Education for Losers - Memoirs of a Dunce

GLASGOW HIGH SCHOOL

I’d been at the same school for 13 years. I passed the entrance exam for the Glasgow High

School in 1952 by drawing scribbles on paper. I was asked what this was and informed the Rector that it was a rubbish heap. This original answer seemed to secure my place at this grim selec­tive school ruled by David Lees, otherwise known as “The Dave”. He was a man of terrifying aura and austere bearing, despite his five foot noth­ing. His fluent Japanese and wartime counter-intelligence experience gave him the fearsome reputation that crushed any potential opposition to his Stalinist rule. He gave his staff carte blanche to do what they liked with their charges. Anybody who attended the asylum knows what I am talk­ing about. The school buildings were replicas of a wartime prison camp – A Bloc, B Block, C Block and D Block. A Block was the worst with long draughty corridors exposed to the cold winter winds and driving rain. Here were housed the science laboratories, the art rooms and the ancient lecture theatre where the inmates ate their sandwiches at lunchtime. On the ground floor of A Block there were classic lavatories fitted out in the best Shanks porcelain. I used to watch fat Mole Clark backcombing his slick locks at every interval; his mind filled forever with a reek of old brylcreem. His career as a rock band roadie was assured. C Block was newer but equally grim since on the ground floor Dave HQ was situated, the centre of power, the Rector’s Office. Access to the Fuhrer was barred by the steely persona of Miss McClaren, the School Secretary. She wasn’t nice like most school secretaries.

Down the corridor from HQ Mr.Paisley’s music lessons were held op­posite the toilets and near the Primary School Block where I had first been imprisoned at five years of age. In 1960 I was eight years into my thir­teen-year stretch in the madhouse. The thundering tones of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony had class 1B cowed into terrified silence as Paisley’s thick tawse crashed down on the desks. Boys cringed in their seats as the No­vember smog swirled against the windows darkening the sky outside and casting the music room victims into a mood of fear and loathing.

“Who has forgotten their music books?” yelled the sadistic bastard.

Several boys owned up to this unpardonable sin.

“Out here” ordered Paisley.

Hands were held out for a leathering as the rest of the class quaked. Broken spirits shuffled back to their seats.

“Now as for the rest of you” roared Paisley,” I don’t believe that any of you have brought your books so you are all going to get it, especially as none of you had the guts to admit your guilt”.

One after the other the small boys went to the front of the classroom for their undeserved punishment. Fat, effeminate and apparently nouveaux riche Archie Hamilton from Newton Mearns held out his obese paw. Alistair Murray, the surgeon’s son from Bearsden, half-crazed with repres­sion, gibbered pitifully as the pain of the belt hit his miserable wrists. The back of his hands was already gnawed to pulp as a result of neurotic biting. Next came Kenneth Craig from the deserts of Giffnock, his talent for drop­ping consonants from key words temporarily curtailed. Carse of Trowan became Arse of Trowan as the Carse vanished in predictable agony. Again and again the belt cracked down on the sweating palms of the miscreants. The wearers of the turd-coloured uniform had no hope of early release from prison. This scene was typical of the treatment meted out by the staff of paid sadists at this supposedly distinguished selective school. Most of them seemed to be ex-forces with strong memories of the war and a lik­ing for brutal discipline. It was only normal to find pupils being smashed into the ground by some psychopathic Sir. Or else they would be doing long ink exercises to satisfy the lunatics who demanded respect from their charges and gave none in return.

“Your incarceration will last forever…”

Yet although most Sirs were bullying cowards there was occasional light relief in Mr.Morton’s religious instruction class. Flash Moron was Head of the Combined Cadet Corps and a man of military bearing but a known softie.

“Turn to Revelations, Chapter 6 and make sure you understand the meaning of J