MIKE EDWARDS

“THOU hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school”.

Or something like that.

I’m never really sure about Shakespeare.

But I do remember being force-fed the Bard in school.

Somewhere from his seat by the infernal flames, my old English teacher, Mr Vernon, is looking up at me, shaking an angry fist, and gently toasting a Boy Scout with the pitchfork he grasps in the other.

Poor Mr Vernon. He was one of my favourite teachers, but I was also one of his most exasperating pupils. It wasn’t all my fault; the bloody awful set texts the WJEC used for O Levels were mostly to blame.

If you ever want to discourage young people from reading, a diet of Shakespeare’s history plays, Dickens, the Brontes, and Jane Austen is the way to go. And as for Lord of the Sodding Flies, I’d rather poke my eyes out with sticks than read it again.

I went to school with people who went on to become English teachers. None of them read a book after being forced to do so in secondary school.

As far as they were concerned, the answer book and excerpts from set texts were all the intellectual equipment you need to graduate, postgraduate, and teach.

They’re now retired while I’m still working counting beans. I might have missed a trick there.

I still remember the shrieks of delight as offers came in for those who wanted to take the old teachertraining courses.

Two E’s!

Squee!

A l l the

Charlottes and Jeffs leapt for joy, realising they could spend the next few months sitting at the back of the class concentrating on their zits.

My love of mathematics is due to Mr Price, who patiently threw things at me for many minutes until I learned how to solve linear quadratic equations and calculate the area under the line of a curve.

As Mr Price also coached cricket, catching blackboard erasers hurled towards me at high speed was invaluable for developing my slipcatching abilities.

We used Napier logarithm tables, slide rules, protractors and set squares. Now it’s all sodding calculators.

It’s so unfair. Meanwhile, our games teachers fell into two broad types. There were those with a genuine love for the sport they taught and the willingness and ability to pass that on to those lucky enough to be coached by them. Then, some were like the worst competitive dads in the world.

One of our games teachers was so loved that, when the staff played the school at rugby, his own forwards rucked him to bits, leaving him gibbering on the ground as they stood aside and let the school XV finish him off.

By the time we were done with him, many of the teeth that lurked beneath his silly toothbrush moustache were on the field of play.

The other day, I pointed him out to my wife while shopping. He was still a trim figure with a silly toothbrush moustache.

He was shopping for Dentuglue or some such.

Schooldays really are the happiest days

of your life.