MEMORIES OF THORPE GRAMMAR SCHOOL 1969-76

Andrew Bentley

 

My secondary education at TGS began as a first former in 1969, and continued uninterrupted there for the next seven years.  Until recently it never crossed my mind that anybody might be remotely interested in my reminiscences of those days.  I might be right.  But having had my memory jogged by reading the recollections of others, I find I must be at an age suited to a little self-indulgent nostalgia.  So my thanks to Frances (née Bird) for pointing me in the direction of fortyodd.com and the discovery that I too don't have anything better to do.

 

My first days at TGS were a bit odd since, while I knew many faces from Sprowston Junior School, not a single one of my former classmates went there with me.  I was my old school's first "C" stream pupil to pass the qualifying Eleven Plus examination for eight years.  To be honest, at the time I was a little put out not to be going with my friends to the local secondary modern.  But I soon made new friends, and would admit to leaving with a close circle of eight, and still being in regular contact with six of them (even if time and responsibility has reduced regular to little more than an annual newsletter in the Christmas card).

 

My first class was 1R.  The form teacher was Mr Ribbands, a former pupil who had come straight back in from teacher training.  There was a period during that first year when the fashion was to own a peashooter (of modern plastic construction) with which to pelt one another with dried peas.  How the cleaners must have loved sweeping the thick carpet of desiccated legumes from the classroom floors each evening.  I forget what put pay to these antics, but suspect it was some form of official sanction.

 

I rather enjoyed the new school environment, since I got to have a go at real science; as opposed to messing around with a chemistry set at home and planting the odd bean and measuring its growth at school.  Science was my forte.  French was not, despite the best efforts of several very patient teachers (especially Phyllis Bowles), and as recently witnessed by some very confused French hypermarket staff.  So it was a bit of a mystery as to how I came to do Latin for two years.  The simple truth of it was my marks put me into one of the two top classes after the first year, and one class had to do Latin and the other German.  Somebody decided I would cope better with Latin; wrong!  Years later I picked up German with less difficulty, but there you go.  Regardless of the academic struggle, I would not have missed the experience of being taught by the Rev. David Wiard and learning what it is to be happy in your work.

 

They say you never forget a good teacher.  So as an aside here is a selection of some the ones I recall and why (generally due to some notable personality trait).  Mr Jones for making chemistry a lively subject, and demonstrating the psychotropic effects of working in a vapour filled environment.  Mr Marsh for imparting the principles of physics, yet unable to keep a motorcycle upright or throw a board rubber in a straight line (he claimed he was aiming for the guy next to me).  Mr Dewey, who made history memorable by focusing on the gruesome, painful, gory parts of any given period.  Mr Davidson, not so much for geography as the master classes in sarcasm, which have served me in life almost as well as the mapping reading skills.

 

It was in the second year that 2L took up residence in one of the mobile classrooms (which ironically never actually moved once in place) that at one time occupied the grass areas facing the Old Block.  Our form teacher that year was Mr Copson, a young man who for some reason dressed as an academic of the nineteen-twenties.  The poor guy had no control over his classes, and had a hard time of it once his pupils (in every year, for every subject) detected this weakness.  I may be wrong, but recall he eventually ended up in hospital in a semi-catatonic state due to the stress.

 

Applying the rose tinted glasses, I suppose the seventies were more innocent days, even recognising ours was a mainly middle class environment.  The only assault on a teacher I can recall is a member of the lower school scrubbing Mr Copson down with a board rubber (or is that an urban myth?).  In the fifth year I remember a couple of girls a bit giggly due to alcohol at the back of one of Mrs Bell's English classes.  That same year a friend explained to me, in my naivety, that the guy disrupting one of Mr Spencer's biology classes was under the influence of herbal substances.  The gentleman in questions changed schools frequently.  Some years later I found myself working with his sister-in-law, who also had an interest unorthodox horticulture.

 

One of the regular pastimes of the second year consisted of chasing me round the mobile and imprisoning me in the store cupboard.  This was then followed by doing the same to my classmate Jane.  The object of our "friends" doing putting us together like this is now a little obscure, although probably obvious to adolescents.  What made this less of an ordeal for me was that this was the only time I got to spend in her company, since during those years she was the unrequited love of my life.  Unrequited due to my disadvantages of being in the same year (rule one, girls prefer older boys) and otherwise generally clueless around girls.  Be fair, we have all been there.

 

I cannot say that I suffered from bullying during my school years.  Early during the first year the class tough-guy dumped the contents of my briefcase of the floor.  I pinned him to a wall (originally several feet away) by his neck.  I didn't have any further problems, and otherwise remained mild-mannered.  On the other hand my friend Levy (Martin Leverington) must have had a miserable existence.  From the first week when his cap ended up on the music room roof, his friends teased him in jest, while others bullied him with malice.  We are talking the likes of gluing shut the sleeves of his plastic raincoat and squashing jam sandwiches in his outdoor shoes.

