The First Day

It's September and the start of new term for all those schools and colleges, so here's a piece of appropriately themed writing. It's twenty eight years since I started High School - and that does make me feel my years a tad!
 

September,1984

  It was the start of our first year at Netherworth High School and the new timetable had begun. I was in Class S, which was one from bottom, or the scuzzers class, as my big sister affectionately described it. The School appeared to be in the throes of a Mod revival – either that or we were twenty years behind. Parkas adorned with badges were popular and formed a khaki contrast to the uniformed new bloods. One lad - possibly the parka boy pin up, proudly rode through the gates astride his trusty Vespa scooter. Faces both curious and hostile watched as we entered.

   ‘Ahh, look at all these cute 1st years.’ A girl simpered.

    Others weren’t so friendly and bashing a ‘cute’ 1st year seemed to be a popular sport. Although I was small, I managed to avoid this treatment – probably not worth their effort. However, as we made our way over to the L Block, a blond 4^th former in a short skirt and bomber jacket clutched hold of my arm. 

   ‘Excuse me mate, I need to ask you something.’ The blond paused, her pretty face creased with concern, ‘But have you got a big willy?’

     My face flushed scalding hot, and the girl, joined by her cronies, laughed at my discomfort.

    ‘Wahay! You’re in there Rob.’ Teased Jamie

    ‘Think I’ve got more chance of copping with Cyndi Lauper.’

    Bet Indiana Jones wouldn’t have blushed, I thought despondently.

     Outside the L Block the 1st years had started to gather. On one side, were us kids previously from Netherworth Francis School whilst on the other, were the crowd from Netherworth County School. Two tribes – just like in the Frankie Goes to Hollywood song.  These tribes never went to war though; they just eyed each other in mutual suspicion.

    Our first lesson was maths with Mr Biddle.  The classroom was next to the Craft and Home Economics areas, where the smell of baking pastry competed with sawdust and wood glue. My friend Jamie Green gazed around at the unfamiliar surroundings. ‘I saw that new Indiana Jones film last night and the Temple of Doom just reminds me of this place. What do you reckon this Biddle bloke’s like?’

   ‘Don’t really know,’ I replied. ‘My brother says he spits like an angry camel.’

    The sound of deliberate foot-steps echoed down the corridor towards us, as they grew louder, Jamie nudged me in the ribs. ‘Shit, it’s Judge Dredd.’  

    Mr Biddle, Head of Byron House, strode into view. He wore his glasses around his neck, like the comedian Larry Grayson – but there all similarities ended. This solid six footer; with his craggy face and twisted nose, looked more like Henry Cooper. Gold fillings glinted as he surveyed the new bloods. ‘Class S? Well, you lot are with me; aren’t you the lucky ones,’ he growled as we were ushered us into the classroom.

    ‘Where did they find this warhorse? I whispered

     Jamie shook his head, ‘He was probably here with Shakespeare.’

    We around looked for places to sit, I found a battered chair and began to move it next to Jamie.

  ‘Are you a member of the National Union of Furniture Removers?’

    I looked up – straight into the wolfish eyes of Mr Biddle.

   ‘Don’t think so sir.’

   ‘Then kindly leave that chair where it is!’

    Fortunately I was out of his spitting range, and I found a solitary desk and sat down. It was scored with graffiti from decades past, and the lid seemed to be welded shut with chewing gum. It also had an ink well – complete with an empty packet of Frazzles stuffed into it.

  Furniture? I thought derisively. Most of it would be better on a bonfire!

   Mr Biddle then put on his glasses and examined the specimens he’d been landed with. ‘Now if any of you want to start a row, just let me remind you of all the big guns lined up behind me. I’ve got Mr Morton the Head, there’s also you’re Head of House and your form tutor. That’s enough to blow you out of the water before you even start,’ he looked ominously in my direction. ‘So if you’re thinking about a row forget it,’ his voice then softened a little. ‘Now you’re the kids that find learning that little bit difficult - you’re not thick,’ he added hurriedly, ‘It’s just that much harder for you.’

   With these choice words the opening lesson of High School began....

Book Tower

Last week, we took the kids to visit Sudbury Hall - home to the Museum of Childhood. As I struggled up the grand entrance steps, wrestling with Josh's pushcair, I had a feeling of familiarity, as if I'd been here before.

 Of course I'd been here before - several times, I first came here when I was nine for a school trip back in 82, but this was something different - where had I seen that door before?

 ... and then it struck me (not the door) - it was from the Book Tower!

