out of a class of 30 only two of us went into the 6th form and that was by the skin of our teeth!
We never went on any school trips during the first five years at the Tech’. I’m not sure why that was because apart from 5Y we were a pretty trust worthy lot as far as behaviour was concerned. Maybe the school budget would not stretch to such extravagancies and the school were not anxious to collect contributions from the parents. More likely however is that the teachers could not be assed to organise any visits or trips of educational merit. One glorious school trip in the lower 6th served to right all the wrongs of the previous dearth concerning out of school visits.
We should have known how the trip would develop when we went on an afternoon visit to a coal mine. In those days Somerset still had a coal industry and we went to visit the colliery at Kilmersdon near Radstock. On the way the minibus stopped at Radstock and noticing that the pubs were still open the teachers parked up and decamped to the pub. Left in the car park and with nothing much to do we trotted down the road and found a pub of our own! We were all about seventeen years old and used to going pubbing on a Saturday night and as 6th formers didn’t wear school uniforms so we did not have any trouble getting a beer. Well-oiled we all piled into the minibus and made our way to the colliery, it was great!
Dad gave me a pound pocket money every Saturday morning and by the time we were in the lower 6th that money was used for boozing on the Saturday evening. Beer was 12 pence a pint in 1972 and so we could have a great time down town in and out the various pubs. That crisp pound note would buy 5 pints of decent beer and fish and chips on the way back home! Happy days!
A few weeks later we all went on a school trip, courtesy of the history group, to France, Belgium and Holland for a week. Partly to make the numbers up and partly because we thought that they might be useful, we also invited the French group on the adventure. One would imagine that students studying French at A Level would have accumulated some skill in the art of being understood by the average French person. Any such expectations on that front were to be cruelly dashed when put to the test in France outside the confines of the classroom. In short we all found out pretty quickly that our old grannies at home could have done a better job at being understood by the average Frenchman than the entire French department at the Tech’ including the teachers!
We all set off in the newly purchased school minibus which had two hard bench seats running down both sides of the bus, comfortable it was not! As the bus accelerated we were all forced towards the back of the bus and when the brakes were applied we all ended up in a pile at the front of the bus. After a little while we learnt to brace ourselves by spreading our legs and judging when the bus was going to change speed thus avoiding pupil crumpling at either end of the bus. We hadn’t got outside of the city limits when Kennich felt ill and promptly threw up the remnants of his breakfast. The feat was expertly performed because in very quick time a minusculely small plastic bag was passed down the line and into the waiting hands of Kennich, who with very fine control, in one seamless movement, managed to open the bag, raise it to his mouth and squirt the noxious fluid without spilling a single drop. I for one was very impressed and we all thought Kennich had set the bar pretty high when it came to handling one’s self, whilst being sick, in a vehicle travelling at speed! If it had been me, in similar circumstances, feeling queasy and succumbing to a bout of the old Tom’s, I would have almost certainly pebble dashed the entire back end of the minibus, which would have, quite rightly, reduced me to little more than pariah status for the rest of the trip.
We made our way to the outskirts of Paris and set up our tent on a camp site, the teachers went off to find a bar which left us free to explore. We found a chicken and chip caravan which also sold bottles of wine. We all bought a whole bottle of wine each to wash our food down with. I went for the white wine with a stylised picture of a fish on the label; it was dirt cheap and absolutely gorgeous. A little worse for wear we bedded down for the night. We all explored the whole city in little groups on the metro and did whatever we wanted to do, goodness knows where the teachers were…it was great!
There were two adults on the trip who took it in turn to drive the minibus. One was a teacher at the school and the other was his friend who was known as Doc. I think he worked in a hospital but whether he was a real doctor I am not sure, he smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish so maybe it was just a nickname, but we are talking about 1972 here!
When we passed through Belgium somebody quickly realized that tobacco was ridiculously cheap, so we all piled into the shops to by a box of huge cigars. Some children bought selection type boxes others packets of enormous Churchillian cigars. The smoke coming out of the minibus as it made its way across Belgium must have raised a few eyebrows, both adults puffing away on their cigarettes and us kids lighting up huge fancy cigars! The craze however was fairly short lived and most of us got fed up with the bitter tar dripping out of the end which tended to make your lips and tongue smart which promoted an overwhelming urge to spit. I can’t remember what I did with the remainder of my fancy box of cigars; I probably gave them away when I got home.
Bound for Amsterdam the adults decided that instead of camping we would book into a cheap hotel. It would be a little more expensive than camping but would be much better because we would all have a proper bed and be near the centre of the city and could more easily take advantage of the sights.
