King Henry VIII Grammar School

I don't remember a Rover P5 at the school when I was there. I would have known, since my father had one, and I later learnt to drive in it. If Piggy had one it was probably before or after my time. I've never heard of Cazulet. But then, history was one of the many subjects I avoided as I had zero interest at that time!

The coach that got stuck One winter Wednesday afternoon, as happened every week, about two dozen of us were bussed out to go droobing. The venue was usually Westwood Heath, but on this freezing cold day it was Crackley Woods. It was always an old RHMS (Red House Motor Services) coach that had seen better days, and this one had deficient heating. "You'll soon get warm once you start running" Droob correctly assured us. Apart from Froggy Irwin, who took no physical part - he merely ticked names off on a clipboard - everyone was attired solely in T-shirt, shorts and running shoes. The young coach driver chap pulled up outside the woods, but the car park was too small, so he parked on the grass verge opposite. We did our run, and having boarded the coach for the return journey, a problem arose. As soon as the driver let the clutch up, all that happened was that the back wheels spun round on the muddy grass, sinking deeper and deeper. We all got off the coach, and Droob and about five other fit lads, the ones who always led the field, decided, "It's only a few miles, we'll run back to school. We're not stopping here". So off they went. The driver asked if any of us could drive. None of us could, so he said, "When I shout push, you lot all push the back of the coach." We tried, but it was no use - the rear of the coach sunk even lower, and we all got sprayed in mud. The driver walked to a nearby farmhouse and phoned for help. Then we all sat on the coach and waited for the relief bus. The only person who was not freezing was Froggy, dressed as he was in several layers, overcoat, scarf, cloth cap, and he sat at the front smoking cigarettes. Never said a word, he didn't, apart from occasionally telling us to keep the noise down. Eventually, the relief coach, driven by a relatively old bloke, arrived at about 7 pm. I remember him commenting that, "The trouble with these young drivers is they've not got the experience. I would never have parked on that grass". I got home about 8 pm, by which time my mother was worried to death.

Great story, Slim. This sort of misery was probably why I avoided games afternoons for a long time. Cross country running was always an easy option for the school which no doubt saved money on pitch hire. I hated it with a passion, having run through Canley Ford in the early years there. A few of us perfected the way of dodging games. We would make sure we were marked present for registration in the playground, then dodge through the bike shed area to avoid being put into any of the groups. Then when the coast was clear it was through the GPO box in the fence, across the bridge by Spencer Park and into town. We spent quite a few games afternoons at the cinema. I do remember Froggy Irwin, he taught me French for all but one year up to O-level. He was a strange chap, very quiet, and never looked like he wanted to be there. He was possibly the scruffiest of the teachers, quite an achievement, and usually looked like he had slept in his clothes. He told me I would undoubtedly fail French O-level and it was a waste of time me even taking the exam. It may have motivated me as I passed with a decent grade.

MisterD-Di, it seems part of my education was missing. I never bunked off school. Maybe I should have spent my time down the snooker club - quite a few professionals, Jimmy White to name one, have made a darned fine living out of having a mis-spent youth! I had Froggy for French in the fuzzers, then later in the sixth form. I would describe him as the least animated of all the teachers; robotic would be an accurate word; it was as if he was going through the motions every day. He was the only teacher I can remember who wore scent. In those days, men in this country - let's just say it wasn't the done thing. My father told me that one of the chaps at his work started using scent. "There must be something wrong with the bloke" he alluded. Occasionally Froggy would walk past us down an isle, and my classmate nicknamed him "parfum de Paris". Your O-level experience is interesting. Bobby Gould told me, having failed the mock exam miserably (under half the pass mark) that he was reluctant to put me in for the proper exam. Expecting to fail, I decided not to waste my time revising biology, one of the many subjects I detested. Somehow, I scraped a 6 pass. Foghorn told me in the fuzzers that I would end up in the D form next year. Wrong - I was upgraded to the alpha stream. A vexed teacher once bawled at Jeremy Clarkson that he would be one of life's failures. (For the record, I am no fan of Clarkson.)

In fairness, I didn't actually bunk off lessons that much. I got to realise that games was a complete waste of time for everyone if you weren't in a school team. They just wanted you to aimlessly jog around in the mud while a few teachers had the opportunity to practise a bit of ritual sadism on you. So I avoided it whenever possible. I was interested in football so couldn't afford to get near a school team. I was a qualified referee for my time in the 6th form, which was a good source of income. Some lads played Sunday League football and were rather surprised to see who the man in black was at their match.

I'm going to attempt to combine a few previous comments regarding deities, sport and coach trips. Here goes: Oh the joy of sports! I tried to avoid ball games at all costs, being somewhat myopic, which made both rugby and cricket disastrous for me. I spent more time running away from any action rather than toward it. Consequently I became a reasonable swimmer, moving onto water skiing and scuba diving in later life. I did join cross-country for a while but not particularly successfully, so then attempted orienteering. We all travelled to some village by coach and, after being divided into teams and issued with maps, sent off to track down the series of targets and rubber stamp our cards accordingly. Our team set off with great enthusiasm but after a couple of hours realized that we thought we had set off from a different village to the one we actually started from. That was the only reason we could find for the terrain constantly diverging from our map. It also explained why all the other teams had started in the opposite direction, which at the time, we thought a little odd! Eventually we came up with a plan to hitch a ride to get us into more familiar territory. We were picked up by a couple of guys in a GPO maintenance van and spent the trip to the next village perched on top of short sections of telephone pole in the back of the van trying not to get feet and hands trapped between the shifting poles, whilst not collecting too many splinters! To cut a long story short, we continued throughout the day to remain completely lost. Twilight arrived and by this time the coach would have been long gone, so we rather lost our remaining enthusiasm and trudged along country lanes hoping for some kind of divine intervention. This came in the form of Droobs' Landrover appearing from the gloom searching for us. Climbing in for the trip back to Coventry, it was revealed that we were not the only stragglers. I ended up next to the heater along with Droob and at least three other lost souls on the front seat, with the back of the Landrover absolutely packed with the other unsuccessful orienteers. I suspect there were more of us in the Landrover for the return trip than managed to make it back to the coach. We must have been close to midnight when we got back, but I suspect I slept well that night! Lesson: In order to go where you want to, it helps know where you started from!

