It’s September, the start of another academic year, and for many of the people from my own school year the next twelve months brings with it a special birthday - the big 50. It feels like quite a landmark and an honour to reach a half century - not everyone does. These memories are now unbelievably over 30 years old - a similar passage of time as that between the Second World War and the 80’s, so possibly a bit soft-focussed and rose tinted in places. All brought to you via the power of Sun In and the rubber tipping caps that brought Californian blonde glitz and glamour to the old mining communities of the north-east of England, imbuing light and colour into Bedlington’s previously brown and avocado tinged palette.
Moving out of the sepia 70’s into the electric-neon 80’s there was a stirring sense of possibility – for travel to exotic places like Jersey as in Bergerac; for sophisticated culinary experiences such as Viennetta and vol au vents and for a lifestyle seen on the TV show Dallas … a vision of glamour, lip gloss and endless champagne. All accompanied by a British innocence and lack of sophistication typified by St Winifred’s School Choir whose warbling of “There’s No One Quite Like Grandma” topped the charts at the start of the new decade.
I had moved to the next step of my education, advancing from primary school to West Sleekburn Middle School, a short bus journey from where we lived. Getting on the bus was a big leap and a quite different experience from the short walk I’d had from our house to primary school. It didn’t quite have the splendour and drama of Enid Blyton’s Mallory Towers or St Claire’s schools in which I loved to picture myself a pupil but it was excitement enough and we had to wear a tie and blazer! They put us in Houses - I was in Board, named after Lillian Board. In class I sat opposite two girls both called Joy who lived in an exotic sounding place I’d not heard of before called North Blyth, from which you could travel by ferry over to Blyth. Mind blown - it sounded almost as exciting as Jersey. West Sleekburn Middle School itself was in a fairly secluded spot in close proximity to a factory that regularly “let off”, leaving a pungent egg-like odour pervading through the whole premises. This alongside rural smells including horse manure and the unique whiff given off by fields of bright yellow oil seed rape in the surrounding area made it a veritable cornucopia for the senses.
Teachers at the school were largely eccentric. Chief eccentric was Mr Dick the maths teacher who would roam about in the corridor while we lined up waiting to be released from our form classes at the end of the school day, the metal segues on his polished shoes throwing ominous echoes across the low ceilinged passage. Suddenly without warning he would thrust a maths challenge at you – such as “0.03 cubed!” which he would bellow right in your face just as you thought he was going to pass by. You would have to shout back as quickly as possible “0.027 sir!”. Depending on the speed and accuracy of your response he would either smile ethereally or cry out “Glory Be”, his already highly coloured face turning even redder as he shook his head in bitter disappointment. He drove a motorbike and wore leathers and goggles like a cross between Captain Mainwaring and Marlon Brando.
I loved Middle School, especially as we were sometimes allowed to take in various collections to show off and enjoy with our friends – for some reason it was a popular activity to amass random collections of items e.g. smelly pencil rubbers, coins, stamps, Rubiks cubes, key-rings, even velour butterflies. I recall the butterflies which I had got from collecting tokens from crisp packets, for which my grandad built an almighty wooden frame with glass to display them, that I lugged into school for all to enjoy. This really seems a very weird thing to have done now when I think about it, but TV programmes about hoarders make total sense given the habits we had in the 80’s. I stopped taking things in to show off after I got a few items stolen, including a brand new pair of running spikes which I’m still bitter about.
At break time in middle school when the winds were high we would run out onto the hilly field and lift our coats up behind our heads to make them into a makeshift sail, battling to avoid getting blown right over or swept down the hill. There were horses in stables in the corner of the school which I always kept well away from since my dad had told me a terrifying story about being on a runaway horse when he was younger. Some people did horse-riding but my sporting preferences were as a Wing Defender in netball and also the 100m hurdles. The other physical activity enjoyed at the school was country dancing which was led on a Thursday afternoon in the main hall by Mr Ferguson. He was a truly enthusiastic leader and drilled us militarily on the Circassian Circle, the Gay Gordons, the Bradford Barn Dance and the Drops of Brandy, spitting out instructions and yelling “right”, “left”, “put her down”, “pick her up” etc. There was a top set of dancers who had the mixed honour and embarrassment of being selected to dance in a group with Mr Ferguson. I was often partnered if I remember rightly with a boy called Colin Nichol in this top set, which was a slight relief compared to when you were lined up by height and paired off at random with someone. You could see people desperately counting heads of the opposite gender to work out who they were going to get. If you ended up with someone you didn’t much like the look of (or worse, you got someone who gave off the vibe that they actually wanted to have you as a partner) then the next hour was purgatory. I remember one dance that involved stepping into the circle, then stepping back followed by the boy taking the girl and swinging her up into the air and across to the next partner – it was hair-raising to be hoisted up and plonked into the arms of the next person who would then repeat the action. Another dance involved grabbing your partner with crossed arms and spinning round at maximum speed keeping one foot in the centre, hoping neither partner would brake suddenly. Quite ambitious for a bunch of amateur pre-pubescent dancers dressed in unforgiving polyester and bottle green knitwear led by a frustrated army sergeant/choreographer. Mr Ferguson I also remember as being someone who sang hymns like We Plough The Fields And Scatter very loudly at assemblies and Harvest Festivals. His spitting when he sang loudly or when he lost his rag with people was legendary.
I loved some of the shows that the school put on like Oliver! and Joseph and His Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat – we had a flamboyant drama teacher called Mrs Sutherland who would have fit in nicely as a Hogwarts character, all flowing scarves and an air of sultry mystery and a French teacher with a fantastic singing voice which made for some excellent productions. Miss Lyndsay – later to be Mrs Cuthbertson – measured me up for a costume for one show where I was selected to be a Harem Dancer and said to me “come here skinny Minnie”, then when she checked her tape measure said “oh you’re bigger than you look”. What I wouldn’t give to be that size and shape now! I think I had a 24” waist. I was honoured to meet up with our French teacher at a recent amateur theatre performance and I should have thanked him for being a big influence and part of a really special time in my life but I just grinned and chattered inanely. I really do believe that teachers play a massive part in your development and they influence us in so many ways. For me the artistic side of the teaching and activities at West Sleekburn School and the sporting aspects were way more important than being able to reply “0.027 sir!” with confidence when being yelled at.
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