Jeffrey
Herford (1966)Past Pupils
Jeffrey
Herford (1966)
Firstly, a few words about what has happened to me since leaving TGS. Like most of my classmates I secured a place at university provided I obtained certain grades at A-level. However, unlike most of my classmates I changed my mind at the last minute and decided to get a job instead (despite getting the requisite GCE grades). I have never regretted that decision.
I
joined the civil service, remaining in the same Government Department for the
whole of my career. I gradually made my way up through the ranks (some of them,
anyway!), working in different parts of the country in the process, until I
received my final promotion some twenty-three years after leaving school. This
involved moving to north Wales, where my wife and I (we had married in 1983)
spent the next five years, living adjacent to the Snowdonia National Park.
However, all good things come to an end, and after a regional reshuffle I had to
find a post somewhere else. However, it wasn’t all bad news because I managed
to wangle a transfer to south-west England, where I was given management
responsibility for a county-size area from the Bristol Channel down to the south
coast.
But
things didn’t stay the same for long. Somebody in a London Headquarters office
was given overall responsibility for a national review of organisational
boundaries for the Department as a whole. While sitting at his desk one day
staring at a map of Britain, he drew a horizontal line straight through the
middle of my “territory”, hiving half of it off to a new western and Wales
region, and the other half to a new southern region. Overnight my job
disappeared.
Effectively,
I was given three choices: a transfer to London; a transfer to Liverpool; or an
early retirement package. Guess which one I took (clue: we still live in
Somerset!). I had been plotting an early exit for some time as it happens, so
the choice was not a difficult one to make.
Now
back to TGS and some name-naming. I’ve already mentioned four above. I’ll
have to send my old class-mate Dippy an e-mail; from his profile he now sounds
just the sort of guy who could mend my video recorder. We all used to spend a
lot of time quoting lines from Bob Dylan songs to Howard Jones. One in
particular comes to mind “Something is happening here, but you don’t know
what it is; do you, Mr Jones”. This seemed an especially appropriate line to
throw at him on a regular basis, as he always seemed to me to be on another
planet. Good bloke though. As for Peter Stefanini, I remember him as a really
nice chap but a nauseatingly clever pupil. He did get into trouble once though.
The chess club captain, “Mad” Ollie Killingback, had written the names of
the club officials on the blackboard, and one lunchtime Stef decided to make
some additions. Some of the more innocuous ones were “his back is killing
him” in brackets after the captain’s name, and “(abbreviation for ‘bell
ringing’)” after treasurer Belling’s name. Some of Stef’s other
contributions were rather nearer the knuckle than these, such that Mad Ollie hit
the roof when he saw them and immediately banned Stef from the chess club. His
period of exile was not wasted though – he taught me how to check-mate
“Toby” Topham from a set position in a certain number of moves in order to
obtain life membership of the club. Thanks for saving me a few years’
subscriptions, Stef. Another name I have mentioned is my old mate Roy Goodman.
He managed to get me a Saturday job in a shoe shop where he worked outside
school hours. Trouble was, I was hopeless at selling anything, and recommending
me did Roy no good at all. I think the manager held Roy responsible for my poor
performance, and was always having a word in his ear to get me to buck my ideas
up. I didn’t last very long there, but at least it taught me to steer clear of
sales and marketing in later life. I think enough dust has settled by now to
risk sending Roy an e-mail. I might suggest we meet halfway between our homes
for a drink, although on my calculations this would be in about the middle of
the Great Grimpen Mire on Dartmoor.
I
shall now mention some of the lads I was at school with but who have either not
yet found this web-site or haven’t bothered to contribute (shame on them).
The
only class-mate I have seen on a regular basis since leaving school is Michael
(Mick) Mosser. He and his wife have spent a weekend or two with us virtually
every year since we moved to Wales and Somerset (I wonder if the attraction was
my stimulating company or the National Parks), and before that Mick and I used
to meet up for a drink regularly when we both worked in the City. He is about to
go through a major lifestyle change, but I’ll leave it to him to tell the
story after I’ve pointed him in the direction of this web-site.
I
lost touch with most of my other mates from school within, I suppose, a year or
two of leaving but the names and images of so many of them remain clear even
after thirty-five years. So let’s list a few of them:
Steve
Price (Big S).
Last heard of working for IBM (so no excuse for not appearing in this web-site)
down on the south coast.
Malcolm
Ravenscroft (Nest).
What happened to that loony?
Michael
Kafton (Krabo).
