The sixties – continuity and change at BGS

My brother David’s article reflecting on his days at BGS (1953-59) has set me thinking about mine a decade later (1963-69). There was certainly continuity – some of the same masters were still there – but there was also contrast. Society had moved on and so had the School.

I remember sitting around the breakfast table, my father opening the post.

Perhaps I should not have worried so much about the cost of fees. Mine would be minimal for, in those days, BGS was a direct grant grammar school. To qualify for the scheme, the School had to offer a large proportion of free places. Most of these were paid for by the LEA which bought them for those boys achieving the highest marks in the eleven-plus. Fees, for those paying them, were income-related. This meant that for my family they would be reasonably modest.

After primary school, I found the change in curriculum and teaching style much to my liking. My twelve-year-old brain was like a sponge, easily absorbing French vocab, Latin conjugations and even geometry’s theorems. This stage of my cognitive development didn’t last long but it was sufficient to propel me into the express (four years to O level) stream at the end of my first year.

I was both surprised and daunted. Surprised because I thought BGS was for those cleverer than I. I’d already been turned down by QEH and the Cathedral School and I suspected that my acceptance at BGS was due in part to my brother having blazed an illustrious academic trail before me. I’d already reconciled myself to Henbury School – the default comprehensive – with its modern buildings and presumably more modern ways. Daunted because I thought BGS was a bit stuffy and also because mine would be a fee-paying place and I knew that in my family money was tight.

I was not looking forward to School and my first day was horrible made worse by the sudden death of a boy in a parallel class. He had a pre-existing heart condition. With the excitement of the day, he collapsed on the steps to the New Building. We saw him being stretchered off to an ambulance.

‘How did you get on?’ my dad asked. ‘I hated it’. I replied. ‘Well, we’ll give it to the end of term and see’, he responded.

By the end of term, I loved it. I remember the last day of that term weaving my way down the corridor congested with giant sixth-formers enroute to the House Meeting. Here we heard of the House’s sporting triumphs and applauded the super-heroes receiving their House colours. Then it was up the stairs to the Great Hall for the term’s final assembly. Lustily we sang ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ –traditionally the last hymn of the autumn term. Then, of course, the School Song: ‘sit clarior, sit dignior, … sumus Bristolienses’ – the official lyrics, not the ruder version we would bawl out on the coach returning from rugby matches.

The masters were intelligent, well-educated, and, for the most part, witty and benign. I remember with gratitude and affection many of those who taught me over the years – Micky Booker, Frank Beacroft, Keith Howard and Peter Watkins, to mention but a few. Others I recall by their nicknames: ‘Smiler’ who had a permanent smile despite having the thankless task of teaching me maths; ‘Dimmer’, so called not through any intellectual inadequacy but because his first two initials were DM.

Not all the teachers were so great. The master who taught us Latin in our second year picked cruelly on one particular boy subjecting him to more than his fair share of verbal barbs and detentions. At the time I felt little sympathy for the kid. He was an annoying brat I would have happily thumped myself had he not been too quick and nimble for me to catch. But looking back I feel ashamed that we took no action to report the teacher’s unfair treatment and cruelty. I hope that today’s Bristolians are empowered and encouraged to do better.

BGS was a male preserve and when it appointed its first female teacher my innate conservatism kicked in. Women might be too kind. Boys might be called by their first names, which I suppose they must have though I knew few of them. Manly stiff upper lips might tremble. How then could we hope to rule the Empire? (Admittedly by then the Empire was in a state of terminal crumble and didn’t need the appointment of female teachers in English boys’ schools to bring it down.) Women teachers could be the thin edge of the wedge. What next? Might the School admit girls? They wouldn’t – would they?

I loved my rugby. Lacking ball skills, I mostly excelled at knocking over opposing players, thereby gaining a reputation as something of a ‘hard man’: a reputation which served me well both on and off the pitch even after everyone else had grown much bigger than me.

The summer term required a different set of sporting skills –skiving. I hated cricket and did my best to avoid it. I did remarkably well with a dexterous combination of dental appointments (some faked) and other devices. But I couldn’t manage a clean sweep and one grey afternoon at Failand I had to take my turn bowling. The ball pitched wide to the right (like all my previous pathetic efforts) but then hitting a divot miraculously broke to the left to take out the middle wicket. I appealed to the umpire that this was unfair, but to no avail. No doubt, he thought like me: the sooner we can get everybody out, the sooner we can pack up and go home.

Athletics was better and I quite fancied myself as a middle-distance runner. On Sports Day I was to represent the House in the second-string 400 metres. Off we set but the pace was too slow: I needed to pick it up. Striding out, I led the whole way just to be pipped at the post. Exhausted, I threw up – not quite all over the Headmaster’s shoes.

When we got into the Removes (Year 10), we had the option of joining the CCF (Combined Cadet Force). I was the most appalling cadet you could imagine. However hard I polished my brasses and boots, I always looked like a tramp on parade. After a year I quietly deserted. No one noticed but I still have fears that one day the Military Police might come knocking on my door.

Despite the CCF, cricket and the awful anxiety which preceded exams, I loved my schooldays, but the best were in the sixthform. At last I was able to drop the subjects such as maths and physics which had baffled me. I opted for A levels in history, economics and French, though the latter was the cause of much tribulation. On one assignment, my teacher ‘Aubrey’ wrote ‘G or anything lower that they give.’ When the A level results came out, I got a respectable B. Rather resentfully Aubrey snarled ‘I suppose you think I should apologise’.

By the time we got to the sixth, we’d developed a useful network with the various girls’ schools. Saturday nights were party nights. Obliging, or oblivious, parents went out for the evening and we moved in. There was some drinking and quite a bit of canoodling in the dark. Boyfriends and girlfriends swapped regularly – two to three weeks seemed to be the average duration of any romance. I did manage one relatively long-term relationship with a pretty and witty Red Maid. It lasted all of ten weeks. I wish I’d been nicer to her.

These were the ‘Swinging Sixties’ and my schooldays were played out against a background of the Beatles, Motown, the Stones and other greats. These were also the years of youthful rebellion against the staid conservatism of the older generation. Battles were fought over how long you could wear your hair. One boy was even suspended for a couple of terms for refusing to have his hair cut to an acceptable length. There were also demands for the creation of a School Council which came about just as we were leaving. The Sixties were dying; the Seventies were about to begin. Society and the School would be moving on. The direct grant system would come to an end. The LEA would no longer fund free places and soon the School would admit girls.

I benefitted greatly from my years at BGS. I might not have been the very brightest button in the haberdashery but as I’ve always maintained: an excellent education coupled with a lot of hard work is a good substitute for intelligence. I went on to read history at Cambridge and to forge a somewhat rocky career in management consultancy, teaching and (fleetingly) academia. At School I made many friends. If you were one and would like to touch base, please contact me via philipvmoon@gmail.com

EXCERPT

Rome, April 1955

by Chris Swindon OB 1957

I have a few recollections of happenings at various times during my time at BGS, but one that has stuck in my memory was a trip to Rome in April 1955 when about thirty of us classicists travelled there and back by coach. Our route went down through France via Paris and Dijon, the Mont Cenis tunnel under the Alps, then on to Milan, Sirmione, Verona, and Florence to Rome and returning up the west coast of Italy via Pisa and Nice, then back up through France to Calais. We visited lots of Roman remains