Copyright © David Gibson 2002, 2004, 2006
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I remember a 'general music' lesson, probably from the third year (1972/3), when Mr Hopkins brought a record for us to listen to. It was a single, which I think he said he had bought in France. He was very enthusiastic about it - telling us that it would be a big hit in the UK. We all listened in stony silence to what was a rather unusual song and, when Mr Hopkins asked "hands up all those who liked it" nobody responded. We 'knew', of course that it was not pop chart material. Personally, I did quite like it, but I was too embarrassed to speak out. The song consisted of a single four-line lyric repeated over and over again, so it probably appealed to my minimalist leanings, now represented by a liking for Steve Reich. Although I heard the record only once, it has always stuck in my mind: Here's to you, Nicola and Bart / Rest forever here in our hearts / The last and final moment is yours / That agony is your triumph.
Several years later, in the Sixth Form, I jotted down the melody - from memory - and asked Mr Hopkins if he remembered it. I think we were both surprised that I had managed to write it down almost without error, but that's the benefit of doing O-level Music I suppose. Mr Hopkins corrected one small error (Id got the rhythm wrong at one point, omitting a triplet) and he apologised for no longer having the record and not being able to recall the details of the artist.
The memory of this has lurked in my mind for close on 30 years now, occasionally surfacing during bath-time, or long train journeys. A few weeks ago I decided that it was time to find out what the tune was. It is a testament to the power of the Internet, and to Google in particular that, on my first attempt, a search for the phrase 'Nicola and Bart' came up with the answer I was looking for.
Im fairly sure I would have remembered if Mr Hopkins had told us the rather significant origin of the song; but I cannot be certain that he did not. In any case, I was surprised to learn that the words were by none other than Joan Baez, and the music by none other than Ennio Morricone, writer of many film scores.
There are quite a few web pages devoted to the trial of Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti who, in 1927 were sentenced to death for the Braintree, Massachusetts payroll robbery and murders. The case is apparently 'one of the most politically charged murder cases in the history of American jurisprudence'. The song featured in the 1978 film Deutschland im Herbst written and co-directed by Rainer Werner Fassbinder.
The next stage in my quest was to get hold of a copy of the record, which was also surprisingly easy. I already knew of a web site selling rare singles and a quick search through the catalogue showed that a song called Here's to You was released by folk singers Jo Ann & Barry in 1971, which would be about right. A quick e-mail to the proprietor of the shop in Manchester confirmed that the words and music were by Baez/Morricone and three days later I had the record. My memory of it was almost perfect - I had one note wrong, and I had slightly re-scored the work in my mind. (In fact, I think my version is better!)
Jogging across Roundhay Park in Leeds on a cold winter afternoon, one has to skirt around the perimeter of the several public Rugby pitches marked out on Soldiers Field, where games - some desultory, some aggressively enthusiastic - are being played. On one occasion, as I was passing, the referee blew his whistle and in an almost Pavlovian reaction, a chill went down my spine. I recalled those sad afternoons of games at school, where, not being able to see the ball without my glasses, nor being able to bully anyone for possession of the ball, I was always relegated to the position - I cant even remember what it is called, such is my complete lack of interest in football and rugby - where you just trot up and down, occasionally being trampled by some stupid bully or being hollered at by Mr Cross, the Games master. Outside Wing or Left Outside or something like that, perhaps. I particularly remember the relief on hearing the sound of the school bell, drifting across the field, which indicated that the double-period of games was halfway through and it was probably less than half an hour before that whistle would blow, marking the end of the torture for another week.
Of course, 'double games' was not the only torture we had to endure from Mr Cross. There were also two periods of PE every week and the anticipation of them was distinctly unpleasant. I was not the only boy in my class whose mornings were ruined by the worry of the PE lesson to come. Perhaps other people have a similar experience with Chemistry or Geography? There is no doubt that not being good at something does make the lesson rather unpleasant, but there is something particularly malicious in the way a PE teacher goes about his business. Mr Cross seemed to delight in humiliating pupils. He was the only teacher in the school who insisted on using our surnames, which resulted in conversations like "what's your name, boy?". "David, Sir". "Im not interested in that, boy! What's your surname?". What exposed Mr Cross for a fool though, was his inability to recognise some given names. Dilip Varma managed to get away with being called Dilip to my amusement.