It was a great decision; even our little hotel had a decent bar! The first thing we did was to go on a lunch time tour of the enormous Heineken Brewery. We were all more than interested in beer and really enjoyed the tour seeing how the golden nectar was made and bottled. After the tour we all piled into the hospitality room where snacks and beer were provided free of charge by our hosts. Heineken could be bought in Britain at the time but we would all normally drink Courage Best or Draught Worthington. However, continental Heineken was a different beast to the British variety, it was really strong! After knocking back five or six bottles (just to be sociable) we were all fairly happy, but not embarrassingly so, we were all capable of stumbling back to the hotel giggling and laughing.
Later that evening while we were enjoying an excellent beer or two and a game of pinball in the hotel bar, there was much excitement when our teacher came stumbling in quite drunk but still able to walk, and insisted that four of us helped get the Doc up to their room. He had passed out cold almost certainly after losing some sort of drinking game, it was a real struggle to carry his dead weight up a couple of flights of stairs. Our errand of mercy completed we all retired back to the bar for more beers!
Someone quickly discovered that we were located fairly close to the Red Light district of Amsterdam, so we spent most of the remaining evening hours drinking and taking in the sights of the Red Light District. Even in 1972 the area was explicit; there was a network of interconnected alleys with tiny bright lit shop fronts, like a series of cabins stuck together. Each little cabin had a large picture glass window or just a large glass door behind which a scantily clad lady of the night beckoned. As well as countless of these cabins there were sex shops, peep shows and film shows. It was as if we had arrived on a different planet! The buzz and brightness and spectacle of the whole place was absolutely electrifying and we all traipsed around wide eyed taking in the sights trying to keep our mouths shut to stop the dribbling!
All too soon it was time to go home and back to school, the adventure was over. It wasn’t really a school trip it was a great holiday! Nobody grassed up the adults for giving us so much freedom on that school trip, I guess as Jack Cossnet would have said, “No names no pack drill!”
It was at this time a new teacher, unlike any other burst onto the scene at City of Bath Technical School. Jim Livingstone had been appointed as Head of the History Department. We were all a bit disappointed when Mr Livingstone informed us that he wouldn’t be coming on the school trip but typical of Jim he gave us a bit of advice that might well have saved our lives. If Jim Livingstone gave advice everyone listened intently, for that matter if Jim Livingstone spoke everyone listened intently!
“If yer in that minibus ‘n’ it gets intae a spin, spread yer arms ‘n’ legs sae that yer nae thrown around th’ cabin!” He advised.
Jim Livingstone was in his early thirties, tall, well built a rugged handsome guy with a beard and longish dark reddish brown hair swept back. He was highly intelligent, confident but not showy in any way, and exuded coolness in every possible way. Jim Livingstone was cool in the way he walked, cool in how he dressed and looked, cool in what he said and cool in the respect he gave other people including us kids. Jim would fit in perfectly anywhere from a dinner dance to a high brow academic debate to talking football down the Dog and Duck.
Jim Livingstone spoke with a strong Glaswegian accent that was hard enough to strip concrete bare. We all thought he had been a heavy in a Gorbals razor gang before discovering books and the joys of learning, in a kind of Pauline conversion moment. He looked as hard as clout nails and sounded even harder! Jim Livingstone was a brilliant teacher not only in the academic sense but in the way he encouraged independence and lifelong learning in his pupils.
Jim Livingstone’s heavy Glaswegian accent would have been a godsend in teaching. The heavy harsh tones carry a threatening “Ur ye looking at me, Pal!” edge which is immediately grasped by everyone in the vicinity. No other accent on the planet is as potent, anywhere on the planet! It is instantly recognised by everyone worldwide as a voice that it really would be a good idea to listen to, for one’s own safety if nothing else! Essentially the underlying message the accent carries is, don’t mess with this guy! If Hollywood ever remade Terminator, (no disrespect to Arnie, who would be an extremely hard act to follow), but, without a doubt, it would be more fitting if the new Terminator had a Glaswegian voice. He would sound really hard then!
My own west country burr is not unlike the East Anglian accent and in both cases the speaker sounds, kind of quaint at best and a bit simple at worst! I was left with several options; lose my accent, carry on and live with kind of quaint and a bit simple, don’t move away from the Bristol / Bath area, or carry on as normal and when you say something clever everyone will be surprised! I chose the latter option.
