BULMERSHE COLLEGE, READING: MY THIRD YEAR...

 COLLEGE: MY THIRD YEAR AT BULMERSHE…

TYPICAL BULMERSHE HOSTEL...

Back in residence the reverse-L-shaped hostel I lived in housed two floors of men and three floors of first-year women. The lower men’s floor consisted of first-years but my friends and I lived upstairs. John Follett and Tony Clifford lived in a large double-room at the end of the corridor, directly above PE lecturer Terry Barnett’s flat, which he shared with his slightly harsh wife and two barking dogs. Terry usually wore a Fred Perry tennis shirt under a red v-necked pullover and he always looked smart and neat but was always a little irritating too. He would became an important character in British basketball I believe… 

WE BOUGHT RED PULLOVERS FOR A TERRY BARNETT LECTURE BUT HE WALKED INTO THE ROOM AND, ER, TOTALLY IGNORED US...
I THEN KNEW WHAT BACKFIRING MEANT...

I believe that his small Fiat car was moved by some students one night and was left on Barnett’s dry ski-slope at the edge of the sports field. He wasn’t pleased. I was not involved, having gone home yet again to watch Villa play. 

In fact one Wednesday in my first year I had travelled home to watch Villa with the intention of returning to college the next day but Villa were at home on the Saturday too and my parents were on holiday. So, after watching the Wednesday night action, I left the house noisily on the Thursday morning to alert the neighbours that I was in fact returning to Reading and caught a bus into the city centre. I had decided to stay in Birmingham until the Saturday however and walked about town a fair bit during the morning, before going to the cinema where I saw M.A.S.H., which was released in March 1970. I then caught a bus back to Shard End and slipped into a local pub called the Two Hands, which I had never been inside before and sat with just one beer until it was dark enough to creep back home.

I wrote my first ever poem in that pub about the rather odd collection of folks in the lounge that evening…

The Two Hands: Where the Rhymes Began...

It was where it all began, I guess.

Inside the Two Hands:

A clone of The Harlequin, The Trident, The Packhorse, 

The Heathway and The Cheshire Cat;

All Shard End locals for beer, if not grand

And those pubs all looked much the same,

Catering for my council estate, 

Built near the meandering River Cole,

Its Parish Church plain and undistinguished, on once wooded land...

It was where I began scribbling, I recall,

Sat in the Two Hands’ heat;

A drink to waste time, alone, self-aware.

Then the quiet, hunched clientele began to fascinate 

And I speculated upon why one couple’s hands would not meet...

Yet those regulars were all dulled to the norm,

Immersed in their patterns of repetition,

Within the sounds of the rippling River Cole,

Its slatted wooden bridge rattling to 

intermittent vehicles’ beat...

It was how I became enthralled, I know,

Hidden in a corner of the Two Hands’ gloom:

Verses written, head down, nervous, 

perspiring;

For I wondered what the common smoker, the grey veterans and the silent couple

Returned home to, and for them what fate would loom...

Then I slipped away my scrawls and vanished into the night,

Thrilled by the watching, the contemplation,

In the valley of the often fetid River Cole,

Whose cold, ancient stench pervaded my quiet bedroom... 

Pete Ray

I returned home stealthily, turned no lights on and went to bed fairly early. I was quiet all through the Friday then began to make noises and turn the lights on when darkness began to fall, as if I had just journeyed home again from college… Gods, the things you do to avoid a bellowing at… 

Anyway, back to college… Dave Hall from Portsmouth lodged next to John Follett’s double room and I was further back along the corridor on the left side, next door to Martin Phipps. The others didn’t really matter…

Dave Hall was a rackets player, specialising in tennis and badminton, I believe but he went home every Friday and returned every Monday. I have recently found out that he worked at his father’s garage  when home and also played club cricket during the summer weeks. Mart was allowed to borrow Dave’s bed but moving it was a total headache and I reckon Martin and I could have set up a removals firm after college, for we were so adept at jamming that bed into such a small room. Dave was very secretive about his travels at that time… 

Basically, Mart’s room became one huge bed. Irritatingly, his girlfriend at that time called me ‘Petey’ and often employed me as an Agony Aunt. She studied French, then post-college she apparently became a clothes buyer for Marks & Spencer and thus wasted her teacher-training.   