A digression, but here's a test of your memory. In the first year, Mr Cross called the boys by their surname. Which teacher made us stand up when they entered the room; and which teacher wore a gown when teaching? Don't confuse the answer with our third year Latin teacher whom we greeted by standing up and chorusing 'salve o magister', to which the response was 'salvete o discipuli' - the only Latin I can recall apart from 'versipulis evanuit' (the werewolf vanished) and my name 'David secundus', to David Fletcher's 'David primus'. But I digress…
Mr Cross really was frightening. Tony Adams forgot his PE kit one day, and he pleaded with me and Barry to kick him and stamp on his foot at break-time so he could show Mr Cross that he 'had a bad foot' and hadnt simply forgotten his kit.
When the Grammar School became an all-ability Upper School we were in for some changes. We were allowed to wear pastel-coloured shirts for a start, and one term of football replaced a term of rugby. Mr Cross left and Mr Younghusband appeared on the scene. Although he was a PE teacher he was at least partly human, and had a sense of humour. He called me a 'pleb' once, and I had to go and look it up in a dictionary. Im still not quite sure what he meant. He used to bawl at me for not paying attention during football and rugby - Id be standing in a line out and I wouldn't bother to try and jump for the ball - I mean, what was the point? By the time I was in the sixth form I think Mr Younghusband actually knew my name and he probably understood, with wry amusement, how I used to skive off games. I was doing a fourth A-level which meant that every other week I was supposed to do Further Maths instead of Games. But whenever I was asked, it was always the week I was doing maths.
Games was not all unpleasant - but what still rankles with me is that neither Cross nor Younghusband recognised that I did have some athletic skills. My strategy, on the rare occasion the rugby ball came my way was to run with it as fast as possible - and I could outrun most people on the pitch. When tackled I would - on some occasions anyway - manage to put theory into practice with that thing where you sort of turn round and pass the ball back. I recall one occasion when Mick Churchill received my pass and scored a try. Mr Younghusband was so surprised he stopped the game and asked our names. Mick was as unlikely a sports player as I, having had to endure the nickname of 'Chunky' for most of his school life.
Another digression, but Mick's children are now taught by Mr Younghusband. At the 1997 reunion, Mick told me, with some glee, that on parents' evenings Younghusband now has to call him 'Mr Churchill'.
I used to quite enjoy the cross-country runs, even the double-period ones where we ran nearly as far as the M1, and back via the swimming pool. This was something for which I was not bottom of the class. But when I (briefly) joined Mr Kimber's after-school athletics club no teacher really paid any attention to any possible skills that I might be able to develop; even when I cleared the highest high-jump of the PE lesson or gave Peter Bibb a good run for his money in a 400m sprint. I cant complain of course - I was and still am totally uninterested in competitive sport. I found out recently that there was some game or other where England beat Germany 5-1. Really? Who cares?
So, if I met Mr Younghusband now, Id say to him - in a not unfriendly way because he's not Mr Cross - that in the last ten years I have run over ninety 25 mile off-road 'challenge events' and that this was despite my experiences at school, and not because of them. Id also suggest that my physical health as an adult owes more to Mr Laing (geography), Mr McClusky (metalwork) and Mr Bowden (woodwork) than to the games staff, and doesn't this suggest that the education system failed somewhere?
Mr Laing and Mr McClusky organised walking trips - one time we had a school trip to Snowdonia for a week. Mr McClusky tried to teach me mountain navigation - something Im still not expert at - and climbing, which I don't do much of at all (except underground, when caving). Mr Bowden was the chef on these trips, and it is from him that I learnt an enthusiasm for cookery, which I put into practice during the years I was a Youth Hostel warden. These three teachers used to put a great deal of their own time into organising these activities, and I know I owe them a lot. Pupils on these trips - Ros Paul and Garry Walton spring to mind - introduced me to 'marathon' running. Does anyone remember the school half-marathon in 1976 or thereabouts?
