MY SECOND TEACHING APPOINTMENT, PART 4: TAKING THE KIDS OUT & ON HOLIDAY...

 Firs Junior School (1974-1981): 

Taking the kids away…

Strangely, despite the nearby venues of Blakesley Hall, Sarehole Mill, Aston Hall and of course the Museum & Art Gallery in the city centre, which were all open for school visits, the only places I  accompanied children to were Chapman’s Hill Farm, Hams Hall and the old Science Museum in Newhall St.

THE CITY OF BIRMINGHAM LOCO AT THE OLD SCIENCE MUSEUM...

Even more remarkable then that after leaving Blakesley Hall School, I worked in the Schools Liaison Department of the Museums & Art Gallery, even though I had never actually been inside the Museum, or Aston Hall (despite attending King Edward’s Aston School and watching football at Villa Park, both a stone’s throw from the Hall), nor Sarehole Mill, or even Blakesley Hall…  

THE KIDS FEEDING ANIMALS AT CHAPMAN'S HILL FARM...

The Chapman’s Hill Farm visit has already been mentioned but the only recollections I have of Hams Hall were watching blue tits on a feeder outside the classroom there and then walking a bunch of noisy kids to look out for birds from a hide. Obviously we saw nothing… 

MY CLASS & ME AT HAMS HALL...

We also visited Weston-Super-Mare, as mentioned previously, where we nearly saw the sea but discovered how tough it is to walk on a beach with mud almost up to one’s knees. Another Weston was visited too, Weston Park in Shropshire. 

WESTON PARK...

I recall that visit because of the adventure playground, the female teachers who accompanied the kids and what happened to one of the girls, Julie Sinnott who just happened to be my best crab football player at school and often appeared to be rather clumsy…

TAKING PART...

The children were simply let loose at Weston Park, whilst the other teachers spent much of their time drinking tea and coffee, strolling a bit and investigating the hall itself. However, someone had to make sure the kids were OK and that job fell upon me, so that I spent most of the day inside the adventure playground. It was good though, for some of the features were quite high from the ground and the children loved it all. 

MORE CLIMBING AT WESTON PARK...

KEEPING FIT AT WESTON PARK...

The girl mentioned above, whilst actually walking with another teacher, fell into a shallow pond and soaked her clothes. I can still see the remarkable moment on the journey back to school when a female member of staff hung Julie’s knickers out of the upper part of a coach window in an attempt to dry them… 

ROUNDING UP THE KIDS TO TRAVEL BACK TO SCHOOL...

The visit to the Science Museum was a total waste of time, for there was no organisation beforehand. The year-group was told that the visit had been booked for us and so we boarded a bus and went. No worksheets, no idea what to expect, no planning…

The kids simply pressed buttons…

Camping…

The first camp away was during my first year at Firs and all I recall is sharing a tent with the male teachers, including Max Fawcett. It was a proper camp run for schools by volunteers and there were other children there too but little has remained in my memory about it. There was supposed to be a disco each evening for the kids too but the only music the organisers played was a boring Harry Nilsson album…

THAT FIRST CAMP: MARY BAILEY, ME, PAT GREEN, MAX FAWCETT & A.N. OTHER...

During my later time at Firs, we travelled to two camps in fields, one in Sussex near where fellow teacher Martin Cross hailed from and one in Somerset, not far from Butlin’s Holiday Camp, Minehead. I recall Brian Penzer, the decent husband of the supercilious Judy, tending fires, also Martin organising matters with all the authority of a zealous scoutmaster, far more concerned with the tents, the campsite and the organisational aspects of each week, that he forgot there were children to be looked after and amused. 

MARTIN BET ME THAT I COULDN'T JUMP THE FENCE...

I usually ended up playing games with them. He insisted upon tent inspections every morning and points would be gained by the group with the neatest communal tent, meaning by the fourth day, the inspecting teachers had to scour the tents for any minute sweet wrapper, hidden sock, or even a creased sleeping bag. The kids had become cute. It was a pain in the arse for me to be honest. 

TENT INSPECTION...