Obviously, after college her relationship with Mart was terminated. He hailed from London, near Tottenham’s football ground and was an avid Spurs fan.

Often John Follett would scale the outside walls of the girls’ section of our hostel and grin at them, waving through windows at startled young ladies. Once in Reading I walked and skipped hand in hand with him through a department store. We took some real frowns for this escapade and caused not a little shock, so much so that John broke down against a wall and slid into a seated position, his face contorted into uncontrollable laughter, hardly breathing, red as the proverbial beetroot. I left him there. Real gay people didn’t behave like that, then…

John would marry Bulmershe student Marianne after college and I guess I was kind of responsible for them meeting… She would apparently travel home to Leamington to see her boyfriend on occasions and one day we caught the same train. There were very few seats available and having recognised her, I asked whether I might sit next to her. She agreed and the first thing she did was spill her drink over me… 

We were friends from that point and back at college John and I played her up rather a lot but when John asked her out, several of her friends joined them at the cinema, I believe… So romantic… They are still together. 

KEV NUTT FAR LEFT, JOHN FOLLETT HOLDING ONTO MARIANNE ON THE RIGHT, MARTIN PHIPPS IN THE HOOPED TOP WITH THAT DREAM MOUSTACHE IS NEXT TO DAVE HALL. TONY CLIFFORD CROUCHES...

There was a climbing weekend in the north Midlands area during Year 3 at Stanage Edge (John Follett recalls the venue) involving tents again… I found the ordeal horrific, although in fact on the sheer rock-face we all climbed, I managed to get two thirds of the way up, if a little gingerly. Then I froze… I felt that I simply couldn’t reach the next handhold or foothold and  thus feared a fall. However, I was talked up to the top by someone, forced myself on and soon abseiled down successfully. It was only later that I realised that had my body been more relaxed, a more clinical and pleasant climb would surely have been possible. 

STANAGE EDGE...

On the free Saturday afternoon Martin Phipps and I went to watch a soccer game at Crewe, using various buses to get there, through the not so very salubrious surroundings of Burslem, Stoke-on-Trent. We didn’t return until the Sunday morning, for we managed to stay at a local college overnight, where at least we were fed and stayed warm… We were not well received on our return but we hadn’t really missed much, just a bloody cold night in a tent…

I believe that Ritchie Mitchell had caused a fire in his tent whilst Mart and I were away, something to do with a cooking stove, I believe… 

On the subject of Ritchie, I remember him telling me that he had once been present at a recording of a Morecambe and Wise TV programme. He reckoned that Eric Morecambe messed about so much that the recording took many hours and he had laughed uproariously…

We all went together as a group into London and swam at the Crystal Palace pool too, which had opened in 1964 and I was pleased to dive off one of the springboards there… 

I DIVED OFF THE BOARDS THERE...

We were also taken to Calshot on the Solent’s Spit, an old WW2 aerodrome which due to having no heating at all, was bloody freezing but I was impressed with it, even managing to secure one of the better times. I hadn’t cycled since I was 11 years old…

CALSHOT...
ODDLY, CALSHOT IS ALSO THE NAME OF A PRIMARY SCHOOL IN BIRMINGHAM...

I still went off to watch Aston Villa games when I could, which I rue now. They were promoted back into Division 2 at the end of that season but my travels certainly led me into trouble. Famous England Rugby Union and Great Britain Rugby League player Bev Risman, who was one of our lecturers tried to force me to stop watching Villa and play rugby, or at least  play soccer for the college. Bravely for me I refused to play at weekends but did play both sports a few times on Wednesdays.

I scored an own-goal in the soccer team at Bulmershe, the only one I have ever netted in my whole footballing career. The ‘keeper called for a back-pass, I turned 20 yards out and passed calmly and accurately to him but inexplicably he suddenly rushed forward and the ball rolled past him… I was gutted.

I also used my soccer skills to score a try in the rugby team, racing onto a loose ball inside the opponents’ half and kicking the ball on, chasing it with defenders behind me and then diving upon the loose ball for a score. Spectators were egging me on as ‘Chico’ (Aston Villa’s ex-Chelsea forward Ian ‘Chico’ Hamilton…)

CHICO HAMILTON...

OK, MY HAIR WAS LONG THEN...