 For the nonplussed, The Book Tower was an ITV weekly kids' programme, aimed at getting children interested in (not surprisingly) books and reading. Sort of like BBC's Jackanory, but not so straight faced.

What most people will remember about The Book Tower is the theme music. This was a particularly creepy number (written by Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber), played on an organ, accompanied by zoom shots of a gothic house which wouldn't have looked out of place in an M R James story. You could almost imagine Vincent Price hunched over the keyboard in Dr Phibes fashion.

 As the titles finished, you were greeted, not by Vincent leering into your living room, but grinning former Time Lord, Tom Baker (a pretty close second).

 In fact there was a bit of a Dr Who feel to the whole thing, in its 10 year run there was a steady succession of eccentric presenters, including two former dads of Adrian Mole - namely Stephen Moore and Alun Armstrong, Neil Innes (Puddle Lane, The Ruttles) followed by poet and fellow GRIMMS member, Roger McGough and finally Bernard Bresslaw (I only arsked) and Timmy Mallet (look at the camera and say BLAIR!).

 Unlike Jackanory, the stories were partly dramatised, and I can recall one quite disturbing scene of an old woman drowning a cat from (I think) The Nine Lives of Montezuma by Michael Morpurgo. Another book featured was The Warlock of Firetop Mountain by Steve Jackson and Ian Livingstone from the Fighting Fantasy gamebook series, where I vaguely remember Stephen Moore and a kid dressed in sword and sorcery clobber exploring a paper mache dungeon.

 One item I didn't see, but would have liked to, was Neil Innes' interview with Lucy Boston, the children's author of the Green Knowe series. She would have been in her nineties then - quite a remarkable lady.

The Book Tower closed it's doors back in 1989. Since then ITV seems to have slowly shut up the shop on children's programmes, finding it easier just to import cheap cartoons to drain kids' brains - but that's only a bookworm's opinion.

Ah well, as Tom Baker would say, 'Goodbye until next week, ha ha.'

Never Look Back

I'm putting my 40 year frame through a half marathon in October, and I thought it was only fair to do it for a good cause. So which one of the needy charities did I pick?

The idea for my chosen charity, came at the end of my recent birthday party, when (slightly inebriated)  I was chatting to my mate Jason, about 1970s celebrities, (Frank Bough, Dicky Davies etc), when he promptly put down his glass and announced wide eyed.

 'Rob, recharge the glasses - we must make a toast.'

 Not needing much encouragement, I sloshed a generous measure of scotch in each glass, and we raised them high.

'To Sir Richard Stilgoe!' intoned Jason

 We clinked glasses, toasted good Sir Richard and knocked the whisky down the hatch.

  It was only in the cold light of day, with a fiery hangover that I thought about that toast. 'Sir' Richard Stilgoe?

Richard Stilgoe was the resident pianist on Nationwide, the 1970s topical magazine show. A merry minstrel, able to knock out a witty ditty in a minute's notice. In addition he's also penned lyrics for West End musicals, and hosted Finders Keepers, a childrens' game show in the 80s for swotty kids based on 'Battleships' (Alpha Four!). All jolly clever stuff - but does it merit being made a Knight of the Realm?
 
Well,  Mr Stilgoe was knighted for his charitable services - in particular his work with the Orpheus Centre. Orpheus? Wasn't he the legendary poet and musician of ancient Greek myth, who had a can-can tune written in his honour? Intigued, I decided to find out more...

The Orpheus centre was founded in Godstone, Surrey by Richard Stilgoe back in 1998.

It is a registered charity, and enables young adults with learning/physical disabilities to learn performance arts (dance, drama etc) with productions that help promote confidence and self esteem.The students are also taught life and employment skills to live independently. This seemed a worthy cause, so I e-mailed Orpheus, and (after a cheery reply), a sponsorship pack, dropped through the letter box two days later.

No going back now - best start getting some training in for October!

For more information about the Orpheus Centre and forthcoming students' productions, visit their web site.

http://www.orpheus.org.uk/

Back to the 70s

I was born in 1972, so when I hit the 40 mark back in June, I decided to celebrate with a 1970s themed party.

 My first thought was drinks - what was the choice of tipple back then?

  Remembering the Leonard Rossiter & Joan Collins adverts, Cinzana Bianco sprang to mind along with Campari (Lorraine Chase -  nah, Luton Airport!) and Advocaat for mixing with lemonade to make those snowballs.

  70s party goers seemed to have a sweeter tooth when it came to wines, so Chardonnays were out and Matteus Rose alongside Blue Nun (of course) were in.

