WARNING!!! This is the first of a planned series of special Blogs, following up my initial one on the reunion and open day at my old school on July 4th. Some of these deal with adult - or perhaps that should be - adolescent themes, and, like this, (as they say on the TV warnings) may contain strong language and scenes of a sexual nature from the start!
"That girl is putting her hand inside that boy's trousers!" The speaker is one of my new class-mates, Martin (possibly Martyn). We are standing in the play-ground at our first mid-morning break as we started at John Willmott Grammar School, September 1968. Well, the first rule of any piece of written work is to grab the readers' attention at the start, so I plead guilty to luring you in with a lurid anecdote.
Our friend who received a little manual stimulation loomed back into my consciousness a couple of days later. It was in the boys' changing rooms. We first year lads were trooping in to change for our first proper Games' (as opposed to P.E.) session. Timetabled before us was the P.E. session for fifth form boys. Now, as will be readily understood, there is a huge difference between 11 and 15 year old lads. You also have to understand that I was almost completely innocent about sexual matters (and much else). I mean, I'd played games of the 'doctors and nurses' type to understand the basic anatomical differences between the sexes, but I had no idea how 'it' all happened. I'd seen one or two other boys of my own age naked as we shared cubicles at the swimming baths and the like but at primary school we just switched our 'day' shorts and shirt for our PE shorts and we certainly didn't have showers. I am not even sure whether I had seen my Dad fully nude before and I was certainly unprepared to see sixty or so physically adult males at close quarters. More than that, far from modestly and swiftly changing and showering, these lads strutted around the place, shouted and talked to each other in the changing areas and the 'run through' open showers, often fondling their genitals one way or another, and generally had no embarrassment at all. This was clearly going to be very different from primary school! Anyway, this youth, clearly (as I only understood later) was a little frustrated from an unresolved lunch-time heavy petting session with his girl-friend, was rubbing a towel between his legs. My fellow classmates, very sensibly, walked straight perhaps him and started getting changed for rugby - but, typically, as always when something unusual caught my attention, I felt I had to engage in a conversation about it!
"That looks painful", I remarked. "No, it's gorgeous" he replied leering at me and I couldn't help but notice that his penis was getting bigger and taller as he spoke. "Oh yes, of course. Ha!", I replied, with what I hoped was a knowing look. Of course, I hadn't a clue what was going on. Thank the Lord I didn't actually see him ejaculate -- that would have really freaked me out.
Fortunately perhaps, had too much else to bother about to give this any further thought. I had been dreading this Games' session as the P.E. teachers had a fearsome reputation and I knew this was going to be pretty rough stuff. My brother -- 3 years older -- had given me some excellent advice: make sure you're seen to get stuck into the game and that by the end of it you are covered in mud." Thanks, bruv! This I did and at the end of his first period of instruction on the finer points of Rugby Union, the teacher picked me out for a peer review of the rules. "Rudin, is it?" He demanded. "Yes, Sir". "Right, Rudin, which direction do you pass the ball?" "Backwards, Sir" I replied. "Well done lad" he said, roughing my hair. Phew! I've got it right!
It could have been worse: now all I had to do is make sure I got showered and changed in time to catch the school bus home. And, mind, you weren't allowed to leave the school looking dishevelled. The uniform -- of course several sizes too big, starchy and uncomfortable -- had to be correctly worn at all times. The Prefects in the bus queue would send you back in if you weren't correctly and properly attired. In fairness, though, the Prefects were generally kind to us first years and I was grateful to them on many occasions in those first few weeks for guiding me and some of my classmates to the right part of the sprawling buildings. It was all very confusing and not a little intimidating. Every day brought new challenges and potential humiliation, so it was always a relief to get to the end of the week and that double Games' session and nothing too horrendous had happened. Then all that had to be worried about was what seemed like mountainous homework; in theory this should have been two hours' work, but, certainly, if it involved Biology or Latin took a great deal longer.
The teachers -- the male ones, of course, we had to call 'Master -- were a mixed bunch. Our form and English teacher was a young attractive blonde woman . "What do you think of (x) then?" asked one of my classmates at another break that first week. "Oh, she's a bit of all right" I replied. The others look to me with some respect. I could see that they thought that I was quite worldly to use such a remark. In fact, I had just picked it up from something like a Carry On film and as always when I found a remark which seemed to cause amusement I would drop it into the conversation, invariably at inappropriate moments. However, maybe a prepubescent attraction to my blonde English teachers did register -as, dear reader, I married one and recently celebrated my silver wedding!
There are a couple of other huge differences from primary school. Although, as I mentioned in my earlier Blog, it was co-educational with the girls being treated as "honorary boys", in fact the girls were called by their first names but the boys were always called by family names. We also had to stand up whenever a teacher entered the room and not only call all the Masters "Sir" but ensure that every reply -- and obviously one only spoke when one was spoken to -- ended with "Sir". Failure to do so was liable to render a clip round the ear.