Whilst I was still at school, I joined the LDWA (Long Distance Walkers Association) which organises 25 mile challenge events. Although intended for walkers, many of these events accept runners, and I have equal admiration for the runners that can do a mountain marathon in under 3 hours, and the slowest walkers who take 12 hours. I will never be able to do either. My best time is 3:45, which is more of a jog than a run, of course. But that's not bad when you consider that it includes climbing over stiles and map-reading. I didn't get much exercise in 2001 because of the Foot and Mouth, and so the 2001 Leeds Marathon - my one and only road marathon - took a slow 4:30. But that was a faster time than Steve Redgrave managed in the London marathon (but I had to have it explained to me who he was).
Unfortunately, my running days might be over in a few years. I had to have a lot of physiotherapy in 2000, and I have got arthritis in a big toe, which might require an operation. (And the X-ray showed I had broken my foot at some time in the past - I dont remember doing that!). But I think (and hope) that I'll be able to waddle around the park in years to come, as well as sprint for buses to a greater extent than the average adult can - and Im aiming for four hours in the Leeds Marathon, this year. I still go caving occasionally (I was president of my university club in 1979/80) and, in recent years, it has become very pleasant to spend a week or two camping in the Pyrenees, or walking in the mountains of northern Mallorca.
It does continue to rankle, ever so slightly, that this is all despite my school experiences of those horrible, horrible games lessons. So much for my official 'physical education'! But a grateful 'thank you' to Mr Laing, Mr McClusky, Mr Bowden, and to Garry and Ros and others for giving me a lasting interest in non-competitive outdoor activities.
My O-Level Biology teacher was Mr Asker - young, enthusiastic, but with a manner of speech that made him a perfect target for imitation. My lasting memories of Mr Asker's biology lessons concern two 'tips' he gave us to help us through life, neither of which I have yet experienced. The first was during a discussion of pheromones, when Mr Asker explained that male sweat contained chemicals that were attractive to females. He assured us that after we had played a game of rugby, girls would flock to us, and I think he claimed his girlfriend was aroused by his smell after a workout! I have to say that this has never knowlingly been my experience, unfortunately.
I also remember Mr Asker explaining that, after donating a pint of blood, our bodies would be working hard to replace the lost blood, and this would give us a 'buzz'. He said (or so I recall) that he had experienced this after giving blood and that it was a pleasurable feeling - a 'high'. Well, I have given blood on numerous occasions, seeking this legal high and I have never experienced it. for the last few years I have been donating two units of red cells, by apheresis, twice a year, and this does not produce the claimed effect either. In fact, the only thing it does guarantee is that if I go running within two or three weeks it practically kills me. I grind to a halt, gasping and grasping my tight chest, my heart pounding. In fact, when I first tried to sign up to the apheresis programme (where one's blood is sucked out, spun in a centrifuge, the wanted components extracted (in my case red cells) and the rest of it returned to the donor) they refused to have me because I was a "runner". I applied again saying I was only a "jogger", which has always been closer to the truth. My blood is apparently much sought-after because it is "CMV negative" and can be used with neonatal babies. That's my contribution to furthering the human race since my attempt at becoming a sperm donor was unsuccessful before any tests were even carried out. What was it about me that they didnt like, I wonder?
My last teacher at Furzehill Junior School was Miss Humphreys. A bit fierce, I seem to remember! Shortly before we broke up in Summer 1970 she asked everyone who hadnt received a gold star for any work that term (or year?) to see her. She looked through their work and found a piece worthy of one of those little five-pointed coloured stars. That was a nice gesture, but when I said that I hadnt received any stars she didnt believe me - "nonsense David!". Well, I hadnt received any gold stars, and I was quite hurt by the fact she didnt believe me! I felt I wasnt being judged to the same standards as everyone else. And that reminds me of the occasion when Miss Sullivan (Maths at Nicholas Hawksmoor) refused to give me 100% for an exam and, instead, went through the paper looking for punctuation and grammar mistakes so that she could knock a mark off.
The other teacher I remember well from Furzehill was Miss Aldhous who taught me when I was 8 or 9 I think. She taught me the recorder, which I was quite good at. I somehow missed out on extra-curricular music at Nicholas Hawksmoor, probably because my friends thought it was 'sissy' to play a musical instrument. So but for the 'trousers of time' [Terry Pratchett] I might have had a different career - well, probably not, to be realistic. As it was, I asked to do a music O-level as an extra, and I still have four recorders, all of different sizes, which I play occasionally.
