Memories

Greg Murrow

I spent much of my early life crawling through the fence to play in the grounds after hours, thumping footballs into the hockey nets, shooting imaginary Germans from within the half buried Pill Box, on the cabbage patch, climbing in the trees and retrieving ‘lost’ (we’d hide until one was hit near us, run to pick it up and flee through the fence to Brynhyfryd Street) tennis balls. The day I started my secondary school wasn’t strictly speaking my first day there. Indeed I had already had the honour of meeting the scary giant figure of Mr George, when our arch enemy, the Groundsman, had captured my footballing 8 year old friends and me, hauling us to the headmaster’s office.

Day 1, cap on for the briefest of walks to school, before it got folded up and lived in its new home of my pocket, I arrived in Miss Jones’ form of 1P. I sat next to John Lewis who I knew from chilly football matches in Markham. ‘Wilbur‘, was elected form captain and I noticed that Julia Hodges was gorgeous. Break-time arrived and I learned very quickly to push, yell and reach through the railings to buy Quavers from the ice cream van that parked up to exploit our hunger. I also worked out it was best to avoid putting myself between the ‘bush ‘ and larger boys (men?), who hurtled any newcomer down the slope, through into the muddy grass on the other side. I suppose the sole purpose of this bullying was the destruction of the confidence we had had when we had left our primary schools 6 weeks earlier. Or was it to upset our mothers when we arrived home with dirty new clothes and pockets empty of the new pens that had fallen out? Lunchtime was next. There must have been lessons too, but these seemed insignificant. Order and silence, followed by Grace and madcap sprinting of older boys to get trays of food to place in front of the heads of each table of eight hungry boys, for distribution. I was on Jock’s table and he explained with all sincerity that first years didn’t need as much to eat as senior boys. We certainly didn’t get our fair share! I was inaugurated into the tradition of spinning the custard jug to discover which of the younger pupils should receive the dreaded skin of the custard. Years later, the roguish Jock became a policeman and I delivered his morning newspaper. He tipped me well at the end of each week, perhaps to make up for the food he stole. I loved the banter on his table and never would have lunched anywhere else.

At the end of the day, our satchels were full of new books that not only had to be carried back and forth daily, but also for some reason, required covering in old wallpaper before the next lesson. What was I going to bring for PE next day? Rugby kit or white T shirt, shorts and Green Flash plimsolls for the gym? More worryingly, how was I going to carry it all?

I could search out an old school report and identify my teachers, but I won’t cheat .This is from memory only.

ENGLISH: Miss Jones who was also my form Teacher. She liked my work and humour. She blushed enormously when I presented her with our class present at Christmas, delivered with a kiss.

MATHS: Miss Davies (?) Scary woman who worked us hard and sat a boy and a girl together for discipline. Sadly not Julia.

PHYSICS: Mr Garrett in his last year. Crazy man electrocuted half a dozen of us to demonstrate the dangers of electricity.

BIOLOGY: Miss? A lovely gentle blonde woman who was passionate about teaching her subject. I drew an amoeba and germinated a broad bean.

CHEMISTRY: Maybe same as biology or was it Mrs Blandford, who had a sharp tongue and no discipline problems whatsoever. We got to light fire.

HISTORY: Mr Jones, deputy head, known as Jet. I can still hear him preaching ‘One sentence, one fact,’ punctuated of course with ‘right ‘. I loved his subject but was useless at drawing diagrams of the Tigris and Euphrates. How significant that part of the world was / is.

GEOGRAPHY: Mrs Young. More sketches to colour carefully.

FRENCH: Mr Jenkins (Bambam) and endless slides and chanting of meaningless phrases in a language I knew (!!!!!!!!) I would never use. He strutted everywhere and hurled books around the classroom, mocked poor test results and loved his rugby team from the year above.

METALWORK: Mr Parfit who was somewhere between a rigid disciplinarian and a pipe smoking psychopath. I made a bolt for the door. I do mean a real bolt for the door not that I ran out!

WOODWORK: Mr Evans (?) who seemed much calmer and taught me to sandpaper balsa wood.

ART: Mrs Gross. A dear old lady who saw talent in me that really wasn’t there.

RE Mr (?): I can only remember we called him Les. Bible stories.

WELSH: Miss Thomas told us all about Welsh culture and encouraged us to join the Yrdd and get a badge. In modern day pupil speak, she was well fit.

MUSIC: Mr Prothero. Singing in the hall.

‘All of you have to be in the first year choir ‘ I don’t want to be in the choir.

‘Who’s that singing that awful noise?’ in the first compulsory rehearsal. After listening next to me, I was ejected from the host. Not all Welshmen can carry a tune.

