In a recent conversation with my dear friend 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". Would tell us how “the bastard heathen English stole the milk from our Welsh cows to make their blasted Cheddar”. Thus Cheddar Cheese is stolen Welsh cultural property. She would remind us that Shakespeare’s grandmother was Welsh, “the one he got his poetic genes from" and how Shakespeare's schoolmaster who “taught him how to read and write English” was of course a Leek.
- 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 "Gods own country" - blessed Wales with coal to keep the worlds "arses warm”. At the same time he would curse us for not studying hard enough, reminding us how he and his peer had to "read books to avoid being sent down the pit”. Good times.
- 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. Anglo-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 back side.
In the middle of the hymn they would implore “dig in deep, dig in deeper you rascals, put some heart into it for Pete’s sake!”. I am sure St. Peter was greatly pleased with our efforts, give us a C+?
Not that white Christian kids were spared the ordeal. Most of them children of poor Irish and Polish immigrants. Being Catholics made them as foreign than us.
Our teachers were not racists or bigots. They were not trying to convert us into Methodists or Presbyterians. We understood what was going on. Their only sin was that they loved to sing and scream our load about their passion for life. These were not "stiff English worms" (a phrase i never forget), they had pure British blood. These Celts had more in common with the Basques of Northern Spain than the Germanic lot who commanded England.
But for them, how 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 no good for nothing two timing drunk whore Liz Taylor"), the amazing George Everest (who was forced to have the worlds highest peak named after him - despite the Welsh humility of his protests) and of course Mr. Lawrence of Arabia who came from as far from golden deserts of the Middle East as one could possibly get, his 'green, green grass of..." Gorphwysfa in Tremadog, Caernarfonshire.
These crazy Welsh emigrants infused us with the passion for life, hymns, dance, song, language -- who would i be today without the poetry of WH Davies, R.S. Thomas, Roald Dahl, George Herbert, Edward Thomas and Dylan Thomas? These loud, mercilessly joyful and angry teachers enriched us beyond measure. I don't remember the lessons in the books we were forced to read, I only remember the lessons of their lives, their ways, their inspiration.
There were reserved Sasunnach teachers in our school, but I remember few of them. All of our Welsh teachers were larger than life romantic characters. These “bugger all” backwards who wended from the vicinity of Llareggrub were lyrical, smart, eloquent, stubborn and always irreverently funny. We laughed until we cried. They were my teachers because they were unashamedly, absolutely, completely who they were. As such, they taught me to be unashamedly who I am. What more could an innocent child 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
Recent Comments