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CHRIS RICHARDS

GLAISDALE SCHOOL 3

HOW IT WAS, 1973 - 1978

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School sports day, sometime around 1977, and there was an Italian lad a year below me, who always entered the 100 or 200 metres, but ran with his head pecking the air like a demented chicken. He was so quick though and nearly always won the event! '77 was the year of Space Dust, sweet orange popping stuff that you put in your mouth, and if taken with a can of Coke, would blow your brains out with a crackly explosion. The wonderful Pot Noodle also appeared in this year, dried soya, noodles and peas that you added water to and left to stew, giving you a ready meal that you would taste with each belch that surfaced, for the next 5 hours. For the Queens Silver Jubilee all the pupils were given a coin in a special box. I wonder how many of you out there have still got them?

On the end of the music room wall, in the boys playground, Kevin Binder was always hacking away at the mortar at breaktimes around a brick which he called the 'keystone'. Perhaps he hoped that by doing this the school would fall down so we would not have to go there anymore. This wall had seen Gian Uberti's older brother Steven passed out in a drunken stupor after drinking home brewed wine at a house in Bilborough on his last day. When pupils left there was the traditional signing of shirts and ripping up of blazers on the way home, often discarded in the gardens of the prefabs on Glenbrook Crescent, and Bathurst Drive. I was surprised when I got to sign Wendy Hickmans blouse on the left breast!

In the '70s, we still had segregated girls and boys playgrounds, which seems unthinkable now. The favourite trick was to doctor the coffee of the teacher on duty at breaktime. Mr Tomkinson would knock on the window and pass out a cup to the nearest pupil, who would for example, peel some putty off a recently glazed window and drop it in. Mr Towle, the giant RE teacher, had this done to him several times.

At last the bell rang out for the final day of the 4th year. 1977 was the year and Carl Smith, Dave McGrath, myself and (Grandad) Slade ran for the lockers opposite the playground entrance. These were always bent out at the corners from repeated forced entries with screwdrivers, and often had soft porno pics inside the doors. When Carl had locked up the metal locker and gone for a slash, 'Graffy' McGrath fed his uneaten sandwiches through the ventilation slots in the front, grinning as he did so. 'In six weeks time he'll come back to BLUE BREAD' 'You dirty git Graffy, it'll be rancid'.spat Grandad, taking a shot from his asthma inhaler. At the start of the 5th year six weeks later, we all stood and watched as Smith undid his locker, retching and recoiling from the corned beef, onions and mouldy bread that Postman McGrath had delivered at the end of Year Four.

As Gary Wilmott fell over, playing football in the playground, the box of matches in his pocket caught fire. Struggling to bat out the flames, he was spotted by Mr Short the PE teacher, who raced over, blowing his whistle. Another kid slipped his lit cigarette into his pocket while Shorty quizzed Wilmott. 'I found the matches Sir, honest'. Short asked him again, and the youth next to Wilmott grew more nervous as the fag in his pocket was now burning a large hole in his blazer. Some of the girls, however, were more tactful, and kept single cigarettes inside fountain pens, which had the cartridges removed.

If you walked up Hollington Road, at the Wigman Road junction was a firm called Chromoworks. If you turned sharp left at this island, a steep dirt track led you to Tin Bridge. Looking left towards Radford, a small wooden hut lay on the left hand side of the track, which was littered with empty Durex packets and was well known for romantic encounters when playing 'nick' from school. Further on was Raleigh Pond and Athletic Club, basically a wooden clubhouse with an immaculate sports field in front of it. You followed Woodyard Lane and Lambourne Drive and came out almost at the gates to Wollaton Park. I often wonder what happened to Anthony Hinds (Beano) and the other lads who used the wooden hut at Tin Bridge. Now the Athletic Club is long gone, replaced by a brand new executive housing estate.

BURNT PORRIDGE

1976 - and Andy Curtis and I went to call for a kid I didn't know. The Ainsley council estate which I lived in was rough, but was tacked onto posh Grassington Road, with its detached bay windowed houses and new cars on perfect drives. So, we entered the back door on Vale Crescent South, and I was suddenly hit by the combined stomach churning odour of burnt porridge and stale fagsmoke. The father, a sick leave sponger, dozed on the threadbare settee with the family dog as kids raced round naked. His mother shoved the cig into her mouth as she straightened the new boy's tie, squinting as the smoke drifted up into her eyes. As the new boy pulled on his grey haversack, I took a gulp of air and began the walk up the hill towards Beechdale Baths.

The first Texas Instruments and Sinclair calculators came out in the 70s, and this was a new concept altogether, you tapped in the numbers and the machine added it all up for you. Gary Wilmot would try and impress us by keying in '710 77345' which when viewed upside down, would display 'Shell Oil' . We, of course, tried to work out all the rude words we could find, but without success. Near us was a kid whose parents had split up, and his 'Uncle' lived in the spare room. Soon christened 'Roger the Lodger' this guy was the butt of jokes because he looked nothing like the mother and was obviously 'living in sin' with her. 'Ay Roger, get it in there' we would shout up at the window when the mother's bedroom light would flick on on dark winter evenings. Before too long though, the lodger had gone, and another guy's car would be seen outside the house on the Ainsley Estate.

Glaisdale regulations stated that boys' shoes shall be either black or brown, with no exception. When I told my dad that I wanted some Doctor Martens, he said that he could sort me out with some from Raleigh where he worked. Ripping the steel toecaps out of some safety boots with pliers, he then went to work on the caramel coloured leather with oxblood polish, which turned them a sort of almost browny-red colour. Alan Webster took one look at them the next day and said 'Red shoes, I don't know about red shoes' The playground jokes got worse of course, Robert Marshall coming up with the best one. Sung to the tune of Simon and Garfunkels 'Mrs Robinson' it went 'So here's to you Mrs Richards, using your son's boots for a j**rag, hey hey hey' etc. Not too subtle as my mother had just gone into hospital for a hysterectomy at the time.

My apologies to any ladies reading this - Sorry girls!

all text ©2001 C W Richards

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