1. Robert! Have you cleaned your teeth?

People often ask others what their first memory is. I'm not saying that "Robert! Have you cleaned your teeth?" is necessarily my FIRST memory, but it's one that comes to mind from my early childhood. I must admit that at that time, I didn't particularly like cleaning my teeth, because Mum always bought a brand of toothpaste called SR, and it was so minty it burned like hell. But I cleaned them anyway, and I suppose it's a good job I did, because here I am, fifty years later, and my gnashers are all still intact. So thanks, Mum.

It is so difficult to recall much detail from early childhood. I don't think I am alone on this one. There are moments, of course, that spring to mind, but I guess that's all our lives end up as. Just a series of moments that we recall, but the humdrum of everyday life just becomes a blur. So, all I can do is write about the things I do remember, and hope that it falls together into some sort of comprehensible order.

I suppose the overall emotion that is engendered when I think back to those early years is that I seemed to spend a lot of time being scared. I don't mean that people used to rush up to me and shout 'Boo!". I mean that it seemed that every new encounter was something that I dreaded. I was mostly scared of leaving my comfort zone of home, and having to interact with new people. Whilst I was fine and happy on my own lining up my Matchbox cars around the fireside rug in a huge traffic jam, I was not so comfortable with having to visit my Mum's friends, or more to the point, their kids. Other kids were scary. They were loud, and boys were rough. I spent a lot of time as a detached onlooker, trying to make sense of my world, whilst the other kids would just throw themselves into the mix and enjoy every game or adventure that came along.

At aged 5, I was bundled off to Park Infants School. The thought would fill me with dread, and I often used to feign illness in the vain hope that Mum would keep me home. Infants school is the time when personalities are formed, and the pecking order begins.

You soon learn who to like and who to dislike. In my case, I always had few friends, but managed to usually find just one best friend. My best friend was always male. I suppose I gravitated toward the other 'awkward joes' a lot of the time. I couldn't know at that time that I was gay, but I certainly felt different to most kids, and never really managed to fit in somehow. My first best friend was a boy called Graham Chester. He was from the poorer side of town, and his clothes reflected this. He was as skinny as I was podgy, but somehow we found a sort of common bond, and I would sometimes spend time playing marbles with him in the schoolyard at 'playtime'. However, he was not a friend that I used to spend time with out of school. Once the day was done, I was happy to get away from school and get back home. Whilst I don't think I was a particularly good or bad student, I got through the learning parts of the day okay. It was break times that I hated. In class, the other kids were under control. Once released into the playground they screamed, shouted, ran about, caused fights, or played football. I seemed to spend each break trying to disappear into a wall. I would just stand and stare at it all. I remember thinking how stupid they all were, and could never understand how or why people wanted to form themselves into little groups and play games.
Boys would link arms and march around the playground, chanting "All on the wall who's playing!". This was a call to get together enough lads to play a game of football, which I've hated for as long as I can remember. And so, for much of my time, I was a loner. I preferred it that way. I don't think it was necessarily that I liked being alone. It was just that I didn't seem to THINK the same as other kids. Plus, if I stayed out of the way, it meant that I wasn't going to get hurt. Fights frightened me to death, and if one broke out near me, I would try to sidle away, feeling sick in my stomach. On the rare occasions when I was attacked for no particular reason by some moron or other, I rarely fought back, and I suppose was a bit of a wuss. I couldn't help myself. I didn't have that killer instinct that seems to be part of being a boy.

After a couple of years attending the Infants school, we were moved up to Park Junior School, which was just another part of the same building, but with its own entrance, and separate playground. It was commonly known as Park Board School, because at some time in its history, it was most likely run by a Board of Governors as opposed to being run by the Church. (Thanks to Paul Appleby for the info). My memories become less of a blur at this point. I hadn't changed in myself, and would still avoid large groups of kids if I had a choice. I was still a people watcher. Whilst I tried to spend as much of my time being invisible, I did still look at my peer group an awful lot, and try to make sense of it all.

There were around 60 kids of my age in the catchment area of the school, so we were divided into two classes, A or B. The letters didn't have any significance as regards intelligence or merit. They were simply a way of dividing this huge chunk of childhood into manageable crowds. My first Junior's class was 1A, and it was run by Mrs Greenwood, a pudgy, smiley, posh lady who wore long drab dresses and pearls. She was a nice lady, a good teacher and incidentally, the wife of the Headmaster, Mr Greenwood. They both seemed very old to me at the time, both being grey-haired, and having a peculiar similar smell about them. Not that sniffing teachers was a regular pastime of mine, it's just something I remember.