I loved the late evenings in the main marquee tent though where the kids would enjoy music, some kind of hot drink and biscuits and then go to bed, almost like the von Trapp children retired to their rooms in The Sound of Music. Martin played guitar and would already have played some songs round the camp-fire but later he would start us singing a ‘Goodnight’ song, to the ‘Nice One Cyril’ tune. Each child’s name would be sung until there was no-one left in the tent and it worked a treat. “Good night, Amy, good-night, Amy, good night Amy, it’s time to go to bed…" The child would then wave and leave. Brilliant...

ARCHIE MADE SURE THAT OUR TENT WAS A DISASTER AREA...

The Rooker family was quite unusual at Firs, in that the dad was a tall, smart, upright chap, rather like a soldier in his gait but mum was small, chunky and a dinner lady at the local secondary school. The oldest of the four boys was smart, tall like his dad and became a policeman I believe but Mark, child number two was more like his mum. Andrew, who was in my class, was pleasant, tall and very bright, especially at maths but Trevor, number four looked like his mum and found learning difficult. It was weird the way that the family seemed equally divided into two contrasting factions... Mark was on one of the camps with us and I remember occasions when Martin attempted to get the kids to wash and also to sea-bathe but Mark wore several layers of clothes: jumper, shirt, a Birmingham City top, two t-shirts and a vest. We stood, incredulous, as the uncertain  child pulled off layer after layer. 

MARTIN & ME ON A VAN, AFTER COLLECTING WOOD...

We visited Brighton’s sea-front whilst in Sussex but the trip to Butlin’s from the other camp in Somerset was unforgettable. We arrived there one morning and there were many holiday-makers about, yet the kids were allowed to go off on their own or in groups, something that would be unheard of today. Nobody erred, nobody became lost or got into trouble but the cloudy morning led to the men on the staff nipping into a bar for a drink around midday and I was amazed... 

All of the bars were packed with drinking, smoking adults, many betting on filmed horse races and simply getting pissed. I wondered where their children were. And ours... We soon rounded up our group for a packed lunch on a grassy area near an indoor swimming pool, which had a transparent outer perimeter, so we could watch people swimming under water, etc. But the etc, became people dropping their trunks to reveal buttocks and appendages, also doing nasty things like peeing, etc, at which point we hurried the children away... Lovely. 

I took the kids down onto a sunnier afternoon beach, I recall and went into the sea with them. Nobody else from the staff did.

When fellow staff member Archie Ruddock camped with us in Sussex, I had to share a tent with him and we were given a grotty little canvas covering, somewhat smaller even than one of the toilet tents. It rained during the first night and we made our feelings known by moaning loudly, humorously, of course, mainly to keep the other members of staff awake. 

THE AWFUL TENT...

The children could never sleep on the first night away anyway, so we made sure that the other staff members didn’t either. We must have grabbed a few hours’ kip but the tent leaked later in the week, Martin was not happy but allowed us to doze in the main marquee on that one fateful night. We were then moved into a toilet tent, which was quite large in comparison. And dry. Archie, a pale-skinned chap, burnt the fronts of his legs on one of the beach days and suffered in agony. He had already bought a bottle of rum while we were out on the second day and reckoned we should use it to keep warm during the night. 

AN IMPROVEMENT: THE LOO TENT...

The first time we used it I had a couple of swigs too but he became rather drunk and we caused real mayhem, laughing and joking so noisily that Martin came to scold us. He was given an abusive mouthful and his marching orders, so he slunk away, embarrassed. Archie slept, I smiled. 

He needed that rum on the day he got burnt though, for he was unable to bend his knees in the low tent to get changed and then climb into his sleeping bag. He was groaning in agony, falling about at odd angles, yelling, yet having to keep his legs straight. I was being terribly helpful by crying with helpless laughter. It was hilarious, although the other members of staff were calling for us to shut up but we were so pissed off with our shit tent, that we paid no attention to them and eventually fell asleep. 

ARCHIE'S LEGS, SHERYL O'KILL & DARREN MASTERSON...

The camp’s water was cleverly stored in two metal milk churns and Archie and I were dispatched to a nearby farm to refill the containers on one occasion. We used Mary Bailey’s orange Mini Traveller with its two opening rear doors to drive off the site with the empty churns to replenish the water. The local farmer’s wife had agreed with Führer Martin that we could to fill up the churns from a hosepipe, which was connected to her farmhouse’s stone wall. 

