In a recent conversation with Robbie Stamp I found myself reminiscing about my teachers at Dormers Wells High School. For some bizarre reason, this run down multi-cultural school in west end of London in the late 70's was chock full of Welsh teachers.
Our Welsh teachers would jibe us about how our parents ended up in Southall because it was "the first bus stop they came across after they got off the plane at Heathrow Airport". We would joke with them about how they had to hitch a lift down the M4 as it was their only way out of eating daffodils.
I never did find out why we had so many Welsh teachers at our school, but I will never forget the impression they left on me: How could I forget…
- Our Mr. Mathias, the most lyrical woodwork and metalwork teacher you could ask for. He would only stop singing hymns and carting on about “the valley” to slap us across the head to remind us to "file in the right direction” and "for heavens sake put your heart into it boyo!"
- Our Mrs. Murray, our English teacher would bring us caerphilly cheese from her village back in gods own country, and tell us "get your teeth into that". She would then tell us about how “the bastard heathen English steal the milk from our cows to make their blasted cheddar”. So, cheddar is stolen Welsh cultural property. She never failed to remind us that Shakespeare’s grandmother, “that's the intelligent one that he got his genes from" and how his schoolmaster “who taught him everything he knew” were both Leeks, oops - sorry thoroughbred Welsh.
- Our Mr Gwyn Lewis (there were so many Mr. Lewis’s that we even got to know their first names!) would holler at us during Geography lessons, one week about how God blessed Wales with coal to keep the worlds "arses warm” then curse us the following week for not having to “study hard just to keep from being sent down the pit” as his generation had to.
- Our Mr Morgan who took enormous pleasure in chasing us and beating us senseless during rugby practice so we could be “real men”. In the summer he would hurl cricket balls at us because “cricket is a poof’s game (apart from Tony Lewis of course, who lead the "lame English game" as their captian). His long diatribes on the cottage burning of those "imperialists" made games lessons mentally as much as physically stimulating.
- Our Miss Clancy who quietly revealed to us in Religion class that “St. George was nothing but an effete wally who would faint at the sight of a real dragon” and dutifully taught us how to pronounce “saes” or “sasunnachs” a derogatory term for these 'bloody mongrol foriegners' - i.e. Saxons.
- Our Mr Rees Jones would make us copy out our entire History textbook through the year while he put his feet up to read the latest edition of his favourite porno mag. No one ever complained about Mr Rees Jones personal “mind expansion” because when he wasn’t sucking on his pipe, thumbing through Penthouse Letters or simply nodding off, would break out into impromptu Tommy Cooper impressions.
How could we ever forget our morning assembly’s? Mr. Mathias and Mr. Evans patrolling menacingly through long lines of Muslim, Hindu and Sikh kids ensuring we were singing “Onward Christian Soldiers” at the top of our lungs for fear of a short sharp boot up the rear end.
In the middle of the hymn they would holler “dig in deep and put some heart into it for Pete’s sake!”. I felt sure that St. Peter would be generally pleased with our efforts.
Not that the white Christian kids amongst us were spared the ordeal. Most of them were children of poor Irish or Polish immigrants. Being Catholics somehow made them even more foreign than us.
Our teachers were not racists or bigots. They were not trying to convert us into Calvinist Methodists or Presbyterians. We understood what was going on. Their only sin was that they loved to sing and scream at us about the passion of life.
How else would I have ever known of the socio-political genuis of Aneurin Bevan, the artistry of Gareth Edwards, the tenacity of David Lloyd George, the betrayal of Richard Burton (by "that two timing drunk no good for nothing bitch Liz Taylor"), the amazing George Everest (who had the worlds largest mountain named after him despite his protests) and Lawrence of Arabia who came from as far from deserts of the Middle East as one could possibly get, as his 'green, green grass of home' was Gorphwysfa in Tremadog, Caernarfonshire.
These crazy Welsh emigrants infused us with the love of life, hymns, song and (of course) the poetry of WH Davies, R.S. Thomas, Roald Dahl, George Herbert, Edward Thomas and Dylan Thomas. They enriched us beyond measure.
Unlike the largely reserved 'sasunnach' (English) teachers in our school, all of our Welsh teachers were loud and colourful, larger than life characters. These “bugger all” backwards from the vicinity of Llareggrub were lyrical, smart, eloquent, stubborn and irreverently funny. They were our teachers, but much more they were unashamedly, absolutely, completely who they were. As such, they taught us only to be unashamedly who we were.
As teachers, they taught us so much, but as educators they imparted on us a far more important sense of being true to ourselves. What more could we ask for?
"You thought, because he could not speak English in the
native garb, he could not therefore handle an
English cudgel: you find it otherwise; and
henceforth let a Welsh correction teach you a good
English condition. Fare ye well."
Henry V, Act V, Scene i
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