Lessons were still handled on a somewhat Victorian basis to an extent. There seemed to be an element of repetition to learning. I think that they thought that if we learned everything parrot fashion over a long period, some of it would stick. And so we did 'Tables'. The whole class would chant in sing-song style, "2 x 2 is 4, 3 x 2 is 6...etc." In this way, we learned multiplication. Maths, or 'sums' as it was called then, was never my strong point. I enjoyed English, where Teacher would read to us, or where we had to write things ourselves.
In class 2A and 3A, my teacher was Mrs Clayton. She had the unfortunate nickname of 'Powderpuff Clayton', because after getting the class busy with something, she often used to delve into her bag and fetch out her face compact, check her appearance in the small mirror, and dab another cloud of face talcum onto her cheeks, and touch the centre of her lips with bright red lipstick. She again was a very smiley woman, but she also had an 'edge' to her. If you upset or annoyed her, you knew about it. Being told off was enough. You would feel smaller than small, and longed for a time to court her approval once more.

Throughout my childhood, we were given school milk at break time. It came in 1/3 pint glass bottles, and each day the teacher would assign two kids as milk monitors to fetch a crate of milk from the back door, where it was delivered every day by the milkman. In the wintertime, the milk would sometimes be part frozen, and there would be a tube of frozen milk protruding about an inch from each bottle, with the cap sat on top like a little hat. Mrs Clayton also used to sell us Rich Tea biscuits that she kept in a tin, at four for a penny. I would sometimes just have two for a ha'penny. She didn't stop us eating our own snacks and sweets, but she did used to frown and say, "Biscuits will do you more good than sweets", so you had to try to snaffle your Black Jacks, Fruit Salads or Sherbert Flying Saucers as quickly as possible, out of her line of vision.

Whilst Mrs Clayton took us for most of our classes, Mr Greenwood taught Physical Education and one of the two male teachers at the school, Mr Butwright, used to teach us 'Arts and Crafts'. I seem to remember lots of papier-mache being involved! The other male teacher, Mr Abbott, became a mini-celebrity for five minutes after having an article written about him in the Lincolnshire Standard. He was over 7 feet tall, and complained that he couldn't buy a bed in the town that was long enough for him. Cammacks the furnishers came to the rescue and presented him with a free, extra-long bed! I don't know why that would make the papers, but I guess they were short on long news.

At this time, I shared a double desk with a blonde boy called Ian Thompson. He was smaller than me, but also stronger and rougher. I got along okay with him, although he was never really a friend. What I do remember is that he had hairy legs! Even at the age of around 8 or 9, I was fascinated by the golden covering of hairs on his thighs. In those days, all boys wore shorts until they went to the 'Big School' at aged 11. I suppose it was my burgeoning sexuality, but I didn't realise it at the time. Speaking of which, I guess my first 'crush' was on a boy called Stephen Smith. His Dad was a Grocer too, and I first remember seeing him in his Dad's van when I was quite small and travelling with my Dad around the Freiston area. Stephen was tall and dark with green eyes, and as well as being athletically built, he was also clever, damn him! Some guys just seem to have it all!

Behind me in class sat two strange boys who definitely didn't have it all.They were called Derek Thomson, and Steven Grist. Derek seemed to have no neck, had permanently frayed lips, and snuffled all the time. He used to be excused Games for much of the time, because he had asthma, but I don't think I really knew what that was. Steven was a tall lad, but seemed a bit odd to me. His head was permanently shaved around the back and sides, with a clump of unruly hair plonked on top. Good-natured enough, and always eager to please, he used to throw up his arm to answer the Teacher's questions unfortunately wrongly much of the time, and others would mock him. After a Games lesson, he always seemed to have a problem dressing himself again, and would inevitably end up with his jumper on inside-out, back to front, or both.

Our school was slightly unusual in that from around 1966, it employed a French Teacher. French was, as far as I know, not part of a Primary school education at this time. Looking back, it was probably one of those cases of 'It's not what you know, but who you know'. The teacher, Mrs Sagar, was married to one of the town's doctors, and he no doubt had links with one or more of the school governors. His French wife was possibly 'found' a job in the school system. This is only supposition on my part, but I know that when I went to the Grammar School, they found it unusual that there were a bunch of us who already had learned a smattering of French. Mrs Sagar used a box projector to show cartoon images on screen. From those images, we learnt basic words and phrases, like L'oiseau est dans l'arbre, or Ouvrez la fenetre. Ultimately, it did me no good whatsoever, because I still failed my French 'O Level at 16!