 

Boys were always addressed by their surnames by teachers, and often fellow pupils.  Nicknames were used, but were not that prevalent.  Mine appeared one day during a second year chemistry lesson.  What do you get when you heat blue copper hydroxide precipitate?  A thick black sludge.  My delivery of this answer for some reason delighted Stephen Myhill so much that he kept repeating it until "Sludge" stuck (as it were) as my nickname.  In answer to a question raised by a caption in the gallery on this site, it was Martin Leverington who christened Glen Stephenson "Ratty".  To understand this, first examine Mr Stevenson's physiognomy, then bear in mind that he could be of a grumpy disposition.  One cold morning while waiting to enter the buildings he was complaining more than usual, and was told by Levy not to be so ratty.  At that moment it all came together.

 

While I lacked ability at languages, I deliberately set out to fail at sport.  Despite my best efforts I never once achieved an "E" in the subject.  Part of my dislike was based on the apparent waste of time involved in moving a ball around.  Part was due to my inherent "negative-buoyancy" when it comes to swimming.  Part was based on, what I saw as, the macho posturing of those who instructed us.  The most pointless afternoon of my life was spent attempting to play rugby in a fog you couldn't see beyond five feet in.  Best of a bad job was playing football as defender, since most of the time could be spent talking to the other defender and the goalkeeper, unless the ball interrupted.  My preference was cross-country running since that at least allowed you to explore the locality, and led to a lifelong interest in walking (so no change in speed there).  The happy day came when I got to fill a vacancy in the rifle club, based on the testimonials of Richard Adamek who turned out to be a friend I didn't know I had.

 

I suppose that if you were to identify the group in which I belonged, it would be that of the academically adept who kept their noses clean.  I acknowledge here the Yaxley twins, Martin Leverington and Glen Stevenson.  Nerdish, rather than pure nerd, since we had our moments coupled with a fair share of luck.  Then there were the "alpha" personalities, that select handful who were always to the fore, sometimes to the envy of others.  These were the ones who always seems to receive the accolades, star in the school productions, go off on the Duke of Edinburgh Award scheme or a brief expedition to far flung regions.  Then came the "rebels".  Hats off to Paul "Tomsk" Thompson, pushing the limits of hair length and dress code.  Also to Richard Adamek, perhaps more eccentric than rebel.  I like to think I did some quiet rebelling of my own, albeit less high profile.

 

When the time came to select our O-level subjects, it was a relief to be able to choose the three sciences.  French stayed, Latin went, maths was a strain but unavoidable.  Our form teacher around this time was Miss Manning, a missionary lady.  I displayed some aptitude for Religious Education, and the possibility was mooted that I might have some affinity for the ministry.  Sensing that some degree of belief in a god might be part of the job description; I side-stepped this for the hard sciences.

 

Now having two children to who using a computer mouse or operating a Game Boy is commonplace, it is worth mentioning the advanced technology of the period.  The school came into possession of a photocopier, maintained and solely operated by Mr Hipperson, one of the lab technicians.  The output from this device was on shinny paper, generally had a grey background, and emerged damp from the final stages of the inner workings.  The biology labs housed a video machine.  This suitcase sized machine played cassette tapes the size of bricks.  It was a top-loader with a spring strong enough to catapult away most objects placed on top of the lid.

 

Cutting edge for the day, the school had a computer terminal.  Any younger readers may wish to consult a history of science textbook.  This terminal comprised a mechanical telex machine with a tape paper punch/reader and a modem (a wooden box into which you placed a telephone receiver).  Having served an apprenticeship preparing punch cards for adding two numbers together using Cecil, by means of pushing out sequences of pre-cut holes with a wire punch, you were allowed to progress to Basic programming.  It was quite pleasing to produce programmes for scientific calculations.  Some pupils were even advanced enough to produce moon-landing games.  These took a little time to play, since you had to wait for the result of each course correction to be printed out onto roll-paper.  Atari was some years away.

 

1973 or 74 was the age of attempted revolution.  The school made the local paper for reasons other than those the headmaster and governors would have preferred; I suspect the term "disrepute" may have been applied.  Several fifth and sixth formers turned into firebrands, promoting the National Union of School Students.  Initially identifying this as a healthy interest, the school allowed the organisers to hold a meeting in the assembly hall.  The inviting of the press and a television crew had not been expected, nor the call for disobedience and insurrection.  There followed a surprisingly lengthy struggle for the hearts-and-minds of the school community.  Inevitably the Establishment triumphed and the status quo was re-established.

 

Fifth formers and above were allowed beyond the school gates during lunchtimes.  On occasion the path led to a local pub.  There seemed to be an unwritten contract between some staff and pupils, perhaps in part due to the headmaster being a teetotal Methodist.  Some staff frequented the William (or was it George) the something, while pupils went to the The Cottage.  A member of staff would only appear at The Cottage by invitation.  In the early days you could get served so long as you were not wearing your school blazer, or at least covered it with a coat.  Things became easier when "civilian dress" was adopted for the upper school.