Sadistic bastard became a dentist, I think. He bought an ancient moped when in
the 5th form and somehow got it into the playground one day. We all
had goes on it, pointing it at the “firsties” mainly.
Merv
(The Perv) Scott.
Was in his element if he could get his hands on a stripped-down internal
combustion engine (at a time when the rest of us would have been in our element
if we could get our hands on a stripped-down female).
Robin
(Harold) Barnett.
A nice bloke, but seemed to have been de-tuned to operate at half speed some of
the time. I expect he’ll live to a hundred and forty. Good guitar player.
Alan
Swain (Swine).
Became aggressive whenever addressed by his nickname. I wonder why.
Eddie
Morris (Mo).
Quiet, unassuming chap. Had an irritating habit of coming top in his subjects in
the 6th form.
Pat
Pulsford.
Really looked the part in his flower-power “shades” in the summer of ’67
when a few of us drove up to the Lake District for a holiday. By the way, old
chap, it’s time you returned that astronomy book you borrowed from me. (I
might then return it to the education authorities.)
Tony
Slaughter.
A good friend of mine for many years, and co-editor with me of the unofficial
school magazine “The Public Ear”, which got us into hot water with the
headmaster more than once. Tony became a reporter with a local newspaper and
graduated to the “Telegraph” I think. Last spotted in the City in the early
seventies smoking a big cigar and looking suitably seedy!
Dave
Workman (Spiegel, aka Workadayhomme).
I knew him from the very first term in ’59 when we sat next to each
other in our new environment. Frightened the life out of him once when he came
out for a ride in my father’s car. It was a pre-war banger with its radiator
cap on the outside of the bonnet. One minute we were trundling along happily,
then the car overheated, the cap flew off, and what seemed like a bucketful of
boiling water shot back and thumped into the windscreen making it impossible to
see. Steam was everywhere. We were used to it but poor old Dave was in shock for
hours. He’d been suffering from a cold and had his head wrapped up in a scarf,
and the ride was supposed to help him recuperate. He wished he’d never come,
but I’m convinced the experience gave him a bit of hands-on practice for the
part he played in the school production of “Journey’s End”. Fittingly,
Dave ended up in the army, retiring in 1981 when a major. I don’t know what
happened to him after that.
Roger
Ingoldby.
I used to see Roger from time to time in the late sixties as we both worked in
the City. Around that time I applied for a transfer to Hong Kong as there were
some government jobs going there. I got through the interviews and was told
I’d got the job subject to a medical. I then failed the medical! (Something to
do with not being suited to the sub-tropical climate). That night, feeling
pretty fed-up, I went for a drink in a City pub, and bumped into Roger. The pub
was unusually full and I asked him why. He said it was his farewell “do” as
his company (Shell, I think) had transferred him. I said “Where to?” and he
replied “Hong Kong”. For all I know he’s still there. I heard he married a
Chinese girl.
Richard
(Big Dick) Moore. My main rival for the O-level German prize. For some
reason he was two or three years older than the rest of us, as a result of which
he was driving to school on a powerful black motor bike when the rest of us were
still in shorts.
Other
names I remember and whose faces I can recall (though if Roy Goodman and Dippy
are anything to go by I wouldn’t recognise them now) include, in no particular
order, Robin Skinner (who was still inviting
me to his parties years after leaving TGS), Bob Williams, Vic Newland (who
occasionally used to host 6th form card sessions during Games
periods), Alan Donald, Colin Morgan, Ted Hawes, Jim Mead (mentioned later),
Nigel Love [I also knew his late brother Adrian, who once arranged and conducted
Howard House in a singing competition against the other Houses – he must have
been good at it because we won, despite one or two in the back row substituting
“school” for “bee” in our rendition of “Where the bee sucks…”],
Derek Drummie, Brian Clayton, Graham Clark (who became school captain – the
rest of us must have been pretty hopeless, then – only joking Clarkie), Bob
Murray (Mints), Bryn Neal, Steve Mayhew, et al. Where are they all now, I
wonder. I also remember Keith Bayliss from the year below, and often bumped into
him years after we had both left school. He was (and presumably still is) a huge
fearsome looking chap who was better to have as a friend than an enemy. He
became a bouncer at Tottenham’s most notorious night spot (The Royal, where
fights and stabbings were not uncommon) which was quite handy for getting in
without paying. I believe Keith failed his maths O-level, so inevitably ended up
as an accountant. He had some interesting clients, I gather.
Anyone
who has bothered to read, and find any interest in, what I have written so far
is almost certain to have attended TGS during the same period as me, as those
who were not at the school after 1958 or before 1967 will not find the names
familiar. There is, however, another part of the history of the school which
will generate a broader level of interest over a wider span of years, namely
that concerning the “Masters”.
