OLD WYVES' TALES 79
FOR WYVERNIANS 1919-76
EDITED BY DENNIS J DUGGAN, ROCK COTTAGE, BROOK STREET,
WELSHPOOL, MONTGOMERYSHIRE. SY21 7NA
TEL 01938 555574 07985 405365 www.wyvernians.org.uk
JULY 2013
EDITORIAL Brian Screaton tells me we have reached a milestone with the CBS history book, with the 250th copy sold. There are just twenty five left, so if you have been prevaricating about placing your order now is the time to take a_ction. All you have to do is e-mail Brian Screaton at brscreaton@dsl.pipex.com who will confirm postage costs etc, or you can go to www.wyvernians.org.uk and place your order online.
FROM JOHN SMITH 1951-56 (The final instalment - Ed) I note the name of our music master is mentioned several times in the history book. That probably evoked happy memories among many a reader. Not that we were all happy about music or singing per se, rather that the periods themselves presented many opportunities for fun, all at Bill Sykes' expense. Speaking for myself and many of my fellow-kriegies, we did not take kindly to being expected to sing. Singing was for girls, we thought. Every lesson seemed to commence with a round of 'Moo mo maw, moo mo maw, moo mo maw'...and so on, starting with highish notes and grading down the scale until there was barely a whisper at the backs of our throats as we ran short of breath, the register meantime continuing to descend way down to notes we could barely reach until we were third years. We were not built for singing. It was definitely girls' stuff. We rebelled, led ably by some of those of whom I have previously made mention. With Bill.at piano, we would start out in a reasonable facsimile of song, but gradually there would be introduced stray notes here and there, quite extraneous to the music, which most of us could not read anyway. The more enterprising among us would then groan mournfully rather than sing, up and down the tonic sol fa more-or-less at will. Then low-register muffled bellows would be introduced, supplemented by a few whole-hearted bellows after a brief period of time. Somehow we managed to avoid laughing at each others' efforts to ruin the lesson or show our delight at our own competence in the skilful destruction of the ambience and solemnity of the occasion. In short, we kept straight faces, and somehow contrived to deprive poor old Bill of the satisfaction of being able to pinpoint the fount of the trouble. There was not one fount, of course. They were legion. The pinnacle of this constructive (in our eyes) b_ehaviour occurred whenever we were obliged to 'sing' a song that our music master himself had composed.
Bill would eventually stop playing the piano, but shout at us to continue our 'singing '. He would pick up a heavy book in his right hand, and descend from his podium into our midst. We were divided down the middle of the class by a central gangway, along which he would ponderously wander, ears cocked for wrong notes. Miraculously, those nearest to him would seem to be able to pick up the proper tune again for a time. The epicentre of the cacophony of whining, wailing, groaning and bellowing shifted with an alacrity in direct proportion with Bill's attempts to get closer to his tormentors. Nevertheless his progress caused among us a concerted swaying away from the aisle, evocative of the description of the parting of the Red Sea as given in the Old Testament. Bill would lash about with his book (rumour was he had secreted a housebrick between the covers) in a wild and random manner, his targets being boys'- any boys' – heads. Sometimes he connected. I fancy I can feel it even now...
I have been trying to find a way to relate one of my indiscretions without bringing down upon myself the full wrath of Mr Brushe who, I understand, receives copies of Old Wyves' Tales. My wrongdoing was of a similar type to that of McQuaid and Johnson, as admitted by McQuaid himself (and therefore I am not snitching, Sir). Neither was it habitual, as was the case with Duggan (again he has proclaimed his error many times over, so as to purge his soul) so naturally I feel quite free to refer to it and in doing so give that boy some relief from what must have been for him for many years' grievous inner torment.