The total number of below freezing days has fallen from 20 per year prior to 1900, to around 10 per year in recent years. Most of the warming has occurred since 1976, which explains why my memories of early schooldays included lots more snow! Icicles would hang from our shed roof, and I would sometimes break one off and suck on it like an ice lolly. I still remember Dad ice-skating on the Maud Foster drain opposite our house, and it was a weird feeling to be able to stand in the middle of the river.Whilst it was fun at the time, getting to school amid a flurry of snowballs usually meant the big old classroom radiators were draped with steaming wet coats, gloves and balaclavas. It was nice to be able to put on a roasting hot dufflecoat to go home in though.

Towards the end of my last year at Park Junior School, I broke my leg falling from a swing, and had to spend 10 weeks off school in a full leg plaster. I had a bed made up in the front room, and had to learn the awkward and embarassing ritual of the bedpan, and sitting-up washes in bed. Apart from that, and having to occasionally scratch inside the plaster with a knitting needle, it wasn’t so bad. At least I got to watch a lot of tv or read comics all day.

Up until 1966, there had been an exam in place called the 11+, the outcome of which decided which type of upper school you would attend. By the time I was reaching 11, the system had changed, and the decision about my next chunk of education was made by Mr Greenwood, the Headmaster. My Mum and Dad had initially marked me down to attend Kitwood Boys Secondary School, but Mr Greenwood actually called at the house and persuaded them that I was intelligent enough to go to the Boston Grammar School. So that was that. A new chapter began.

2. High Days and Holidays

Before moving on to the second decade of my life, I have to recount my world outside of school. My Mum and Dad were married in 1950, and settled in to the house in which they still live, 57 years later. After his Mum's premature death from spinal cancer, and Grandad's subsequent marriage to his second wife, Dad had spent some time growing up living with his Auntie Gertie. She lived in a rented house on Horncastle Road, and at the time that Mum and Dad married, the house next door to Auntie Gertie's became vacant, so this became the eventual family home. Many years later, both houses were eventually bought from their ageing owner. I was born in 1957 five years after my sister Barbara, and five years before my sister Carol. Almost five years after that, my brother Paul was born. Aside from a baby that didn't survive its first week, our family of six, plus Auntie and Uncle next door, was complete.

As a young boy, I tried to play with Barbara, but she had already established her friendships with other local kids, and I was a burden to her. I remember her 'going out to play' and me trying to follow. She would reach the gate and tell me something like, "Quick! Go back in the house! Mum's got some sweets for you!" Being naive, I would run back up the path, to find that she had gone, and latched the gate behind her. Lessons are soon learned in childhood.

I was happy enough.

Although Mum and Dad didn't have much spare cash, we had everything we needed, if not always everything we would have liked. I had a large collection of Corgi, Dinky and Matchbox cars, and would spend hours lining them up, parking them by the skirting boards, or just 'brumming' them up and down the fireside rug.
I had a metal pedal car with working headlights and a horn, and Dad also made me a 'Wells Fargo' train, which was great and gave me many hours of fun scooting up and down the path!





Barbara had a scooter, and a tricycle with a back box, which we all used as kids when we were growing up.

When I was a little older and I did get to play in the back street, the only other kids that were the same age as me were a boy called Chris Leonard, and a girl called Bridget McConvey. Chris was okay, but to my mind was totally bonkers. He was a daredevil, and the more dangerous the game he could find, the more he liked it. He was continually covered in scratches and bruises, either from throwing himself headlong onto the gravel while playing 'Wars', or from riding his bike full-pelt into the Water Board gates at the bottom of the street. Chris had two older brothers, so I'm guessing that one of them showed him how to make this home-made 'toy', and he showed us. It was a dart which you could either throw or blow through a pea-shooter. It was simply three matchsticks, a household needle, and snippets of wool for a flight, all tied together with wool or cotton. Once you had your ammo, you just needed a 'Cowboys and Indians' or 'Tarzan' scenario, and next thing you knew, you had a needle sticking out of your arm, leg or neck, which meant you were dead. Ouch!

Bridget was very squinty. She always seemed to have one eye closed against the sun, even when it was dull! We became friends for a short while, and I used to play with her bikes and toys at her house. One day, she decided she needed a wee, and went to the outside loo that most houses had then. Being a friend, I went in to keep her company, and sat on the floor chatting to her. The next moment, her Dad suddenly threw open the door, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, and frogmarched me home! Being totally confused and scared, I still didn't know what I was supposed to have done wrong, even after we got home and he was shouting at my Mum about keeping her perverted son away from his little girl. I couldn't have been more than 6 or 7 years old at the time. Strange man.