We placed the churns behind the van, so we didn’t have to carry them full for more than a pace or two and I went to speak to the lady at the door and turn on the tap, with Archie holding the nozzle over the first open churn. The water was turned on then the woman looked as puzzled as I felt, for Archie was calling in dismay that there was nothing getting through the pipe. At this point I checked the tap but as I did so and with Archie looking inside his end of the pipe, the water suddenly gushed out mostly over him. 

It was completely slapstick stuff but in a real situation, incredibly funnier, so I turned the tap off as Archie poked the end of the hosepipe into the churn. He noticed that the water had died and lifted it out again to look inside again, just as I turned on the tap… He got soaked again and the farmer’s wife guffawed and roared with laughter. I repeated this a couple more times until finally, the penny dropped and Archie stood and scowled at us...

MUCH BETTER FOR ARCHIE & ME...

He made sure that I got wet too, so I bought him a pint of beer at a pub on the way back, for we had taken the opportunity to nip in for a break. Hilarious.  Kommandant Martin soon guessed that we had been to the hostelry because we had taken so long to return with the full churns but we ignored him anyway. Archie was in merry form and the moment passed. I got most of the kids playing football or something and Archie sat and dozed near the camp-fire…

THE ONLY IMAGE I HAVE OF ME MAKING A TOUGH SAVE & IT WAS AT A FIRS CAMP...

The Isle of Wight…

The first holiday on the Isle of Wight was remarkable. My nephew-in-law Paul came with us as a helper, as he had done when we had travelled to Weston for that day trip but Paul wasn’t to know that he would fall in love with a French teenager, who looked a little like the actress Brigitte Bardot. The French schoolgirls were staying at the hostel too, which boasted an open-air swimming pool on the front lawn, which then stretched away downwards towards a rocky, untidy, shingle beach. There was a wooded area too… 

THE HOSTEL...

However, Paul and I had to sleep in the same bedroom as headteacher Mr Trevor ‘Blakey’ Rees, who snored like a 750cc Kawasaki motor-cycle with an exhaust problem. He was too long for his bed though and his feet stuck out beyond the bedclothes, meaning we had to squeeze past the end of his bed AND his ugly feet just to reach our sleeping quarters. Using the sink at night was a problem too because it was situated at the foot of Rees’ bed. Members of staff said that they could hear him snoring from the other end of the corridor and had apparently knocked on the door several times, irritated, before Paul and I had retired to bed during a couple of evenings. No wonder Judy Caddick, his Deputy, didn’t fancy him much... 

After returning to the room one night, after Paul and I had consumed a couple of drinks each, we tried to be so quiet as we squeezed past his bed, which was reverberating to the beat of Rees’ snoring and, holding hands to mouths to keep the giggles in, we changed for bed in shaking silence. I wanted to clean my teeth however and despite Paul’s protestations that he wouldn’t cope with the situation if I did, I slipped quietly across to the sink and as the water ran from the cold tap, it splashed onto Rees’ exposed feet. He didn’t even stir. We continued laughing until sleep consumed us... 

Paul didn’t venture out with the group on the last day, instead using the time to get to know his new girlfriend... He got away with that... 

AWAITING THE FERRY WITH CLEVER TREVOR...

Paul had spotted the blonde French girl early on and would be seen chatting to her in the recreation room regularly but time was tough, for both parties had a schedule of days out to complete, such as Blackgang Chine, the beaches and Osborne House, where I particularly recall a porcelain model of the young Queen Victoria’s hand, which seemed odd and unnecessary to me at the time. The Firs kids showed a distinct lack of interest in any section of the house and became frustrated in the long queues, simply wanting to leave. 

Also on the holiday was a pleasant female teacher from Firs, Eileen Locker-Marsh, who brought along her handsome husband Harry as an extra male helper. He was a deputy headteacher at the time and finished up as headteacher at Prince Albert Primary School in Aston. He was a bit of a star with his dark eyes and dark fashionable moustache but he was also somewhat over eager to be one of the lads. Thus Paul and I reluctantly allowed him into our ruses. 