All I can do is to plead that it was a minor, isolated lapse of judgement committed at a time when I may have been of unsound mind, although that may not necessarily have been the case. Who am I to judge?. On the day of the Annual Swimming Sports at Spence Street Baths – it may have been when I was in 4 Alpha or 5L – I had a previous engagement and was anxious to keep that rather than attend the Swimming Sports. Former participants may remember the event took place on a weekday evening, and on the same day we were given an afternoon off whether we were to be swimming or not. That may have been so that we could prepare ourselves mentally and physically for the forthcoming arduous trial of trudging up and down our aquatic environment for hours on end, or sitting by idly while others performed. However, I think not. It seems to me that our masters realised the injustice of calling us in to work in the evening and could only salve their consciences and avert an industrial dispute by letting us have the afternoon off. At lunch-time on the day in question I approached Mr Brushe, apprised him of my dilemma and invited him to sanction my absence from the Swimming Sports. Quite rightly, not to say reasonably, he enquired as to the nature of my alternative engagement. I should have said that my Grandmother's dog had died, but unaccountably I found the truth slipping out. I informed him that I had arranged to attend a Beetle Drive at a local Church School Rooms. The proposed event was in no way connected either with Volkswagens or motoring. The idea was for boys and girls to attend the said Church School Rooms, form teams and, with the aid of dice, pencils and paper bearing several spaces for ellipses in representations of beetles' bodies, (for which you had to throw a six to start), to complete drawings of such insects before the other teams could do so. Five for a head and so on down the scale to a one for each eye. The bodies were not divided into thorax and abdomen.
Flo Willan would have gone mad! Now I couldn't have cared less about the entomological aspect of the exercise, but I did enjoy chatting up maturing Sunday School girls, so I was more than keen to put in an appearance. Mr Brushe did not see it my way at all. The milk of human kindness, for which he was much noted, evaporated. He became utterly and completely unreasonable, to the point of actually turning down my plea out-of-hand. I even volunteered to attend school for the afternoon, although quite what I thought I could achieve in an empty classroom I did not know, and had to admit it. Probably just as much as I usually achieved in a full classroom, come to think of it, although I did not venture to say so at the time. I realised it was neither the right time nor the right place for me to risk any unpleasantness by introducing further contestable argument and thus ramp up the potentially volatile nature of the meeting. He gave me somewhat of a sharp look and I gathered that it was beneath his dignity to continue further to discuss the matter, so I indicated, with as much aplomb as I was able to muster, that I was willing to concede victory to him. However, the matter festered away in my mind all afternoon. I considered appealing to the Director of Education, but thought that possibly there may have been an outside chance of his ruling in favour of Authority, as vested in our Mr Brushe. Eventually I decided that my best course of action would be simply to bunk off. A spectacularly cunning plan, was it not?
Prior to my turning up at the Church School Rooms, I cycled to Spence Street in order to investigate as to whether Mr Brushe was outside, machete in hand, looking for me. There was no sign of him, so I just turned around and cycled back to Birstall. The girls must have been well impressed by my perspiring presence when I turned up at the Beetle Drive but, girls being their usual cool and aloof selves, they did not show it. There were no repercussions at all. The matter was not even referred to. I rather wish it had come out into the open and that it had been summarily dealt with at the time, for I have now had to bear in silence this heavy burden of guilt for something approaching 60 years. Perhaps that was the fitting retribution that Mr Brushe had planned for me all along. If so, it worked. I am relieved that I have now summoned the courage to grasp the nettle and admit all.
Sorry, Mr Brushe. I shan't do it again. In time for the next reunion, which is due to take place on 13th March 2013, I shall have completed in my best handwriting, 50 lines (I would have offered more than that statutory minimum, but times are hard ). I shall aver that : 'I must take more care to accept and obey regulations and orders lawfully given by my superiors and to understand they are so given for my benefit in particular and that of mankind in general'.
Bill would eventually stop playing the piano, but shout at us to continue our 'singing '. He would pick up a heavy book in his right hand, and descend from his podium into our midst. We were divided down the middle of the class by a central gangway, along which he would ponderously wander, ears cocked for wrong notes. Miraculously, those nearest to him would seem to be able to pick up the proper tune again for a time. The epicentre of the cacophony of whining, wailing, groaning and bellowing shifted with an alacrity in direct proportion with Bill's attempts to get closer to his tormentors. Nevertheless his progress caused among us a concerted swaying away from the aisle, evocative of the description of the parting of the Red Sea as given in the Old Testament. Bill would lash about with his book (rumour was he had secreted a housebrick between the covers) in a wild and random manner, his targets being boys'- any boys' – heads. Sometimes he connected. I fancy I can feel it even now...