  Non alcoholic drinks were also needed, so alongside the booze was a selection of softies including classics such as dandelion and burdoch, ginger beer and Tizer (we can tell it's Tizer when our eyes are shut!)

  So much for the beverages - but what about the food?

  A cheese and pineapple display graced the table, along with Black Forest Gateaux, scampi (the cavier of the 70s) and an assortment of nibbles including twiglets, frazzles and chipsticks.

 There was also the all important question of what to wear, a friend pointed us in the direction of Lichfield to a shop that sold all manner of retro clobber. After happily rummaging around the clothes racks one saturday morning, I knocked together a 70s outfit consisting of a pair of beige flares, a pointy collared shirt and a cravat to top it off.

Facial hair also seemed to be popular back then - not just goaties or ratty beards but bona fide moustaches as sported by Dicky Davies, John Cleese et al.

 Most people got into the 70s spirit (quite literally!) and arrived sporting retro gear (charity shops did well that weekend) and a great party was had.

We discovered that Campari and soda is definitely an 'acquired ' taste, while Matteus Rose got the thumbs up in the 'moreish' stakes.

 I also tried (unsuccessfully) to introduce my kids to the delights of  70s 'flying saucer' sweets. I did assure them that after the initial taste of damp cardboard, it does get better.

The next morning I had a (surprisingly) mild hangover, and after several cups of strong coffee I was ready to face middle age!

A Gothic Evening - Part Two

As promised, here's the second part of the story.

    Town on a Monday evening was like a Wild West ghost town with October leaves and crisp bags that drifted sadly about. The Art Centre was closed and silent, a skewed poster on the window informed that ‘Soul Scream’ would be playing live at the Queen Caroline in Stafford – coach leaves at 7.30. We sat down on the wall and Ant chucked us each a fag, he made a grand gesture of lighting them with his new Zippo lighter, and nearly burnt his fingers for his efforts. Matt looked thoughtful as he took a drag of his ciggy, then he turned to me with a wry smile.

   ‘Hope you don’t mind Rich mate, but as you and Emily are no longer an item – you don’t mind if I have a crack at her.’

   I felt a sharp wrench inside. Yes I mind, and well you know it you bloody vulture.

   ‘Not at all, good luck to you.’

    ‘That’s cool, cause I’ve already asked her out!’

  Ant must have noticed my lack of enthusiasm, as he added his own eloquent two penn’orth, ‘Rich’s just miffed that he never got the chance to get into her knickers.’

   A four letter retort sprang to mind but I said nothing.

    ‘Never mind mate, perhaps you’ll have more luck with these Goth chicks.’

    I’d recently listened to a new Bon Jovi song called ‘Blood on Blood’ about kids being friends for ever and all that. I thought it could have been written about me, Matt and Ant - but now I wasn’t so sure. We’d turned sixteen and something had changed.

   A few cars had pulled up outside the Art centre and a number of black clad folk with palid faces and impossible hair had started to trickle in - the gathering of the Goths had begun. There seemed to be quite a few girls, notably more than found amongst the metal crowd.

    ‘Wonder what she uses to get her hair like that?’ Ant gestured to a nearby Goth girl, she seemed to be wearing a sort of floral dressing gown and her raven locks stuck up wildly in all directions.

   ‘Go and ask her!’ Matt nudged his arm, ‘I wouldn’t mind gelling her hair for her.’

   Typical Matt humour - sort or Eric Idle crossed with David Lee Roth.

    ‘Good you could make it lads,’ Justin had arrived and was making his way through the throng. He had been in our last year at school but had left early (some say expelled) in slightly mysterious circumstances. I hadn’t known him too well, but he’d seemed an ok sort. In honour of the occasion he’d donned his old school jumper, although now it was tactfully adorned with slashes, and (bizarrely) a Cadburys Dairy Milk badge - there was also a hint of make-up. He seemed to know a lot of the Goth crowd and paused to flirt with a girl before joining us.

    By the time the venerable coach pulled up a small crowd had gathered and the smell of hairspray and petula mingled with diesel fumes. We clambered on board and headed for the back seats, they were of the old fashioned bristle type and smelt faintly of disinfectant.

   ‘How are you doing at college?’ I asked Justin.

    ‘Oh great they did me a favour expelling me from school.’