I
have sent Paul Wood a complete staff list for 1964 (taken from the official
school magazine) and I hope he can incorporate it in the web-site or use it to
update his existing link if it needs it.
The
Headmaster, Reg Witt, was a rather formal, aloof and eccentric character (once
heard to say in Assembly “Give a dog a bad name and you might as well hang, er,
er, the said beast!” --
why use one word when you can use three?) , and the Masters who commanded
the greatest respect were probably “Toby” Topham and Laurie “Storky”
Cooper.
“Slasher”
Sklarz was both feared and liked, and despite his excellent command of English
we did in fact teach him
something one day in a German lesson. He asked a boy if he had been
“my-zzled” (as in “muzzled” but with an I or a Y). The boy looked blank
(not an uncommon occurrence in a German lesson) and Slasher repeated the
question, without any luck. Becoming irritated, he put the question to the whole
class who responded in the politest possible way that they didn’t know what he
was talking about (someone suggested quietly that perhaps my-zzled was an
obscure German word for “circumcised” or something). Slasher had had enough
by now, and just as we thought someone was really going to get it in the neck,
the penny dropped. The boy had not been “my-zzled”, he had been “misled”
by something or someone. In all his years in England Slasher had never learnt
how the past tense of “mislead” was correctly pronounced. Collapse of stout
party, and laughter all round.
Slasher
died suddenly in 1966; his wife died seven weeks later. I have sent Paul Wood a
copy of the obituary which appeared in the school magazine.
One of the Masters I (and many others) liked very much was English teacher (and my one-time form master) Michael Wiggins. He was easy to wind up, though, and I couldn’t resist it. My tussles with him became almost a cause celèbre (immortalised in Tony Slaughter’s brilliant, Reg-lampooning, satirical “poem”, reproduced below from the 1964 school magazine), and I always seemed to end up being put in detention. No hard feelings, though; it seemed like good fun at the time. I remember in 1966 Wiggy bought a brand new Ford Cortina Mk 1, and two or three of us were given a ride in it. I remember thinking how quiet and refined it was after the old bangers my father had had. Teachers’ pay couldn’t have been so bad in those days, could it?
I
remember another English master called Pete Hulme who arrived at the school when
I was in the sixth form. His curly hair stood out in a curious series of
tetrahedrons, a sort of pre-cursor to the perm craze. Pete was an official at
the Wood Green Folk Club (situated above the “Starting Gate” pub) and got a
lot of us interested in folk music. By the Upper Sixth many of us owned, or
could borrow, a car and we used to drive to Wood Green, buy our lights and
bitters, and smoke ourselves silly in the club upstairs. Pete didn’t care. He
used to help us try (and fail) to make sense of Bob Dylan’s lyrics (cue Howard
Jones again).
Talking
of cars, the year I was in the Upper Sixth signalled an explosion in the number
of boys driving to school. It got so bad that the Masters could not get into the
car park. This culminated in Reg (Witt) banning pupils’ cars from the school
grounds, so we all ended up parking in the road outside the gates. This turned
out to have one big advantage. A lot of us used to skive off most of the lessons
not directly related to our A-level subjects (eg P.T., R.I., Games etc), ending
up at Big S Price’s place for coffee or Vic Newland’s for cards) and we
found a route (round the back of the new wing, ducking under the refectory
windows, and taking a path up to the road) by which our chances of being spotted
getting to our cars was minimal. Sometimes a whole convoy would take off up
White Hart Lane.
Reg
thought he’d got us one day, though. “Punchy” Herbert had complained to
him that the average attendance at his P.T. class was about four. Those absent
from the roll-call on one particular day were hauled individually before Reg and
asked for an explanation. We had all worked out our excuses, true or not. My
turn came, and I said “I had to take my driving test, Sir”. Now Reg was more
interested in successes than anything else, so he said “You passed, of
course?”. I said “Yes Sir” and he replied “Good, off you go, then”.
Most of us got away with it that day, and I think Punchy gave up.
I
have looked back at the comments in my school report about my efforts at P.T.
They range from “not very effective” to “weak” to “very weak” and
eventually to “does not participate”. Pretty good progress, I reckon.