PE Mr Treasure: This was the only subject that I was desperate to be good at, but John Lewis outshone me at football, Philip Angus was a brute with a rugby ball, Lee Turner was a natural piece of elastic in gymnastics, David Evans could run and run without needing oxygen, Clive (Henry) Jones was faster, Raymond Williams kept me out of the swimming gala team at Breaststroke. Thanks to playing on the beach with my dad, I could triple jump and no one else seemed able to.

From day 1 I loved school. I went on to become a PE teacher, which may have been predictable. I live in France and speak French, which would totally amaze and probably annoy those who were frustrated by my lack of application at PGTS. Later in life I discovered that the best way to learn a language was to sleep with your teacher. Even in the1960s this would have been frowned upon.

Greg Murrow

Kim Bartlett

From day one, I remember seeing the honours board the end of the main hall on which the feats of those who had gone to represent Wales were recorded. I can only remember two names, Berwyn Price who I believe was a hurdler and was a sixth former the year we started (1968). The only person who I knew whose name was added during our tenure was John Hurley, was capped for Wales schoolboys. I was never a particularly good rugby player, but in my defence I was 5’ 10” when I was in 1S, so naturally Courtney (Coco the clown) Treasure had me playing as number eight, I am not and never was a forward, perhaps, had he put me as one of the backs, I may have enjoyed the game more. The only thing I did which distinguished me within my peers was tackling the aforementioned John Hurley on more than one occasion whilst playing on the cabbage patch; he still never gave me a try-out for any school team.

I did however become reasonably competent with a badminton racket, partnering Gareth Davey to help him win a grand slam of PGTS titles. Together we won the boys doubles, he went on to win the mixed doubles and singles. For my sins, having partnered him to the boys doubles, with my partner, who I am ashamed to admit I’m not certain of who she was, but may have been Lynne Reardon, came runners-up in the mixed doubles. In the boys singles, I was seeded to meet Gareth in the final, seeding almost worked out, except I remember being beaten in the semi-finals by Wayne Owens; probably the only time he ever beat me.

Academically, I started in 1S, went up into 2T, then 3G, 4G and 5G, I never made the P steam, but then I never did Latin, but Tempus Fugit. Having distinguished myself with nine ‘O’ levels and 2 CSEs, having failed French twice, I failed dismally in double maths, Physics and Chemistry. The truth of the matter, I didn’t put in half as much work as I should have done and can blame nobody but myself. I failed to get into any university, I did however, go to Gwent College of Higher Education at Alt-yr-yn Newport where I again distinguished myself by failing all my re-sits. By going to the college, I secured a place at the faculty of education, formerly known as Caerleon College of Education. The one thing I learnt at Caerleon, was how to learn, not by being set home work, but by being giving tasks, which as you know is grown up homework, but for me it worked and I became a qualified maths and physical science teacher, even been offered my first post as I left the exam room. I taught two years, my probationary year was done in Sidcup, I returned home to teach in Risca, before realising the classroom was not my natural ground, so joined the Royal Air Force, well it seemed a good idea at the time.

The other two life lessons I learned whilst at Caerleon was playing Bridge, I became a County Master (2 steps up a very long ranking ladder) and that I was a natural hockey goalkeeper, and played three times for Wales Colleges, missing out on selection for the 1980 Olympics only when the Witch of Grantham (Not mentioning any name) decided we should boycott the Moscow Olympics; I never voted Tory anyway.

Of the teachers I remember, no boy who ever handled a rugby ball will ever forget the sight of Mr Treasure, wearing 16 track suits, overcoat bobble hat and muffler, shouting out to 30 or so semi frozen young lads ankle deep in the mud that had been a rugby field, shouting, ‘Come on lads, it’s not cold, keep going.’ When we got back to the New Gym he sent us all I to the shower and turned on the cold water – sadist. Mind you, he was right, it felt warm and as we defrosted, he slowly turned on the hot water.

French was taught by Fred (surname escapes me), who like many of the former National Servicemen (National Service only ended in 1960), taught most subjects including RI. None of us will forget the Head Master, George G. George, calling ‘You Boy’ and everyone, including the girls, assuming it was they who had transgressed, in those days you didn’t dare go to school without your cap!. Mr Parfit teaching Metalwork, had a unique punishment in his arsenal of disciplinary weapons, lines. Lines, I say, but they were virtual novellas, works of literature in their own right. He also organised the school trip to the then Soviet Union, memorable for so many reasons.

Keith Young was not only a mathematician but also theatrical impresario, being amongst the first to promote an amateur production of ‘Fiddler on the Roof.’ Mr Prothero was given the thankless task of trying to coax a horde of tone deaf teenagers to sing not only in tune, but in some cases, myself included, to sing solo. Playing the part of Perchick was made easier by the fact that playing the part of Hoddle had a wonderful voice and carried my pitiful contribution.