Dad was a grocer at this time who, along with a former work colleague, ran their own business, Clay & Lane's, in Main Ridge, Boston. As kids, we couldn't possibly know how hard he worked to provide for his growing family. Kath Lane spent every day in the shop, serving passing customers, and Dad took out his Bedford hi-top van, supplying groceries to people in their homes.

His working day started early, and apart from dropping in for meals, he would work until around 9.30 each evening. Occasionally, Dad would take me with him on his rounds, which extended to outlying villages and farms. It was all a great adventure for a small boy, but in the wintertime, when it was dark early, I wasn't too keen on sitting waiting in the van, while Dad was having a cuppa or a chinwag with his customer. Some of the country lanes around Boston at that time were almost devoid of traffic, so I would get a bit jumpy when an owl hooted nearby, or small creatures would rustle through the wheatfields.

The big old Bedford van almost became part of the family! On Sundays, Dad and Mum would sometimes take Barbara and I out in the van for a day at the seaside, or for picnics. Skegness is only 23 miles from Boston, but small children are impatient, so the journey seemed very long at the time. Barbara and I would sit on the deluxe seating in the back of the van which consisted of a three-legged stool, or a Smiths Crisps tin. We didn't mind, because it was all fun. Armed with a Primus stove and hastily packed food, Mum and Dad ensured we ate like kings in the open air. Why does food always taste better when you're 'roughing it' outdoors? We swam in the sea, sunbathed, dug holes in the sand and built sandcastles. A game of cricket or 'shuttlecock' made the day complete. Towards the end of this period of his working life, Dad was only paying himself the princely sum of £8 per week because it's all the business could afford. On that, Mum and Dad somehow brought up the whole family. It was a tough time for the small Grocer, and in the next few years, supermarkets drove the last few to the wall. Dad realised the way the tide was turning, so reluctantly gave up the business and sought work elsewhere. To give an idea of how little cash we were surviving on, when Dad managed to secure himself a job with the Lincolnshire Ambulance Service, his wages started at £13 a week. Mum also worked, cleaning other people's homes, but that was little more than slave labour. Because they both worked, when the school summer holidays came along, Barbara and I would spend time either with Mum's sister Rita and her family, on their farm, or with my Dad's sister Doff and her family in Stamford. Barbara and I didn't think it strange that we lived away from home for a few weeks at a time. We just accepted it as normal, and enjoyed our summer holidays. Doff, Dad's older sister and her husband Cliff (above) spoiled us while we were there, buying us clothes, toys and sweets. Auntie Doff would whisper, "Don't tell your Mum and Dad!". Their own two, Avril and Langley, had grown up, so they indulged us, being the little kids that we were. I loved spending time there because Doff was an animal lover, and in their small terraced house, she had Penny the dog, a mangey white cat with runny eyes that hissed at you if you got too close, Chico the mynah bird, who had us in hysterics with his chatter, coughing and whistling, rabbits in the yard, and a goldfish pond in the front garden. Unfortunately, Doff suffered the same illness as her mother, and died in her forties. It was a very sad time, but not properly appreciated by myself because I was young and foolish.

In 1962, Carol was born and life carried on much the same, albeit with an extra mouth for my parents to feed. Carol was a happy child, and grew into a happy adult. I suppose it's hard for me to admit, but there may have been a little jealousy on my part. I don't remember it as such, but I do know that I used to tease her terribly. I don't think I was a particularly nice child at times. In spite of that, we all got along okay, and the days out in the van continued. Being close to the coast, most outings were either to Skegness, Seacroft or slightly further to Mablethorpe, as in this picture from around 1963-4.

It's true that Dad's wages had increased, but we were still not a well-off family, so Dad kept the van after closing the business, and some time after, he converted it into a caravanette. He installed side windows, and made benches for either side in the back, and a fold out table which doubled as a base extension for making the seats into a double bed. He made two hammock style beds in the hi-top which rolled up and fastened to the wall when the van was in motion. The days out now sometimes became weekends, or even whole weeks away from home.

Paul was born in 1966 and instantly became everyone's darling. He was a cute, chucklesome kid with curly blonde hair, and being the baby of the family he had lots of attention. I was pleased to have a brother to even out the male-female divide, and I loved him from the start. When he was a toddler, I happily took him up town in his pushchair, and delighted in spending my pocket money on toys for him, just to make him happy.