Accents are strange things and everyone immediately forms definite preconceptions on hearing them. People from the Irish Republic sound as if they want to tell you a story, Scouser’s sound like as if they want to tell you a joke, and The Northern Irish sound like they are going to tell you off! The Welsh sound as if they want to borrow something, Brummies sound like they are selling you something in a nice way, Northerners sound like they are selling you something in a threatening way and Cockneys sound like they are selling you something that may not be totally legal and you really don’t want it anyway! The Geordie accent remains a complete mystery to everyone living outside the Tyne. But never underestimate the Geordies, they are a canny bunch! The Geordies are actually pretty damn clever, contentedly occupying what is effectively their own homeland, understanding everything and being comprehended by nobody! They are the only inhabitants of the United Kingdom that are effectively free from the scammers wanting to fix your computer (whilst raiding your bank account), since one phrase of broad Georgie will effectively send the scammers on their way! Apart from the scammers, which the rest of the country have to endure, the Geordies can also feel pleased with themselves because they are never bothered by silver tongued Brummies, hectoring northerners and weaselly Cockneys trying to sell them something! However there is a downside for the Geordie, on the odd occasion that they are tempted outside their undisputed homeland they will invariably find difficulty buying goods and services since unlike with Polish and Latvians there are currently no phrase books or translation services in Geordie.
Certainly when it comes to teaching, Jim Livingstone’s Glasgow accent is definitely the one to have, especially if like Jim you are six feet three inches of pure hard muscle. The Department for Education are really missing a trick here since here is an obvious solution to the problem of juvenile delinquency. Just like the Gurkha’s are recruited for their military prowess, why not recruit six foot three, hard talking Glaswegians to save the English education system! Twenty thousand should be enough… to start with! Obviously they would have to be incentivised to migrate south away from their beloved metropolis north of the border. A generous scholarship while training plus a decent uplift on a standard teacher’s salary in exchange for a fixed term contract for teaching in one of the English inner city areas exhibiting social problems and poor educational achievement seems fair! It would really be a win, win situation since twenty thousand Glaswegian teachers heading south and enjoying working there, would really piss off the Scottish Nationalist Party, so much so that not only would the English educational system be saved from chaos and mediocrity but it might end up actually saving the United Kingdom!
This idea of the Scots rescuing the nation by act of superior capacity is not a new one. At the time of Waterloo Scottish regiments were the backbone of the British army. At the great battle that gave Britain ascendancy in Europe; The Royal Scots Greys, The Scots Guards,
The Royal Scots, The Highland Light Infantry, The Black Watch, The Cameron Highlanders and The Gordon Highlanders stood and fought and won. Indeed it is well acknowledged that the heavy cavalry charge of The Royal Scots Greys was the turning point of the battle.
There is however another possibility, not as effective as a small army of Jim Livingstone’s teaching in our schools, which could be regarded as the Rolls Royce solution. The Austin Rover solution would be to get a little band of Jim Livingstone’s to teach our teachers how to be super cool and as hard as nails. If resources are really short just teach them to give the Jim Livingstone, “Ur ye looking at me, Pal!” Glasgow stare, it would at least give newly qualified teachers a fighting chance of survival!
I can well imagine that time in early summer 1971 when Jim Livingstone came down to Bath to be interviewed for the position as Head of History at the City of Bath Technical School. Jim would be sat astride of his hugely powerful motorbike driving around the city and nodding approvingly, giving the city a quick once over.
“Nae bad…nae bad.”
Bombing around the elegant front cobbles of the Royal Crescent on his immensely cool motorbike, and conceding.
“Nae bad…nae bad.”
After parking his classic machine in the school car park and wandering around the place thinking.
“Nae bad…nae bad.”
At the interview Jim would be asking probing questions about the school and thinking.
“Nae bad…nae bad.”
Only when he was completely satisfied with what he heard and saw he probably would have said something like.
“O.K. Ah tak th’ jab!”
The headmaster probably slightly taken aback would have said something like.
“But Mr Livingstone we have four more candidates to interview?”
And Jim Livingstone would have no doubt fixed the headmaster with one of those Glasgow stares and stated in a slow definite, taking no prisoners fashion.
“Ah said, Ah tak th’ jab!”
At that point the headmaster would have realized that any form of resistance would be pointless and at the same time why resist? This guy is brilliant! He would simply have said.
“Certainly Mr Livingstone, when can you start?”
I can’t help thinking that if Jim Livingstone had been at the school a year earlier we wouldn’t have had the sink class of 5Y. Jim just would not have stood for it! He would have given Bill Hayman and Pop Webb one of those Glasgow stares and said something like.
“Ye cannae dae that, pal!”
And that would have been the end of the stupid idea, dead in the water!