I might have false memory syndrome. I have lots of vivid memories, but no way of confirming them. I have been trying to remember some more of the fifth year leavers and I have realised that there must have been a lot of people whose names I never knew and whose faces I probably never recognised.
In the first year at the Grammar School (as it was then) there were three classes of 30; 1X, 1Y and 1Z, with the houses called ... dredges memory ... Cobdens (X: Blue), Marlins (Y: Red) and Selwyn (Z: Yellow), Im not sure about that. I never really understood this 'house' concept nor where the names came from, although I did discover that there was a Cobdens Brook near the school. But perhaps that is a false memory? Anyway, those three forms were split into four at the start of the third year, with the extra numbers being topped up from the intake when we converted from Grammar to Upper School. In addition there were three new forms consisting entirely of new intake. But - as I remember it - the fourth and fifth year blocks only contained five classrooms, so where were the other two forms housed? I suspect that these were people that I hardly ever came across, except possibly in games or general music or general art.
The splitting of the three XYZ forms into four in the third year has got me confused. I think it wasnt just a case of splitting - some general re-arranging went on. For example, Im fairly certain that John Lethbridge was not in 1X (which I was), I think he was in 1Z. But I remember him as being in my form 4B and 5B. I know this because I was scared of him! The way to counter his aggression was to make fun of him - which we did - recounting mock tales of how many scarves we'd nicked from football fans at 'the clock end' wherever that was. And making fun of his Alba hi-fi system, with the special container of sand to dribble onto the records. If I burrow deeply enough, I might even find rough books with drawings of the record player. And eventually we became friends. Tony, Barry, John, myself and Mick Churchill went Youth Hostelling together in the fifth year.
In fact, Ive just come across a postcard we wrote to Miss Sullivan the maths teacher. Presumably we decided not to send it after all. It concludes with the phrase "due to lack of time, motive and willpower we cannot carry on with this postcard". That - I recall (unless its a false memory) - alludes to a phrase Barry had written in his maths book - "due to lack of time, motive and willpower I cannot carry on with this homework" which, of course, caused a bit of an outburst. Actually, I used to 'bait' Miss Sullivan quite a bit - one day I had a copy of the Morning Star lying on my desk because I knew she'd be indignant. But maths lessons were so boring! Miss Sullivan used to get irritated that I insisted on using commas for decimal points, in the continental way. But my continental sevens must surely predate that. I think I caught those of Mr Wilkinson in the first year. Another memory of Miss Sullivan comes via Fiona Carmichael who, (as I recall - and its 25 years since I was told this) on a school choir trip to Bournemouth in the sixth form, apparently called Miss Sullivan "Mummy" in a public place - much to her embarrassment. (She wasnt much older than us, perhaps 25).
But back to the subject of class-swapping: This swapping and shuffling between classes has always puzzled me. How did the teachers decide what to do and why was I separated from my friend Barry (fiends at Furzehill) at an early stage? I dont remember having many friends at primary school - possibly I used to hang around with Keith Ostler and David Smith until Miss Humphreys' class when - I dont know why - I drifted to making friends with Barry, which was strange because Barry was almost a year older than me - that's a long time when youre only 10. I dont recall any other friends; perhaps that's why we were 'separated' for the Grammar School - to make me (us?) make new friends. I recall being somewhat 'scared' of Tony Adams at Furzehill but for some reason - possibly a shared interest in electronics - we ended up friends straight away in 1X; and Barry always - right up to the fifth year - used to be the third member of our team. Was he lonely in 1Y? I never asked.
At the end of the fifth year - even before we knew who would be leaving and who would be staying, I seemed to drift into a slightly different group of friends - Matt Armstrong and Colin Hassell. Im not sure why, but with Colin perhaps it was a shared interest in Drama - and we both ended up on the technical team of David Owen Bell's Emphasis Theatre. What made me drift about like that, latching onto different groups of people? Because I hardly saw Barry and Tony after we left school, and I hardly saw anyone from school after I went off to university. And from university, I cannot recall the name of a single person from my subject(s) - but I do have lasting friends from the caving club.