I have been trying to find a way to relate one of my indiscretions without bringing down upon myself the full wrath of Mr Brushe who, I understand, receives copies of Old Wyves' Tales. My wrongdoing was of a similar type to that of McQuaid and Johnson, as admitted by McQuaid himself (and therefore I am not snitching, Sir). Neither was it habitual, as was the case with Duggan (again he has proclaimed his error many times over, so as to purge his soul) so naturally I feel quite free to refer to it and in doing so give that boy some relief from what must have been for him for many years' grievous inner torment.
All I can do is to plead that it was a minor, isolated lapse of judgement committed at a time when I may have been of unsound mind, although that may not necessarily have been the case. Who am I to judge?. On the day of the Annual Swimming Sports at Spence Street Baths – it may have been when I was in 4 Alpha or 5L – I had a previous engagement and was anxious to keep that rather than attend the Swimming Sports. Former participants may remember the event took place on a weekday evening, and on the same day we were given an afternoon off whether we were to be swimming or not. That may have been so that we could prepare ourselves mentally and physically for the forthcoming arduous trial of trudging up and down our aquatic environment for hours on end, or sitting by idly while others performed. However, I think not. It seems to me that our masters realised the injustice of calling us in to work in the evening and could only salve their consciences and avert an industrial dispute by letting us have the afternoon off. At lunch-time on the day in question I approached Mr Brushe, apprised him of my dilemma and invited him to sanction my absence from the Swimming Sports. Quite rightly, not to say reasonably, he enquired as to the nature of my alternative engagement. I should have said that my Grandmother's dog had died, but unaccountably I found the truth slipping out. I informed him that I had arranged to attend a Beetle Drive at a local Church School Rooms. The proposed event was in no way connected either with Volkswagens or motoring. The idea was for boys and girls to attend the said Church School Rooms, form teams and, with the aid of dice, pencils and paper bearing several spaces for ellipses in representations of beetles' bodies, (for which you had to throw a six to start), to complete drawings of such insects before the other teams could do so. Five for a head and so on down the scale to a one for each eye. The bodies were not divided into thorax and abdomen.
Flo Willan would have gone mad! Now I couldn't have cared less about the entomological aspect of the exercise, but I did enjoy chatting up maturing Sunday School girls, so I was more than keen to put in an appearance. Mr Brushe did not see it my way at all. The milk of human kindness, for which he was much noted, evaporated. He became utterly and completely unreasonable, to the point of actually turning down my plea out-of-hand. I even volunteered to attend school for the afternoon, although quite what I thought I could achieve in an empty classroom I did not know, and had to admit it. Probably just as much as I usually achieved in a full classroom, come to think of it, although I did not venture to say so at the time. I realised it was neither the right time nor the right place for me to risk any unpleasantness by introducing further contestable argument and thus ramp up the potentially volatile nature of the meeting. He gave me somewhat of a sharp look and I gathered that it was beneath his dignity to continue further to discuss the matter, so I indicated, with as much aplomb as I was able to muster, that I was willing to concede victory to him. However, the matter festered away in my mind all afternoon. I considered appealing to the Director of Education, but thought that possibly there may have been an outside chance of his ruling in favour of Authority, as vested in our Mr Brushe. Eventually I decided that my best course of action would be simply to bunk off. A spectacularly cunning plan, was it not?
Prior to my turning up at the Church School Rooms, I cycled to Spence Street in order to investigate as to whether Mr Brushe was outside, machete in hand, looking for me. There was no sign of him, so I just turned around and cycled back to Birstall. The girls must have been well impressed by my perspiring presence when I turned up at the Beetle Drive but, girls being their usual cool and aloof selves, they did not show it. There were no repercussions at all. The matter was not even referred to. I rather wish it had come out into the open and that it had been summarily dealt with at the time, for I have now had to bear in silence this heavy burden of guilt for something approaching 60 years. Perhaps that was the fitting retribution that Mr Brushe had planned for me all along. If so, it worked. I am relieved that I have now summoned the courage to grasp the nettle and admit all.