     We were joined on the back seat by a Goth lad and girl. The lad seemed a few years older than us and wore a greatcoat that looked like it had last seen use at the Battle of the Somme, his acned face was part hidden with a pair of dark shades. The girl was slim and surprisingly she had red hair rather than the usual black dyed locks. She was quite cute too, with large brown eyes, she flashed us a smile before sitting down.  The coach was now full and the driver pulled away from the Arts Centre and headed towards the A5. I glanced across at Matt, and he shot me a questioning look. I could tell what he was thinking. What on earth are we doing on this coach in the company of a tribe of Rocky Horror Show rejects. The lad fished around in his greatcoat and like a shabby conjurer produced a bottle of Strongbow cider, ‘Here you go lads.’

   Not wishing to appear an outsider I took a swig from the bottle, inwardly grimacing at the warm, sour taste. As I passed it across to Matt, I certainly hoped it was just only cider. The girl wandered up the aisle to talk to a friend, Ant leaned forward and in a low voice whispered ‘I want to do it with her!’

   ‘Do what?’ said Matt, ‘Breakdance? Ride a Tandem?’

   ‘No,’ Ant Frowned, ‘You Know.’

She wandered back and tumbled into the lap of the lad, and in a haze of cider fumes they started to snog noisily, while Ant stared fixedly out the window and fumed silently.

Back in our Day - Into the Labyrinth

This was a 1980 offering from HTV about the adventures of three time travelling kids.

  The kids, Phil, Helen and Terry have been recruited by sorcerer Rothgo (grumpy but good) to help him in his quest for the magical 'Nidus' stone. Unfortunately, Rothgo has a nemesis, in the form of the witch Belor (fearsome but foxy) who will stop at nothing to get her hands on the Nidus.

  Following the spooky theme tune, the kids would arrive in a different time zone (Dark Ages etc). Rothgo (delightfully played by Ron Moody) would be in disguise ( as a dotty druid or something) and be able to help the kids in their search. The downside being that Belor (a sultry Pamela Salem) was also in the zone (normally disguised as a cunning - but cute courtesan) and out to nail those pesky kids.

 The Nidus would be hidden as an everyday object and once the kids had found it, Belor would appear cackling maniacally as her witchy self, to scream out her famous line "I deny you the Nydus!" Kids and Nydus would be flung into a different time zone and the quest would continue...

  As with Dr Who, time travel is always a good theme for a story. Unfortunately the show was made on a very shoestring budget - Dr Who was almost Star Wars in comparison. The way to get round this was to use the same polystyrene cave set every week, with different costumes and period decorations. Surprisingly, this worked quite well and gave an eerie background to the adventures.

 What made the series, was the on-screen chemistry between Salem and Moody, who seemed to enjoy playing the feuding wizards, squaring up to fight 'astral duels' with lightning bolts.

 Even for the time, the special effects were a little limp, and are fairly comical compared to today's CGI magic. However, 'Into the Labyrinth' was certainly entertaining (better than watching Blue Peter)  and definite nostalgia for a child of the 80s .

A Gothic Evening - Part 1

A bit of a Blue Peter style post this week (here's one we did earlier). This is the first part to a story extract I posted a while back called A Gothic Evening. I'll repost the second part (without the opening blurb) to keep the story in sequence. Hope you enjoy.

 What do you wear to a Goth concert? That was the question I pondered as I stared forlornly into the wardrobe looking for suitable clobber. After some deliberation I decided upon a faded pair of jeans and a black t-shirt with the logo ‘Anthrax!’ across it. Goths wore make up and stuff didn’t they? I thought briefly about borrowing some of mum’s black eyeliner – and rapidly dropped the idea. Best not to give my sister too much ammo, she frequently muttered comments about bottle blond brothers with girly hair; too trendy my sister - what with her Erasure tapes and all that.  A knock at the door interrupted these musings. Before I answered, I made the finishing touch to my Goth rock look – a ‘Motorhead’ pendent in the shape of an iron cross. Not strictly Gothic – but who cares?

   At the front door were Matt and Ant, who, like me, were togged up in their ‘metal’ gear. Matt wore denims and a ripped ‘Metallica’ t-shirt, while Ant sported a tasselled leather jacket and a pair of black spandex trousers over his long legs - the image of a Liquorice Allsort sprang to mind. As he dramatically flicked his hair over his shoulder I caught the sickly whiff of petula oil. Yep, no doubt he’d been on a shopping spree at the ‘Oasis’ indoor market – he always did have more dosh than the rest of us.

‘Wahay!’ said Matt grinning, ‘let’s get going - we’re meeting Justin outside the Art Centre!’

   ‘Enjoy yourselves, girls!’ as we walked down the drive, my sister's voice called mockingly from her bedroom window.