I remember Cazalet clearly, very tall and relatively thin, wavy blong hair and a most impressive pin stripe suit WITH MATCHING WAISTCOAT, he looked like he belonged in a much better school compared to some of the masters. Always shaking off chalk dust from his hands and suit. He was one of the better teachers I think and made History not so much of a bore. Who was the younger Chemistry teacher with the slick black hair and Michael Caine glasses who took us in the fuzzers? And the new younger Chemistry guy in the sixth form with the beard and gut always in rolled up shirt sleeves who once quizzed me in private trying to get info on the taxis etc for Skermer? He was quite decent about it when I feigned ignorance, but he knew that I knew but just wasn't going to be a Weazel (or whatever his name was).

Tringam?

Your description sounds very much like the history teacher we had in the 3rd year. I remember he had quite a deep voice, despite being thin, and a very protrusive Adam's apple, which we all considered to be a goitre. It used to bob up and down as he spoke. As I've said before, history was of no interest to me, so mentally I was not at school for most of the lessons. My body was physically in my desk seat however! It bothers me that this is one teacher I just cannot put a name to, unlike most of the others. Nor can I remember one single incident in the whole year's history lessons. Contrast that with the previous year with Foghorn, e.g. inter alia, the numerous references to having a more meaningful conversation with the trees!

I was never taught by Foghorn. One of my friends was, and he was an amazing source of caricatures of many of the staff. He produced a couple of classic ones of Foghorn on Top Green bellowing at the trees. He posts here so I wonder if he remembers them. Cazalet did have a deep voice and I do recall how smartly he dressed. (Rather a contrast to Froggy Irwin's ragbag appearance!) There was another youngish history teacher who some may remember. He was called Farrar and had very blond hair. He taught me history in L5Sc and, like some of the other younger teachers had far more about them than the uninterested old guard. Could he be the one you referred to? There was another chap who taught us for a year about the same time. He was a strange little chap with a very protruding chin. He couldn't really engage the class, so much so that I'm not entirely sure what subject he taught. His name was PB Newitt. Does anyone else recall him, he may not have been there very long. In fact I think there was quite a quick turnover of younger teachers around that time, it must have been difficult for them in a world dominated by dinosaurs!

Foghorn was quite an intimidating chap! He had a habit of opening up one of the desk lids on the front row during his lectures and resting his folded arms on top. On one occasion he did his signature move and the underside of the desk lid had a huge sign emblazoned "FOGHORN" attached to it. It was such a wonderful picture, however, not a single snigger was released by any of the class, such was his reputation! I have sometimes wondered if he actually put the sign there himself to test our reactions!

Yes, Tringham, thanks. I found him ok. but he did have a reputation for sternness in the old fashioned way of Henry VIII. I do remember the Foghorn cartoons, talking to the trees was his favourite hobby. Never was a nickname more appropriate for a master with his constant booming.

I remember Froggy Irwin took me for detention once and I was jaw droppingly amazed that is was still physically possible to appear more bored, disinterested and fed up with life than he already was during lessons. He couldn't think of anything better to do than set us lines. I'm sure it was Kitty Fisher who got me into that one.

Now I'm more confused because the name Farrar doesn't ring any bells either. But the chap we had was certainly, as you say, not one of the old guard, but kept order and was enthusiastic about his subject. I remember him mentioning the king's great matter (Henry VIII's dearth of a son, I suppose). I feel bad, now, that at the time I had no interest in the subject, which would fascinate me now. This teacher was one of the thoroughly decent blokes, one of the new breed who were keen about their role and treated us with respect, not hatred. I remember his appearance. With his blond hair, he bore a resemblance to the character Illya Kuriarkin in the Man from Uncle, so he got the nickname Illya. In later years I do remember the name Newitt, but can't picture him as we never met. I remember some of the lower classes nicknaming him Little Diddy Knewit (as oppose to the expression "little did he know it")!

Tringham took us for chemistry in the first year. He was a good teacher, and like all chemistry teachers, very strict. One lesson, he was showing us some experiment, maybe to do with iodine, on the front bench, and he had to boil some green kelp (type of seaweed) in a small glass flask over the Bunsen burner. Whilst waiting for it to boil, the class clown H made a loud slurping noise as a joke. It wasn't a joke to Tringham. He erupted, his verbal admonishment of H well over the top. Foghorn was a big bloke so he had big feet. He wore brogues with segs in the heels. It was probably done so that the noisy clicking of his heels when he walked further added to his stamping his authority on us. The parquet floor under his desk (was it room 103?) was worn away where he use to scuff his feet over many years. I had Froggy for several years. In the fuzzers, form 2B, he once walked in, put his bag down and, looking at the class said "2B or not 2B?". One solitary joke in my whole school career.