Sorry, Mr Brushe. I shan't do it again. In time for the next reunion, which is due to take place on 13th March 2013, I shall have completed in my best handwriting, 50 lines (I would have offered more than that statutory minimum, but times are hard ). I shall aver that : 'I must take more care to accept and obey regulations and orders lawfully given by my superiors and to understand they are so given for my benefit in particular and that of mankind in general'.
FROM IVOR HOLYOAK 1953-58 I enjoyed OWT78. With longish entries from Roger Gandy and Peter Bates it read a bit like Old Home Week, Roger having been a contemporary in 6A1 and Peter having enjoyed pole position in my 1Alpha memoir. I have recently been in regular touch with Ken Kelham and Wally Payne since the publication of my articles, and the recent reference to Geoff Dodd leaves me to wonder whether anyone knows the current whereabouts of his younger brother John, who was a close friend for many years whilst at school and some years thereafter. After Manchester University he spent a year with VSO. in Navrongo, West Africa, being sent on his way via a bibulous celebration in the old Spread Eagle pub, behind the City Police Headquarters, on the corner of Church Street and Colton Street. We shared many a hangover over a number of years.
OBITUARIES Roger Flowers (1957-63) advises the passing of Keith Ward (c1950-57) who for many years had an opticians shop in Queens Road.
Pat Burgess, a friend of Adrian Pilgrim for 40 years, enlarges on the sad passing of Adrian (1959-67) I am very sad to inform you of Adrian's unexpected death on 22nd March 2013. Prior to this he was in a very positive frame of mind, just having undergone his check-up at Walton Hospital following his recent serious illness, and given the 'all-clear' for another year. He was looking to the future and even considering planning a holiday. Unfortunately, a fall on 14th March led to his being hospitalised, and he died peacefully of pneumonia at 6.20 a.m. on 22nd March. I apologise for the delay in sending this sad news (the message is dated May 9th - Ed) but there has been much to be done settling his affairs and finding information, as his death was so unexpected. I realise that some of you will be friends of Adrian's, and others acquaintances for various reasons, but as I have no means of discriminating I am sending this to all those in his email address book who are not in the Isle of Man.
Should you wish to know more about Adrian's demise, please don't hesitate to contact me at jeeyl@mcb.net
Should you wish to know more about Adrian's demise, please don't hesitate to contact me at jeeyl@mcb.net
FROM JOHN O'GRADY 1959-64 I related to many of the tales in OWT78, smiling and nodding in agreement as I read. John Smith relates part of a saga and mentions my name - or rather, because of the era, my brother's name. I would like to cast further light on John's thoughts. Keith O'Grady (1953-58) was a sort of pioneer for our family, and began the CBS trek. He was followed by Peter (1955-60) and myself. I recall only too well a stern-looking Wally Wardle on the first morning, pausing after I had shrilled the answer to my name. Without even looking up he asked if there were any more O'Grady boys still to come. An advantage of having elder brothers at CBS was the prior knowledge of the masters' nicknames.
Keith went to Manchester University to study chemical engineering, but tragically died in a road accident in 1961 aged 20 whilst in the third year of the course. At the time I was in 4 Alpha, and for a while all the teaxchers were quite nice to me.
