Secondary School (Part 1)

I was among the last bunch of petrified young people to sit the ‘Eleven-plus’. This examination – designed to ascertain whether or not you were too thick to go into secondary education – was sat on the eve of the summer holidays and the end of primary education.

The results of the exam depicted whether you were bright enough to enter a posh grammar school, do A-levels, learn to speak like you had a cleft pallet, become a professor of something, wear corduroy shoes and matching jacket, come back to visit and sing in the annual school operetta and eventually; go bald, have bushy eyebrows and wear studious national health glasses…

OR

…be designated a place in outer academia, where P.E., football, running, armed robbery, safe breaking, getaway driving, drug selling, porridge serving, flick-knife using and Balaclava making, were the priority.

I passed, much to my disappointment and my mum’s delight. I shelved plans for joining up with Ronnie and Reggie and prepared for a future of crepe soles and Meerschaums.

Mum had already chosen the school; ‘The Woolwich Polytechnic’!
I told her that it sounded like a school for budgies wearing electric underpants. She just smiled, said ‘Yes dear’ and licking the palm of her hand, patted down an unruly quiff; the one I had spent a good part of the morning and a half tub of dad’s Brylcream, in front of a mirror trying to get looking just like Cliff’s.

Mum had already done the legwork; Hell hath no determination like a mothers dreams for her only boy-genius! Mid way through July; a letter came, requesting an interview, with me and one/both of my parents, to assess my suitability for enrolment in the Poly; there was yet hope!

That hope exploded and blew apart, like a Guy Faulks ‘banger’ about five seconds after I had crossed the threshold of school property.

There was a queue of potential ‘prisoners’ lined up in the main hall, with their mothers - and the odd father. Some had dressed smartly for the occasion, others had worn jeans and T-shirts and added ‘Doc Martens’ in a desperate, last ditch attempt to attain refusal.

There was one guy that I positively envied. He had hair down to his arse, a T-shirt with holes in it, baggy jeans, plimsolls with his big toes sticking out the top of them and - the Piece de resistance - a star tattooed under his left eye.

Compared to ninety percent of the guys there, I looked like an angel, just dropped out of heaven for the day wearing fucking shorts. There was one other boy there wearing shorts and he was in a push-chair, sucking a dummy; I felt naked!
Short of taking out my dick and pissing on the Headmasters’ lunch, I knew it there and then; I was in!

When our turn to meet with the ‘Head’ came, an old ‘battleaxe’ led us to the door, knocked very lightly and stood waiting with her hands folded in front of her.
‘Enter!’ shouted the Headmaster.
Mrs. Battleaxe opened the door, announced us, turned to my mother and whispered - and I mean whispered - ‘You may enter!’
Mum grabbed my hand (she actually held my hand) and pulled me in after her.

‘He’ was sitting behind a huge desk. He stood up as we entered and amazingly, didn’t seem to get any bigger; he must have been about four feet, six tall. I remember thinking; ‘if you were in our house, they’d make you wear shorts!’

‘Good morning madam, my name is Horatio Morrison, Headmaster of this wonderful educational establishment. I am so glad that you could come. Ah, and this must be Christopher; very pleased to make your acquaintance.’
The only other Horatio that I'd ever heard of, was standing up in Trafalgar Square, covered in bird-shit. I knew a boy called Zebadiah who got nicknamed 'Boing' and he got it rough enough; but Horatio? This bloke must have really suffered.

He shook hands with mum who almost curtsied; I swear!
‘Please sit down.’
We sat facing the desk. He was as bald as a billiard ball and wore round 'National Health' glasses, perched on a large hooked nose. He had small piggy eyes and a kind of a hump. All in all, he looked like he had been savagely beaten, with life’s biggest ugly stick!

After talking total shite to my mother for about ten minutes, about how good he was, how famous his school was, how excellent his teachers were and basically, how only a cretin of the highest order of thickness could fail to leave the school with less than an astonishing array of academic achievements…he turned to me.

‘Well Christopher, what made you want to go to Woolwich Poly?’ he smarmed.
‘I didn’t; mum picked it…’ Mum laughed nervously and gave me a look that said; if you make one more stupid - albeit honest - remark, I’ll put a knot in your wind pipe. I knew better than to push my luck any further and I added,
‘…but I’m glad that she did, it sounds great!’
‘Good, good, well if you want to wait outside the door for a couple of minutes, I’ll have a word with your mum.’
I stood and made my way outside. I could hear mumbling and mum putting on her posh laugh.

Mum came out after a further ten minutes, tried to take my hand – unsuccessfully – and trilled, ‘Come along pet.’
She was in top form all the way home; I felt like throwing myself from the top of the bus.

Sure enough, about a week later, a fat brown envelope came in the post. Its content consisted of five pages of rules and regulations;
‘The successful applicant must wear uniform at all times; black blazer, white shirt, red and black striped tie, grey flannel trousers or shorts, [Fuck - The - Shorts!] and black shoes. All the above can be purchased…..’
On and on it went; I had been placed in a ‘house’. My house name was Nesmith - who apparently, was some guy who had invented something really useful; Yippee-aye-fucking-oh!

If I had been joining ‘The Secret Service’, there wouldn’t have been as much paper-work. Mum had to sign in about ten different places and I had to sign about four and dad had to cough up about one hundred green ones. Mum was deliriously joyful, I was joyfully suicidal and dad signed up for as much overtime as he could get.

Roll on September – NOT!