Karel Thomas struggled and ultimately failed to guide me though double maths, I would love to be able to tell him that I eventually did gain a degree in pure mathematics from the OU, and later went on to gain the equivalent of a Master’s degree in the RAF. My younger daughter graduated from Aberystwyth with a degree in history and is currently, at time writing, doing her masters in Holocaust studies at the Royal Hall, a university. She refuses to accept that fact because I do not have the post-nominal MA, but is only recorded in the RAF List; there’s no pleasing some people.

Kim Bartlett

Vicky Yeates

Yesterday I went to look at the soon to be demolished building of my 'Big School'. The impending closure of PGTS together with a growing curiousity for things past ( intimations of mortality no doubt) drew me to those school railings. Seven years is a long time in a young life and from just 11 to just 18 ( I was a July baby) the experiences in PGTS in no small part shaped my life so that now I can look back in wry nostalgia "and once again my heart refills and dances with the daffodils"!

I recall feeling overwhelmed and confused during the first few weeks in form 1. People were striving to find their particular peer group and frankly I found the early days stressful and a bit lonely. Fortunately after that initial floundering I never felt lonely again in school. Anyway, during that first week I was so discombobulated and the days dragged so much that one morning during the 11 o'clock break I thought it was lunch time so I left the school grounds and trudged up the hill to go home for lunch only to be called back by eagle eyed Mrs Blandford who had spotted my departure. I remember the embarrassment of explaining my mistake but she didn't scold me and I'm sure I saw a fleeting smile in her eyes. In fact I don't remember being told off or called to account by teachers very much at all but the following examples stick in my mind and they are a bit squirm making but what good are reminiscences unless they are relatively truthful:

1. Carol Thomas the maths teacher accused me of talking in class ( I think it was form 5) and for once it wasn't me. He told me to see him after class. Lindy Buttifant stayed with me. The injustice of this led me into a tearful row with him and I ended up calling him a b...... ! After this I ran off shouting and Lindy looked mortified. There were no repercussions but the next day I stayed home from school and as he was my form teacher too I had to present my excuse letter to him when I returned. My grandmother wrote some twaddle about my being ill and then said PS "I'm glad I'm not young any more". He read the letter with an impassive expression and nothing more was ever said.

2. John Cobley the history teacher lost his customary cool demeanour one day when a Portuguese boy I had met on holiday during the previous summer holiday simply turned up at our school minutes before my history lesson was about to begin. I was shocked and thrilled to see him (I had no idea at all he was coming to the UK let alone track me down during school time) so couldn't contain my delight. JC was coldly furious and said "Miss Yeates if you choose to to go with this person today do not ever return to my class". I felt this was unreasonable and unfair but swallowed the bitter pill - I went in to the history class where I sat fuming. Actually it was just as well because I seem to remember the Portuguese chap and I had little to say to each other .

3. Mr Jones or Jed, the deputy head, stopped me in the main corridor and asked me to explain why during the first year of form 6 I had been the only person EVER to fail grade 1 typing. Another injustice! Something inside me popped and I said "how dare you call me to account over a typing exam when it's the first exam I've ever failed in this school". Jed looked a bit taken aback and simply replied, "I was just curious how you managed it!" He must have had a chuckle about it in the staff room later that day.

4. So far so tame. All I know is that PGTS was a time and place to experiment with boundaries between complying with demands of the system / authority ( oh all those awful terminals, so much swotting) yet challenging it when it felt right to do so. To me our school felt like a safe environment in which to try on different hats. George George the great oppressor had long gone and a more liberal regime had emerged. Just as well or I would probably have been expelled for insubordination. I didn't like our school uniform particularly those hideous maroon striped blouses and maroon socks and maroon knickers. So much unflattering maroon. I insisted on wearing a plain white shirt, dusky pink rugby style socks and desert boots ( yes Greg I know you and the other boys laughed behind my back at my boots but I haven't got malformed feet so there) . Miss Bowditch kept reprimanding me about my departure from regulation uniform but she would have had to rip them off me. Oh and I refused to comply with her maroon knicker inspection ritual. Can you imagine teachers today getting away with demanding young girls to stand on a bench thing so the deputy head could look up their skirts to check the colour of their underwear. Hmmm dodgy.

I could never fathom the way in which female pupils with menstrual cramps had to sit in a public cold lobby yet male pupils with rugby injuries were usually taken home in a teacher's car. A mild conflict occurred between me and Miss Bowditch when she refused to allow Stephanie Powell to go home despite her being green with pain. I was developing in to a fledgling feminist and some bright spark referred to me as 'Germaine Greer' in the school magazine - all in the best possible taste of course. Anyway, I didn't win the argument but she didn't crush me either.