 

I was not a great partygoer in my youth.  This is probably why the handful of parties I went to during that time stick in my mind (at the Griffin, Rackheath's Green Man, a village hall near Horsford, and a pub in Carrow with a terrace down by the river).  God, they bored me!  But it was always nice to be asked.  I cannot hear Nut Bush City Limits without being transported back in time (its dark and the same four coloured lights keep flashing).  The one thing that ever made going worthwhile was getting my first proper kiss, from a local beauty queen no less.  Rest of the time you just lost out to the more mature males (being18-19; in retrospect, hahahaha, yeah sure!), or had to have brought a younger girlfriend along with you.  For those who knew me then, there possibly hangs the tale of a lost opportunity.

 

Having clocked-up nine O-levels, I stayed on to do three A-levels.  It was a bit of a struggle getting to do three sciences without any maths, but in the end there were enough wanting it to force a change in the options.  Late in the fifth form we had been treated to career advice from a man from the council.  When I expressed the desire to do a degree in biochemistry, he informed me that I had made a mistake in not taking German at O-level because all the papers on biochemistry were written in German.  His information was a little out of date, since the Germans had been pre-eminent in biochemistry during the nineteenth century, but the vast majority of scientific journals had been published in English since World War Two.

 

The lower and upper Sixth Form were based in the old hall, camped out like passengers in an airport lounge during a strike.  Books were kept in a bank of wooden lockers outside, none of which had locks.  Up on the stage was a ping-pong table, the only permitted diversion other than cards.  Beneath was a storage room.  I helped to clean out and decorate it, but rarely went down there, not being part of the band that colonised it.  I had spent six years waiting to get to wear a blazer with a prefect's yellow band round it (read into that what you like), but when that year came the dress code changed to smart casual clothes. Damn!

 

Life changed a bit during Sixth Form.  Suddenly it was revealed that the staff didn't share the common first name of mister, miss or missus.  Classes were still scheduled, but there were free periods in-between during which you were responsible for your own work.  We got to carry out project work without supervision.  I spent many happy hours growing corn in hydroponics and poisoning it with heavy metals. 

 

One Christmas some of the Sixth Form put on a pantomime version of 'Babes in the Wood' for the lower school.  Even then it was hard to credit the wolf-whistles and ribald comments that came out of a bunch of eleven and twelve years old when the nurse put the babes to bed.  I assisted Richard Adamek backstage with the special effects.  For the entrance of the fairy godmother he had constructed a device consisting of an extension lead ending in a switched socket.  Into the socket went a 13 amp plug with no back.  Fuse wire was wrapped round the terminals and mains voltage, turned on from the lighting gallery, used to ignite a pile of flash powder composed of home-made thermite (for flash and bang) mixed with fluff (for smoke).

 

The idea was that between entrances and exits I pull back the block by the cable, switch it off, replace the fuse wire and powder, switch back on, then push the block back onstage using a broomhandle.  This worked fine, except that one entrance and exit were too close together.  At the first performance I was still pushing the block out when Richard fired it on cue.  Somewhat dazzled and singed, I clawed my way up to the gallery to register a protest.  At one point in the pantomime the two robbers (Messrs Myhill and Leech, if I recall) were given a bath while mistaken for the babes by the short-sighted nurse.  For the final performance I got the job of rounding up all the ice cubes in the school, to replace the tepid water they were expecting.  The effect was chilling.

 

Once again the school tried to influence my direction in life by suggesting that I try for Oxford or Cambridge.  At that point my rebellious side really kicked in and the only outcome was ending up with a Use of English certificate to my name (which used to be one of the entrance criteria).  My preference was for the University of Sussex because of its higher rating for scientific excellence (and seaside location).  This raised more than a few eyebrows since the place was renown for sex, drugs and radical politics.  More out-of-date careers information, mores the pity, but that didn't stop me having a great six years there.  Later I ended up doing research at Oxford, and confirmed that I had made the right choice.

 

I visited the school a couple of times in the years immediately after leaving.  Many years later I walked by with my wife, and heard the voice of Mr Howes echoing across the sports field.  Since then I have shown the outside to my eldest daughter.  I heard about the first big reunion, but was reluctant to travel all the way back to Norwich if I couldn't be sure there would be some familiar faces there.  However, I have been to two unofficial reunions specifically for my year.  The first was organised to see Stephen Myhill off to Australia, at which he delightedly greeted me by announcing "Sludge!".  The second was held up at Norwich City Football ground, and I took along my wife to meet some of the people who had warped my personality.

 

So what traces might remain in the school annals of my seven years there?  I got a (very) short story published in one of the annual school magazines.  Late in the day I was awarded school colours for shooting, and still have the certificate and tie to prove it.  My name probably appeared in the programmes for a couple of speech days.  I remember it was always a problem at Jarrold's selecting a volume "worthy" enough to bear the presentation label.  So I ended up with books I rarely ever take off the shelf.  And finally, under the stage in the old hall perhaps there is the back off an old valve radio still serving as a ventilator grill.