In the early 1950s Britain was in a deep economic depression. My father had his own economic depression but still gallantly chose to send his only son to boarding school. The phrase used now is culture shock. Back then it was just a shock!! Indulged by three elder sisters and a doting mother I was sent away to prep school. And not just any old prep school but the most miserable prep school in England, where my father had himself spent several miserable years. My abiding memory of my first term is having my head and school books thrust down a lavatory by a couple of grinning oiks then shortly afterwards bending over for 3 strokes of the headmasters whippiest cane because I could provide no satisfactory answer for having dripping wet school books.
Mr Pearce was my housemaster and one of the few married teachers in the school. His black haired, almond eyed wife looked like a gypsy, taught French and was the only attractive female for miles around. He ran what was easily the most easy going house in the school. Discipline however, was if not strict, at least predictable, one would be invited to attend a private meeting where you would be asked to bend over a comfortable armchair and Mr Pearce would apply a large black plimsoll to your behind. Six of the best and hard enough to sting but not really much to worry about for the average mischievous boy. In fact those of us regularly issued with Mr Pearces polite invitations would have a chuckle about it afterwards. The sound of plimsoll hitting bottom could be heard a mile away but it was infinitely preferable to a caning.
He was a large amiable , loudmouth Welshman who loved rugby and a few beers. We could often smell the alcohol on his breath. On his way back from the local hostelry one evening he fell into a ditch and broke his right arm. What explanation he gave to the headmaster or Mrs Pearce we were never privileged to find out but the next day he appeared with his arm in a sling. All of us laughed in the certain knowledge that we had little to fear from Mr Pearce wielding a plimsoll in his left hand. Probably it was with this in mind that several boys, myself included were tempted to avoid cheering on our house in one of the frequent inter house rugby matches. Of course our absence was noticed and we were duly summoned to appear and present our excuses, there were four of us. All lined up in happy anticipation of a relatively pain free punishment and what happened? We were each called in by Mrs Pearce, who had armed herself with a swishy little cane. Oh Boy did she know how to use it too!! Six of the best and each and every stroke a real stinger. Four tearful ten year old boys soon spread the word and behaviour improved dramatically until Mr Pearces right arm was properly healed.
Mr Pearce was my housemaster and one of the few married teachers in the school. His black haired, almond eyed wife looked like a gypsy, taught French and was the only attractive female for miles around. He ran what was easily the most easy going house in the school. Discipline however, was if not strict, at least predictable, one would be invited to attend a private meeting where you would be asked to bend over a comfortable armchair and Mr Pearce would apply a large black plimsoll to your behind. Six of the best and hard enough to sting but not really much to worry about for the average mischievous boy. In fact those of us regularly issued with Mr Pearces polite invitations would have a chuckle about it afterwards. The sound of plimsoll hitting bottom could be heard a mile away but it was infinitely preferable to a caning.
He was a large amiable , loudmouth Welshman who loved rugby and a few beers. We could often smell the alcohol on his breath. On his way back from the local hostelry one evening he fell into a ditch and broke his right arm. What explanation he gave to the headmaster or Mrs Pearce we were never privileged to find out but the next day he appeared with his arm in a sling. All of us laughed in the certain knowledge that we had little to fear from Mr Pearce wielding a plimsoll in his left hand. Probably it was with this in mind that several boys, myself included were tempted to avoid cheering on our house in one of the frequent inter house rugby matches. Of course our absence was noticed and we were duly summoned to appear and present our excuses, there were four of us. All lined up in happy anticipation of a relatively pain free punishment and what happened? We were each called in by Mrs Pearce, who had armed herself with a swishy little cane. Oh Boy did she know how to use it too!! Six of the best and each and every stroke a real stinger. Four tearful ten year old boys soon spread the word and behaviour improved dramatically until Mr Pearces right arm was properly healed.
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Sarajane
“loudmouth Welshman who loved rugby and a few beers” ?
Does the word ‘tautology’ mean anything to you, Freddy? 😉
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Guest
It means saying the same thing twice in a different way Sarajane. It is the sort of word i remember using in writing essays in English literature. Mr Pearce was actually a very warm and wonderful human being, despite being Welsh!!Anyway i have become in old age a loudmouthed Englishman who loves beer and still hates rugby!
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Jockie
“loudmouth Welshman who loved rugby and a few beers” ?Does the word ‘tautology’ mean anything to you, Freddy? 😉
Sarajane,dis the expression “daein ma heid in” mean anything to you?
If yer goan tae talk Greek at least yase the richt wurd ie, to whit, an awe that cairry oan………
……… tautologos !
Anyway I think it gave his recollection colour and as fer bendin ower fur the cane from a wumman that taught French. Weel that just wis rite up ma street!
Jockie.
PS. When ur ye next coming up tae Glasgae? Ah will let ye by me a wee pint! (and yes ah know all aboot “wee” and “pint” in an out o the grammar context!)
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jay
Well my PE teacher was a Welsh B*****D who loved slippering boys, on gym shorts or bare! He broke his leg once and I called him something nasty relating to disabled persons. He pinned me to the wall by the throat with his crutch ( no not his groin). I would love to see him try ( rugby) it on now, little Welsh bully that he was. Still happy memories of the whole class getting it, it was worth my whack to see all the others. The perfect slipper shape lasted for ages.
regards,
jay
Must be murder for the moderator to read some of those long posts and try to understand jockie, because none of the rest of us does, lol
regards,
jay
Must be murder for the moderator to read some of those long posts and try to understand jockie, because none of the rest of us does, lol