By the time I reached the sixth form and there was more flexibility in the timetable I would sometimes take my friends back to my house ( both parents working and very liberal) to play music , drink cherry liqueur and watch Wimbledon. But we would always be back for lessons. Good girls we were.

Oh and gym. Unlike my esteemed friend Greg, sporting activities were something to be avoided at all costs. Although I liked gymnastics that came to a shuddering halt when the gym teacher ( Mrs App'gwyneth) went off to have a baby. So there was the dreaded netball. When I was forced to play my wonderful chums, Lynne Reardon, Lindy Buttifant, Stephanie Powell ( all great players) allowed me to be their goal keeper. This meant the leather missile rarely came my way but when it did I shut my eyes and hoped for the best The girls knew I'd drop it and I duly did. I got excused from gym for five years on the back of one, albeit nasty, kidney infection. Result.

Oh and Rodney Bedford. I had a real crush on him. His innovative teaching style inspired my love of the written word. I would put extra effort in to English homework just to get praise from Rodders. When he made me play Louka to Greg's Sergius ( Arms and the Man) I felt the intense discomfort of a female Inbetweener as we were forced to do the love scene. I was so acutely embarrassed my wooden drama skills would have given Meryl Streep no sleepless nights. Mind Greg was no Olivier.

Refusal to be a prefect was another act of challenging authority. I was one of a gang of five - Steph, Neil Ray, Clive Price and can't remember the fifth. But the cheek of me - I still enjoyed the privilege of the prefect's room and no one chucked me out. One of my best mates was Lynne Gardner , she was Head girl and funnily enough I was ever so proud of her even though she was very different from me. That's what I liked about PGTS - tolerance of each other foibles and differences. I don't believe I have rosy specs but it was a time to grow, to question and to experiment with maturing without the full force of a rigid system squashing any individuality. Having said that I didn't believe corporal punishment took place in the school but according to Stephen Haddock, Glyn Healey and Greg it certainly did happen.

I don't recall nasty bullying although I do remember times when a boy would rile a girl and that afforded an opportunity to sharpen one's wits eg. Nick Thomas: "you're so thin you must need to run round in the shower to get wet " Vicky Yeates - stunned silence. Nick: "I'm good aren't I?" Vicky: "not according to Susan Scully you're not". Nick exits prefect room in a tizz.

The school plays such as Westside Story seemed so glamorous. I wasn't confident or talented enough to get involved because even holding up the 'K' in Oklahoma stressed me to the limit. I remember the Radio 1 show coming to the school just after our O levels. I can't recall the DJ inviting any girls backstage for future Yewtree fumblings. There was life.

I also remember the trip to Russia with June Allan and Mr Treasure in charge. It was great , it was awful. June Allan spent the entire time chasing after us to ensure none of us went home pregnant. She needn't have worried, it was quite innocent. Miss Allan lived next door to me and was too upset to tell my mother what a nightmare it had been . My mother simply said "what did you expect going away with teenagers? " peace reigned again.

It would be an incomplete reminiscence if I were not to mention the Miners Strike of 1974 and the resulting three day week . It was great in one way because the girls could wear trousers so out went the horrid maroon skirt and on went the Levi's. Also we only had to attend school for 3 days which didn't please me because I actually enjoyed going to school then- also I still had crush on Rodders! But the terrible downside was the potential to split friendships and our community but it didn't - at least not within the school community to the best of my recollection. But then there is no such thing as absolute truth.

How odd to think the old school will soon be no more but though the buildings may be flattened the history and memories generated within those walls will survive - at least until we are all dead!

Vicky Yeates

Nigel Joy

I’ll give you a classic!!. Eddie Maguire got wind of the fact that myself, Neil Ray and Lionel Barnes frequented the Penllwyn pub on a few afternoons. He summoned me into his den and asked what the hell was going on. I replied that the food in the canteen was a joke and a cheese and onion cob together with an orange juice was a far better option!!!!, he bought it. Chris Hart and D.A.l.Lewis found it even funnier as they played cards with us !!!!!!!

The sixth form went carol singing around the Blackwood area and happened to chance upon Eddie Maguire’s maison. Whilst giving it large outside, Neil Ray was seen to be smoking!!. Eddie got the hump and insisted that Neil write a formal letter of apology, which he duly obliged!!. Neil wrote and apologised for smoking in an English man’s home as it was his castle!!. He also stated that he would never smoke in an English man’s castle ever again!!!. Once again Eddie bought it !!!.

Nigel Joy