WITH MY NICKNAME BEING PIXIE (THE PIX), THIS SEEMED APT...

One night, after the bar had closed and the others had retired to bed, including his wife, he said we should drink more and reached a hand beneath the drawn-down bar’s cage and found that he was able to push the beer pump with outstretched fingers to pour more booze into a glass. Even Paul and I were incredulous... He was really excited, behaving like a kid in sweet shop and both Paul and I were embarrassed by him. Although his wife seemed distant from Harry, I had no idea at the time that their marriage was already in peril.

The staff had decided, on my suggestion, that we should all take a midnight swim on the crappy beach at the end of the final evening. Most agreed. But when it came to it they didn’t take part. It was a cold evening I guess but it produced the only piece of goodwill offered to me by Birmingham City fan Rees during my whole time at Firs. I went in the sea that night, swam for a few moments as planned and I can honestly admit that it WAS terribly cold in the water. One of the female teachers took a dip too, I think and we were applauded by the non-swimmers, also known as the bleating wimps but Rees bought us a brandy each from the bar… Remarkable.

A STOCK IMAGE...

The most amazing night, however, was maybe the previous one, when Paul had met his French girlfriend outside in the grounds for a romantic rendezvous. I knew that she had climbed out of her dormitory window to meet Paul but what we didn’t expect was to be confronted in the bar by an irate French mistress in charge, demanding that headteacher Rees find ‘his son’ Paul… She had assumed that Paul was Rees’ son which was totally hilarious but also mentally damaging information for Paul, who had method but was no Methodist… One of the girls was missing however and the search began. 

I slipped outside into the darkness and called Paul’s nickname, “Skinnyyyyyy...” After a few attempts, a reply was heard and I ran towards the source of the voice, even though I saw nothing. I told him that people were on the warpath and he needed to get the girl back to her room right away and get back to our bedroom himself. He agreed, of course. Presumably she slipped back into her room and into bed with no trouble, whilst Paul sneaked upstairs to our room and climbed silently under his covers too. I then made a fuss of saying that I couldn’t find Paul and I would check the bedroom, soon racing downstairs to announce that he was fast asleep in bed. Rees checked too, I believe. 

The confused French mistress was also surprised to find her missing girl in the dormitory asleep and Rees was left scratching his Blakey hairstyle, wondering what on earth had happened over the last half-hour and how he had been dragged into it, as well as being considered Paul’s father... I was biting my tongue and felt relieved but I was laughing deep down... I sat in the bar, ate some nuts and retired calmly to bed with Harry nagging at me to find out what the hell was going on. He said that he had been out looking for Paul too but somehow I wasn’t convinced…

Paul wrote to his French girl for a short while afterwards, I believe, but soon gave up on her, having moved on in his life...

THE MONKEY APED ME...

Dave Loxton’s beautiful beard accompanied us to the hostel with us the following year and he too let his hair down, even to the extent of pant-dipping in the swimming pool with me on the last evening. We had pulled back edges of the pool’s cover and had swum several widths in the warm water, before retiring to bed. He was decent that week but then fell back to his normal wetness at school, never again mentioning the fun we had shared on the Isle-of-Wight. Little else of note happened during my second visit to the hostel and Paul wasn’t with us anyway...

ME, LOXTON, CLEVER TREVOR (SMILING...), PENZER (SMILING?) AND EILEEN LOCKER-MARSH...

LOXTON IN CHARGE, WHILST MANDY EAMES & ME TAKE THE PISS...

As usual, I swam, played football and entertained the kids, whereas other members of staff mostly looked on. 

KIDNAPPING THE SHOTGUN RIDER...

Thanks for that... 

Discos...

Martin Cross and I provided money raising discos at Firs too, buying new records with some of the proceeds, to keep up with the charts.

ME ON MIKE, MARTIN CROSS MORE INTERESTED IN THE WIRING...

Martin was the technical brain, who had acquired the equipment and I was the voice on the microphone, getting the kids dancing and generally being the compère...

I then applied for a Scale 3 job at Blakesley Hall Primary School and my short stay there was rather surprising...