FROM BRIAN SCREATON 1959-65 (1) On Saturday 1st June the Leicester Civic Society promoted a Heritage Fair at Bishop Street Methodist Church Town Hall Square Reunion . I took along a random selection of some class photos from the late 40's and early 50's that Rob Childs had given me a few weeks previously, and these provoked great interest, with many faces being recognised, particularly by Roger Brewin and Richard Thompson. The naming process has continued on Facebook with good results. The Methodist Church
FROM BRIAN SCREATON 1959-65 (2) When I was preparing the display for the Wyvernians stand at the Leicester Heritage Fair, I was trying to find two photos of identical forms, about thirty or forty years apart, as I thought this would make an interesting comparison. It proved more difficult than I expected, and the nearest I could get was a photo of Form 2A in 1937, and one of 2 alpha in 1967. I must admit that '2 alpha' didn't seem to ring quite right, although it was written on the back of the photo, but as usual I was in a hurry so I included it in the display with that description. 'Wrong!' said everyone who came to the Fair 'Never was a 2 alpha – must have been 2A'. Well that suited my purposes better, so before the roadshow's next outing at Downing Drive I altered the label on the photo to read '2A'. But then along came former pupil Steve Thompson, son of Brian Sadie Thompson, who took one look at the photo and exclaimed, 'Wrong – that's not 2A, it's 2 alpha – I know because I was in that class!' Not only that, but he proceeded to identify every person in the picture. Further questioning of Steve revealed that the alpha-streaming method of missing a year and going from the first form to 3 Alpha was abandoned in 1967 and the alpha class simply became the top form of that particular year – so there was a 2 alpha after all! This provoked some further discussion about the merits or otherwise of the alpha-stream method. I must say, as an ex-alpha-stream pupil, it did not serve me particularly well, as I left at 17 after doing my A-levels in the second year Sixth, and went straight to the Leicester College of Art and Technology. However as I was only 17 it meant that I didn't get a grant (remember those?) until I was 18 in the following April. So I had to do two terms without any financial assistance apart from a Saturday job and some money from my parents. As these terms were financially the heaviest in terms of buying books, equipment etc it was a bit of a struggle. But then I suppose I was able to start work a year earlier than I would have done otherwise – although as I was only on £12 a week during my first year with Shakespear McTurk & Graham maybe it didn't make a lot of difference. Are there any other alpha-streamers out there who have any views?
FROM BRIAN SCREATON 1959-62 (3) We really didn't know what to expect at the Downing Drive Nostalgia Evening on Wednesday 26th June. Frank Smith and I arrived early to set up the Wyvernians Roadshow and found we had been allocated a prime pitch in the Hall of the Gill Building (ex-Spencefield Lane School) where a tremendous display of photos and memorabilia concerning the City of Leicester College had been put together by the staff and pupils. Andy Marlow arrived, and our stand was soon set up complete with the school flag and a laptop showing the school films. As soon as the doors opened at 5.30pm a veritable flood of visitors appeared, which hardly abated for the whole evening. Of course, not all were Old Wyvernians, but a significant number of those came along, as well as former teachers Bill Mann, John Lawson, Tony Baxter, Doc Burrows and Bob Childs. Another visitor was Steve Thompson, son of Sadie Thompson and an ex-pupil, who identified all his classmates on a 1967 photograph (See above - Ed)
The majority of attendees were former pupils of the City of Leicester College, Spencefield Lane School or our own Downing Drive establishment (Now called the Wyvern Building) Over 900 attended, including 99-year-old Mr Gill, a former headmaster of Spencefield School, who had travelled from North Wales specially for the event. During the evening there were conducted tours of the building (Andy Marlow went on at least three tours of the Wyvern Building) and we learned that both buildings are to be demolished in October after the new school is opened. Wyvernians were promised an invitation to the grand opening. Jenny Sterland, School Business Manager, described the evening as a roaring success, and certainly there was an amazing buzz and atmosphere which only ended when the fire bell sounded around 8.45pm and the buildings were slowly vacated. For us the time flew by, with people of all ages showing a great interest in our display and asking many questions. Frank and I were both hoarse by the end of the evening. It was a very worthwhile exercise, which raised our profile and further improved our already excellent relationship with the current school. Lots of photos to be seen on our Facebook page.
Some of the photos on the Wyvernian's stand were interesting, and I'm sure if they could be scanned into the website a lot of people could add names to faces. I bought the book and my wife thinks that if I'd spent as much time studying as I have reading it I might have done better at school. If only we had our time again, I know I'd make the same mistakes.
The school itself was a mess, and I can see why it's got to be demolished. A typical example of the poor design and even poorer build quality of the 1960's. It also seemed to have shrunk since we were there, how did we all fit in?
I had the honour of being the first boy to attend Downing Drive. I ignored the letter that everyone received, which advised of what must have been a Teacher Day, and arrived a day too soon. I was greeted at the front gate by Wally Wardle, hand to his brow, eyes closed. 'Go home boy, read your letter, come back tomorrow.' A wonderful start!