I was chosen to play in a rugby match one Wednesday against an RAF Brize Norton team and I was to start at outside-half in one of the college teams there. Our scrum-half was a long-haired guy, the college DJ, who wore a headband when he played. We were treated badly by the opponents who took every opportunity to knock us about. However, in one maul, the scrum-half was held up, so I moved in from fly-half to replace him and wait for the ball to be released. 

During the maul though an RAF player grabbed the DJ’s headband, yanked it down to his neck and began to twist it. Our player dropped the ball as he began to choke but I needed to free him and somehow dragged him clear of the scuffle and laid him down on the turf to recover himself. The referee said nothing… I was really pissed off with it all and as our injured player left the field, I took over at scrum-half and fortunately I was quick enough not only to get away from the RAF bastards but also to release the ball speedily when in possession and thus we won the game easily, 30-0…

En route to Brize Norton on the coach, we had passed the Quiet Woman Restaurant where I had eaten with my parents on the journey south to start my life at Bulmershe. I called out, “You can get a good meal there…” There was silence. Then Geoff Mitchell repeated my words every time we passed a pub or restaurant… So, I was already nicknamed ‘Chico’ and I now had a catchphrase too… 

INDISCRIMINATE IMAGE OF GEOFF THEN...

Geoff was also famous for shining a torch at people and calling it his ‘indiscriminate light’ which drove some folks up the wall… Good laugh though…

...AND NOW.
HEY, GEOFF, YOU CAN GET A GOOD MEAL THERE, TOO...

I put a team together for a 5-a-side tournament at Bulmershe, which was to be played on campus against all kinds of teams. We were good but fell at the first hurdle and here I must digress to explain the horror which befell me on that day…

 The Penalty Nightmares…

I was playing at left-half for my primary school team Hillstone, as a Year 5 pupil in a very strong outfit. I had scored twice, both volleys, both from 35 yards and both against the league leaders, Brownmead School, whom we defeated 5-2 at home, to replace them at the summit. We had already drawn 2-2 at their pitch. In Year 6, we again had a fine team but I had failed to score a single goal, despite being chosen for the Saltley area soccer team in the Birmingham Schools’ District competition. Both my school team and the representative team wore green shirts with white sleeves and black numbers and I played at left-back for Saltley.

I recall the final game of the season, at home to St Anthony’s and we led 7-0. We were awarded a penalty late in the game and the football teacher, Mr Barber, asked me to take it. The nerves I felt were overwhelming and I was painfully shy anyway, but I stepped forward gamely and rapped a hard, low left-footed drive towards the centre of goal but the ‘keeper, who had done well to keep the score down to seven, fell to his left and the ball cannoned off his flailing right foot to safety. I was devastated and felt tears welling up inside but I recall saying “Well done…” to the goalie. My mind was full of foreboding, for I knew that my dad would be disgusted with me. He was. And he didn’t let me forget it.

LOVED MY NUMBER 6...

Oddly, in the staff versus lads game, the ‘keeper was our rather masculine class teacher and P.E. trained Miss Cattell, who had warned me not to score against her. Consequently I raced through in the latter stages and cracked the ball past her with a wry smile.

Sadly, attending a grammar school meant only Rugby Union for the next seven years, for there was no local Sunday football for lads in those days. I missed my football badly, I was an only child and received no real support from a father who seemed to be working all the time. I did however appear in one Sunday morning adult game with my dad, when I was 15; he made a goal and I scored the other with my right foot in a 5-2 defeat. 

So, in the knockout 5-a-side tournament on campus we fielded a good ‘keeper, plus what was considered the best outfield group in the competition. Our opening round opponents paraded a weak team but had included a ringer, the Southern Universities goalie, who played superbly and kept the score to 0-0, meaning sudden-death penalties to settle the tie. We had our first spot-kick saved, the opponents missed theirs too but no-one wanted to take our second kick, so it was left to me, with no choice but to shoot. I stepped forward and the ‘keeper flicked my hard, rising penalty over his crossbar with a dive to his left. Our ‘keeper John Follett was unable to save the opponents’ second kick and we had been beaten. I had failed from the ‘spot’ again.