Which brings us to the other main difference between the two gender -- although the girls had a fearsome Head of School, it was only the boys who were liable for corporal punishment. If it was a male teacher we would generally be beaten at the end of the class in which the transgression occurred after the other pupils had left, but if it was a female one we would be sent to either the Deputy Head, or Head of Year, or to a boys' P.E. teacher - whom in any case wielded a gym shoe against sorry backsides more often than any others. The beatings 'by proxy' as it were - via the female teachers - were always the most severe and would be preceded by a lecture about how unmanly it was to cause a female teacher distress. As I also mentioned I once pushed my luck so much that the female teacher concerned decided to by-pass the normal avenue for 'correction'. "If you do that again, Rudin, I'll send you to the headmaster!" she warned, blushing with anger. And we both knew what that meant: a caning. Each Master had their favourite gym shoe, for this use – one, a sized 12 he named 'Hector' - looms large in some members on the other sites and blogs from the school. It seems horrendous now and, of course, if you look at it as a powerfully built man hitting a small boy, which is what I was - for several years at any rate - then it is horrific physical abuse and it is not something I would advocate today. One of the 'pupil memories' on the 50th anniversary site recalls all the first years boys being 'slippered' – because the rugby team had lost their first match! I don't recall anything as gross or unfair happening during my time.
Undoubtedly, though, one of two of the Masters to enjoy the power to inflict pain and of course there are undoubtedly psycho-sexual problems with this form of punishment. One Master -- who is now dead, so there is no need for anyone to reach for their solicitor's number! -- also enjoyed being in the showers with adolescent males and indeed on at least one occasion he was clearly 'feeling himself' as he watched as all troop through. This Master (whose main job was teaching one of the sciences-enough clues, everyone??) had a tendency for a random beating in the changing rooms on any lad who he felt had transgressed some rule. But he had his comeuppance one day when the toughest kid in year had had enough of his backside being tanned and realised that not only was he a lot bigger and stronger than squirts like 'Dickie' Rudin but also the other Masters, and as this teacher instructed him to 'bend over', our hero suddenly turned around and punched him! We then saw them grappling in the middle of the changing rooms -- an amazing scene! However, at least in the case of the gym teachers, I don't feel it was ever done maliciously or sadistically -- they were just trying to instil some discipline and restraint over lads who, certainly once puberty hit, were full of energy and mischief and testing their new-found power. I can't say all this ever upset me but what did bother me was a thought of a random beating in front of the whole class, including the girls, which did occasionally take place and sometimes for reasons not to do with discipline but not getting the answer right, or putting in poor work. This I think is unforgivable. Even worse, on one occasion I was slapped across the face by the Head of the Girls' school for what she described as "insolence" – which, if it was, was unintended and it was humiliating to be hit by a woman. I did go back to my mum and sob about that. Otherwise, it was usually for being cheeky in class, or talking, or as described in the first Blog, of not having my kit to the required standard. Of course, waiting in line and seeing other boys being beaten before you was -- as it was surely designed to be -- an unnerving experience. Even worse though for me, after we had our first parents' evening and therefore the teachers had met with my mum and dad, I found it rather embarrassing to be told to: "touch your toes Rudin". Perhaps I was worried they would be on the 'phone to my parents; anyhow, it was all just too close for home - somehow I felt school and home life should not meet!
Exactly forty years on to the day from that first week at the school I am driving back into Sutton Coldfield, to meet up with another of our fellow class-mates. A reunion just two months ago has kicked off a renewed friendship between us and which has coincided with an important phase in his life, as he begins work as a volunteer for one of the country's leading charities and an organisation that helps those in the most desperate need of any in these shores. Part of that work involves looking at the way the media – particularly newspapers – report on and 'frame' stories on such people. It is brilliant to be able to help my old schoolmate do this and to bring my experience to helping him and through that to help some of these very vulnerable people. I have been so fortunate in relationships in my life but to have this one restored -- we hadn't seen each other a third of a century until that July day – is really great. I also mentioned in my first blog though that I am somewhat 'emotionally incontinent' and when we were going through the research for his report it reminded me so much of when we were putting together a magazine that I edited and printed (using a flatbed printer that I bought through Exchange and Mart for a couple of quid!) in our final year at the school. He was always a fantastic writer and politically astute and committed but unfortunately lacked the inner confidence that a middle-class upbringing and stable family life gave me, and he has in no way reached its potential in this area. But he's getting there now and about to enter final year of an English Literature degree -- being able to give him a boost in all this is the most amazing feeling. He may not be to everyone's taste but towards the end of the Speech by John McCain at the Republican Convention, the Senator said something true and relevant to this Blog post: nothing brings greater happiness in life than to serve a cause greater than yourself.
Anyway, as were going through this research I did get an emotional spasm and thinking back to those sessions at his council maisonette when we would talk about Bob Dylan lyrics, politics and other such worldly matters; that is when we weren't bouncing off the walls to such tracks as Led Zeppelin's Rock and Roll (the band played their first ever gig exactly 40 years ago from the date of this Blog) or – and we both agree it is the one that really gets as both going – The Who's Baba O'Riley. To think, the lyrics that we used to find most engaging were: "Don't cry, Don't raise your eye, It's on-ly teen-age waste-land!" Now, it's : "Let's get together, before we get much older"!
My re-found friend finds it amusing that I get so choked and thinking about those times but, hey, it's my past and I can cry if I want to!
