I was incarcerated from 1953-1960.....witnessing the move from Gothic splendour to Ersatz little boxes.....some pics the CH old sherrins and prefects may remember......here's an extract from my memories...
That first day was a blur. I knew no one else at the school, living or dead, in this year or those above. I was utterly alone. Just my banana sandwiches and me. I felt like shite, shuffling about aimlessly, but putting on a brave face, determined not to cry. A gawky stiff-upper lipped pioneer on the outside, but a sticky-yellow cowardy custard within. I was not alone of course.
That first day we reported at 10.00 a.m. in the Great vaulted Hall, the rest of the school having already assembled and been dismissed for lessons. Ninety assorted souls from Stechford, Small Heath, Yardley, Moseley, Sparkhill, Sparkbrook, Acocks Green, Greet and Yardley Wood were mustered and formed into three classes of roughly thirty pupils. These were 1J, 1M, and 1S - by age, Junior, Middle, and Senior. I was assigned to 1J being one of the youngest.
Then, to foster sporting rivalry and build team spirit, we were further dispersed into the traditional four Houses of School - Seymour, Beaufort, Howard and Tudor. I got Tudor and soon discovered that like my beloved Birmingham City FC, hope and expectation for the Tudor crew was always more prevalent than achievement. Except when I was House captain in my final year of course, and we lifted the cricket trophy…but what happened to that magnificent silver cup is another story, and only now can be told … later.
So we swapped teachers for masters, lessons for periods, and urban chic for radical conformity. And speaking of which, this was also my first encounter with school uniform. My navy blazer, bought with a provident cheque from Foster Brothers, complete with red badge sown on by proud mother, grey short trousers, navy and maroon striped tie and cap, grey shirt, grey socks, and scuffed black shoes, complementing my grey complexion beautifully.
I did note that short trousers were an almost unanimous fashion item, but this turned out to be more by statute (mandatory until you were thirteen fer Chrissake), than by chance. The few lads in ‘longs’ had either thrown down their maverick marker that first day, or simply not read the encyclical from the Head, but in any event resistance was futile, and they soon succumbed.
The hallowed dark blue cap with maroon rings has a bitter-sweet memory. The once proud symbol of identity, which I slept in on occasions I loved it so much, became an acute embarrassment once testosterone levels achieved critical mass, especially when girls hoved into view. Did Elvis or Chuck ever wear one? Little Richard? James Dean? Did they buggery. Nonetheless, school rules were school rules, so from about the fourth form onwards I spent nearly all my life in detention, as male pride overcame authority at every opportunity. I never made prefect because of this unwillingness to conform, but it was worth it. There was a brief time when I managed to perch the cap on my Tony Curtis special, but when hairgrips became mandatory to achieve stability, I gave in and chucked the bloody cap in the nearest dustbin.
Our very first contact with Authority was with the Headmaster, one Thomas Frederick Rodgers, M.A. Fellow of Merton College, Oxford. Tom to his mates. A woolly haired Quaker and all round Christian democrat, loved and respected by all. Except me, that is. I was soon to discover that a more sexually repressed, anally retentive, latent psychopath would have been hard to find in all the asylums of the Midlands. But not many shared my view.
His biographer, whom I knew as a revered teacher, wrote of him “His whole educational philosophy was based on the concept of competition with oneself rather than with others, and he seemed therefore sometimes reluctant to glorify achievements either in the classroom or the playing fields, which he himself saw as no more than a reasonable level of expectation for that particular person.” Well frankly Scarlet, that’s pure bollocks. He never praised any one ‘cos he was a self serving, card-carrying Calvinist, who would have been better off peddling his cold-eyed Puritanism to guests of Her Majesty’s pleasure, rather than vulnerable eleven-year old lost souls like me. As you will gather, we didn’t exactly hit it off.