Many
will remember the senior French master D.E.S. Ball, who organised two-week trips
to St. Malo every summer. I went on the 1960 expedition and hated every minute
of it. The overnight crossing from Weymouth was one of the roughest in history,
and the ancient paddle steamer rolled and pitched constantly. We had each been
allocated a deck-chair and a blanket and were expected to sleep looking up at
the sky. Nothing like a bit of luxury is there? It did have the advantage,
though, of enabling us to reach the side of the vessel quickly. Throughout the
night there was an all-pervading smell of sick. The fortnight passed slowly, and
I cannot remember anything good about it. Coming home we all had to list what we
had purchased and were bringing back into England, presumably for Customs
purposes. I had bought a few cheap souvenirs for members of my family, including
a small plastic replica of a Colt 45 for my younger brother. We were all
standing in line at the port having submitted our lists, when a small kerfuffle
broke out. A deranged-looking Ball came striding down the line flanked by two
officials, pulled me out of the line and said “Right then, what’s this? Open
your bag.” Totally non-plussed and embarrassed by everyone staring, I looked
at what he was pointing at on my list. I had written “One gun”.
About
thirty pupils will also remember an incident in the third form involving Mr
Ball. Jim Mead had been called out to the front of the class to collect his
exercise book and receive a mild ticking-off for something. As he walked behind
the teacher to go back to his desk he raised his hand and waggled his fingers in
a little wave at Mr Ball. A snigger from the class alerted Ball to this, who
immediately assumed Mead had put two fingers up at him, sprang out of his chair,
and told Mead to give him the hand he had done “it” with (without first
confirming what “it” was). With one hand he grabbed the fingers Mead
sheepishly proffered, and then with the other he clouted poor old Jim round the
face as hard as he could. The slap could probably be heard on the other side of
the school. The whole class was stunned into silence and everyone put their
heads down. Jim was rooted to the spot in a state of shock, the pain almost
bringing tears to his eyes. By the time he got back to his seat half of his face
was bright crimson. Jim wasn’t even guilty of what he was punished for.
The
only other thing I remember about “Des” Ball was his failure to award me the
O-level French prize. How he worked out that someone with an AC grade (French
and Spoken French) was more deserving than someone with an AB grade has always
escaped me. Good job he didn’t teach logic – no-one would have passed.
I
enjoyed being taught maths over the years by Messrs Wilson, Mathias, Thacker
and, of course, “Storky” Cooper, and Pete Collinson wasn’t a bad
physics master either (though he didn’t approve of my smoking, especially in
class). Beddall was rather formal as chemistry teacher but otherwise OK; in
general science Wallenberg was often heard repeating the words “Texas and
Louisiana” (God knows why) and Wilkinson, though likeable, simply couldn’t
keep us under control and suffered as a result. Dick Cootes (mentioned earlier)
taught history, a subject I hated, but was a good chess player and helped us out
in the tougher league matches. In English my old adversary Wiggins was good fun,
and the senior English master “Bockers” Porter, although fearsome, certainly
made you remember things like split infinitives, possessive gerunds, and errant
apostrophes.
In
the latter days at school I was a member of the pupils’ underground movement
called the Fiddlers’ Union. We got up to all sorts of things, usually by not
doing the things we were supposed to, and we infiltrated the school stock
cupboard so effectively that we received written thanks from Mr Oakley for the
assistance we had given. However, our R.I. teacher Mr Ashby (“Isiah” -- he
had a glass eye which was ‘iah’ than the other one) had taught us that life
was all about give and take, so we took him at his word. Anyone need a pencil?
I
have set out above a selection of thoughts and reminiscences from the time in
1959 when I was desperate to avoid being caught by the fearsome second formers
and having my head shoved down a lavatory pan as part of the initiation
ceremony, to the end of term in 1966 when we challenged Tony Thacker to prove
e=mc2 on the blackboard (he struggled for half an hour before he triumphed, and
turned round to find the whole class had nodded off). I hope my thoughts will be
of interest to a few people, and I shall finish with a quote from the 1963
school magazine:
“Two
members of the Maths Department are getting married this summer – Mr Thacker
and Mr Mathias.”
I wonder if they are still together…
POSTSCRIPT
I
said at the start that I was left with a feeling of concern at the implications
of looking back like this. I have learnt from experience that it is impossible
to recreate the past, and trying to do so looking through rose tinted glasses
only leads to disappointment. At school, seven years in the company of the same
lads, all progressing through their formative years, created a bond of great
strength. But we are now all different people with vastly different experiences,
and that bond no longer remains. Anyone seeking a reunion after thirty-five
years should not expect too much. Perhaps it is best to remember things (and
people) how they were, and not have the illusion of those wonderful days
shattered. As someone smart once said, “It’s all right to look back, but
don’t stare.”