After college, I played Sunday soccer for a number of years, yet wasn’t ever asked to take a penalty, although I often dreamed that I was taking one. The outcome was always the same in my nightmares, for as I approached the ball awkwardly, my body simply wouldn’t position itself at the correct angle, nor would my left instep strike the ball properly and the whole action seemed to take place in slow motion, so that the kick failed even to reach the goal-line and I usually awoke then, shaking. I was a footballing somnambulist…

One cold, damp, muddy Sunday morning, the team I was playing for was being hammered by strong opposition and I was skipper, probably because I was the only fit person who hadn’t been out drinking during the previous evening, had not puked before the game, or filled the stinking changing-room toilet with the remnants of a late-night curry. 

I was wearing new boots which were not comfortable and despite playing at left-back, I took each kick-off with the striker, saying something like: “Plan Z this time?” We were 9-0 down by the time we were surprisingly awarded a penalty in the closing seconds of the match but everyone looked at everybody else in my team and then everybody else began slouching towards the half-way line. So it was that I trudged forward stealthily in my ill-fitting boots, placed the ball upon the muddy penalty-spot and turned to take a run-up. 

But then my mind became haunted and plagued by those awful slow-motion nightmares, sending a tingling feeling running down from my thighs to my calves. I remember shaking… The official whistled, I ran forward, unthinking now and struck a firm drive low to the ‘keeper’s left and although he dived that way, the ball sped into the bottom right corner of the net. The final whistle blew to signal a 9-1 defeat, no-one congratulated me and the others went off to the pub.

SO, I FINALLY GOT OVER MY PENALTY NIGHTMARES...

I never missed another penalty my life but those dreams still haunt me today, where I cannot get my body in the correct position to strike the ball, I fail utterly to strike it well enough and the ball, in slow-motion, doesn’t even reach the goal at all. 

What a sad person...

 So, back to Bulmershe… One guy on floor three was something of a pain really, so one day when he went into the bathroom on floor two, it was decided that he would stay there… A rope was tied round the door handle and stretched to another door further down the corridor. It worked superbly. Unsure how he eventually got out though… 

My final teaching practice was in Maidenhead, I think at Lowbrook Primary School, now apparently a 4-16 years Academy. Oddly, I remember little of my time there… However, I do recall being in assembly one morning early in the practice and that another couple of students were in the school too. The children were unbelievably noisy but none of the teachers said a word. In the end, totally against my nature, I stood up and yelled at the kids to be quiet. 

FINAL TEACHING PRACTICE HERE...

Silence fell upon the hall and the class teacher said to me: “Well done, I was waiting for one of you to say something…” And that was another moment which changed my life…

Martin’s Ford Anglia was a blessing to us in Year 3 and we did travel into London a few times to watch soccer at Spurs and also at Wembley (England beat Malta 5-0 and Portugal 1-0, a match won by a towering Jack Charlton header.)

Our final assessments I recall little about at all, although I based my dissertation on ‘Training & Coaching For Goalkeepers’ which involved a practical element whereby a member of staff watched me perform the practices I had written about. I was grateful to Martin Phipps for being willing to serve balls for me deal with… 

The practical elements of the PE were memorable though and one small thing at that college was intriguing for me. When we did a course on hockey, we were filmed. I had never been filmed before, at any time in my life, so it was rather strange to see myself on a screen and we were all expected to assess each other during the showing. Although I had never played hockey at all, I scored the only goal in the staged match, something I shall never forget…

I chose to be examined on football, I took part in the rugby assessment, as an ‘extra’ and I also roped in poor Martin and also Kevin Nutt to re-enact the ‘creative dance’ routine we had successfully choreographed during term-time. It was based upon offensive and defensive movements and I am sure that because I was the only person who had chosen creative dance to be examined upon, I came out of it well, as it Kev and Mart as my ‘extras’… Hilarious… 

So, three teaching practices in Primary Schools had been completed successfully, presumably I did well enough in my assessments too and thus I left Bulmershe as, er, a qualified schoolteacher. 

I was the only PE student who had based his work on Primary School pupils, for everyone else of course was training to be a teacher in a Secondary School. Strangely, I had to plan a sports day in my college work and of course, mine had to be for younger children, which was interesting because I recall basing the layout on my old Hillstone Junior School’s playing field in Shard End, Birmingham, which actually had a long-jump pit of its own…

DURING THE FINAL DAYS AT BULMERSHE...

My name subsequently went forward to the Birmingham Education Department and I was allotted to Audley Junior School in Stechford, a short bus-ride away from my parents’ home in Shard End…

THE MUM & THE TEACHER...