But at least he believed in sport and exercise as a healthy antidote to whatever frightened him to death about the distaff side’s influence on our developing psyche. I found him cold, remote, authoritarian and utterly unlovable. He once found a girls’s bra in the upper balcony of the Hall at Kings Heath after a school disco. Saddam’s weapons of mass destruction? Hannibel Lecter’s recipe for liver pate? Hitler’s Plans for the mass extermination of the Jews? None of these would have come anywhere close to invoking the fulminating mask of fury and disgust he displayed at the next morning’s assembly when this horrible crime was revealed, and the devil’s spawn that did it was urged to ‘give himself up immediately’. He stopped just short of ‘unto god’s judgement and mercy’ but the undercurrent of spiritual retribution was unmistakeable. If I’d have had a scourge, I would undoubtedly have been flagellating myself in total sympathy, and have been glad to be of service. Brain Parsons (the lucky swine perpetrator) was wetting himself at the thought of disclosure by forensics, but fingerprints were fortunately on the contents, not the containers, and the owner was next door in the lower sixth. So he kept his nerve, and consequently his gonads, and lived to grope another day as a result. The garment’s owner was blissfully unaware and seemingly unfettered by this missing undergarment. Thank god it wasn’t her panties, for he would surely have perished at the thought of possible full sexual congress.
But Tom also had some very able and likeable colleagues that more than made up for his shortcomings, thank the Lord. But not all was sweetness and light.
Sitting just behind TFR on stage, and also clad in the sinister black academic gowns so favoured by the more senior Masters, were his consiglieri.. They looked like a bunch of black crows. The collective name for a bunch of crows is a ‘murder’ I believe, and the imagery for that taxonomic masterpiece was never better illustrated.
It was also quite noticeable that the older Dark Ones were staring at us like we were prey. In contrast, the younger ones who mostly stared out the windows, no doubt wishing they were on the golf course or in the bookies.
A long dissertation on the history of the school and its hallowed traditions was followed by an equally long list of expectations required from the new inmates. Plus, more worryingly, a shorter and sharper list of what we could expect if these expectations were in any way unfulfilled. Oh yes, retribution promised to be swift and merciless. Then, as if for a bit of light relief (sic) we were introduced to the SCHOOL SONG. And what a belter. Mawkish and sentimental it may be, but so very emotive to its custodians.
When sung at the end of year for those leaving there was an even bigger emotional bolus to contend with, for this was always followed by the end of term hymn “Let thy Father’s hand be shielding, those who here shall meet no more”. Never a dry eye in the house after this combination. Even the most redoubtable cynics were seen ‘brushing away a stray hair from the cheek’ on these occasions. I can still remember every word of the gloriously turgid, fun-filled verses.
THE SCHOOL SONG
Where the iron heart of England throbs
Beneath her sombre robe.
Stands a school whose sons have made her
Great and famous round the globe;
These have plucked the bays of battle,
Those have won the scholars crown;
Old Edwardians, Young Edwardians
Forward for the School's renown.
Chorus
Forward where the knocks are hardest,
Some to failure, some to fame,
Never mind the cheers or hooting,
Keep your head and play the game.
Here no classic grove secludes us,
Here abides no sheltered calm;
Not the titled, not the stranger,
Wrestles here to gain the palm;
Round our smoke-encrusted precincts
Labour's turbid river runs,
Builders of a burly city
Temper here their strenuous sons.
Here's no place for fop or idler;
They who made our City great
Feared no hardship, shirked no labour,
Smiled at death and conquered fate;
They who gave our school it's laurels
Laid on us a sacred trust;
Forward, therefore, live your hardest,
Die of service, not of rust.
Forward where the scrimmage thickens
Never stop to rub your shin;
Cowards count the kicks and ha'pence,
Only care to save their skin.
Oftentimes defeat is splendid,
Victory may still be shame,
Luck is good, the prize is pleasant,
But the glory's in the game.
Always sung at beginning and end of a Term, and always followed by the prefects leaping on to the stage with rolled up school cap exhorting “School, three cheers for the Masters” Hip Rah, Hip, Rah, Hip Rah. “School, three cheers for the Headmaster” Hip Rah, Hip Rah, Hip, Rah, and finally the Head Boy with “SCHOOL, THREE CHEERS FOR THE SCHOOL!” The last one obviously getting the loudest cheers. Except the occasion when some besotted fool got carried away and called for “SCHOOL,THREE CHEERS FOR THE GIRLS SCHOOL”last up. Got the best result ever…but was never seen again.
birminghamhistory.co.uk
are.