In 1967 we went on what I remember as our first major holiday to Croyde Bay in Devon. Langley, Doff's son, and his wife Shirley and daughter Angela went with us. When we reached the cottage on the beach that we were staying in for the week, Dad and Langley carried on down into Cornwall, touring in the van, down one coast and back up the other. I was 10 years old, tubbier than I'd ever been, and didn't like myself very much. I was still quite childish, and I remember being terrified one night in bed when the tide came in, and the crashing waves on the rocks below got louder and louder. Shirley called me names and ridiculed me, which made me feel worse, so I spent a couple of days sulking and feeling very miserable. I took myself off, walking into the village about a mile away, and made myself feel better with some retail therapy! I spent almost half of my holiday money on a cool blue and white shirt, and felt like a million dollars because I'd actually chosen and bought an item of clothing for myself for the first time.

My joy was short-lived. I wore my new shirt down on the beach the next day, and decided to go for a swim. I folded my clothes up and took to the water. I enjoyed myself so much surfing along spreadeagled across an airbed, and didn't realise how long I'd been there. When I finally came back to the beach to retrieve my prized shirt, it was gone! The tide had come in, and it had washed away. I spent ages walking up and down the beach, peering at every wave, expecting my shirt to miraculously appear again, but it never did. Back to feeling miserable again. I must have been SUCH a joy to live with!

Our last family holiday before I started at Boston Grammar School in 1968 was to Great Yarmouth. It was one of the weeks when the whole family piled into the van and we pootled off to the coast. We stayed at North Denes Caravan Park and despite changeable weather, we enjoyed ourselves. The park itself had a central bar and amusement arcade area, but apart from that and a couple of gift shops and a bike hire shop, the main entertainment was in Yarmouth itself. The first night we arrived, there had been very heavy rain, so the campers in tents were desperately trying to dry out their belongings, whilst cars and vans were getting stuck in the mud. We 'moored' up for the week and set about having fun. Barbara was about 16 at the time, and experienced her first, and I think only, holiday romance with a lad in a neighbouring caravan. The rest of us did seasidey things, touring the endless gift shops, eating fish and chips, taking rides on the funfair or just spending time on the beach. One day it was decided that we should have a walk to Lowestoft. It is only across the River Yare, but it seemed to take us forever to get there, and half way, it absloutely pelted down with rain. We weren't prepared for it, so Dad rushed into a gift shop en route and bought us all plastic macs. Crinkling our way onwards like soggy carrier bags with legs, we eventually reached Lowestoft, looked at the wet fishing boats, ate fish and chips in a cafe, and I think got the bus back to North Denes. When your only source of heat is from a two-ring Calor gas stove, you can imagine the fun trying to dry out the clothes of a family of six in the back of a Bedford van! Our temporary home suddenly turned into a sauna, and Dad kept wiping down all the windows with a wash leather and wringing it out outside.
I don't think it bothered us kids, but it must have been a bit of a nightmare for Mum and Dad.
During a dry moment one day in Yarmouth, they decided it would make a fun excursion to book a trip the next day on the 'Golden Galleon'.

It was a small passenger ship that skirted the coast and back. We made it on board just in time for the heavens to open once more, this time accompanied by strong winds and sea spray. Maybe it wasn't the most enjoyable cruise ever, but it was certainly memorable!
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As a footnote, looking online, I found out this about the Golden Galleon.
ML162 had an illustrious career during World War II, as not only did the crew have the distinction of having shot down six enemy aircraft and taken part in the sinking of a submarine, she was also mentioned as being highly commended for the part played in the D-Day invasion.After the war, ML162 was transferred to the Royal Netherlands Navy where she continued in service for a further two years. She was then sold off and taken to Great Yarmouth for conversion to a passenger vessel. Emerging from the refit as GOLDEN GALLEON, she began her new career in 1952 taking as many as 150 tourists on excursions along the East Anglian coast and the Norfolk Broads.

Sadly, I then also found this:

Golden Galleon, in 2006 moored near Reedham. Despite efforts to save her, she was deemed a potentional navigation hazard and was scrapped a couple of months after the images below were taken.

3. The Grammar School Years

For any child, moving from Primary School to Secondary School education is a daunting time. In my case, starting at the Boston Grammar School was quite a scary prospect. I had been to 'Cheers Mens Outfitters' in the school holidays with Mum to get kitted out in the strange new uniform I was going to have to wear. There was so much new stuff to buy that Mum had to use the money that I had saved in my TSB account. (While I was at Park School, every Monday morning I would take a TSB bank book and one or two shillings from home, and the Teacher would deposit it into a savings account). There was a lot to pay for, including a proper school blazer with three embroidered crowns on the breast pocket, charcoal trousers, socks, shoes, white and blue shirts, school tie, football boots, shorts, school football shirt, white T-shirts, cricket whites, and swimming kit. Being the stroppy little kid that I was, I remember throwing a sulk on holiday in Yarmouth when I was forced to spend one whole pound of my holiday money on a new satchel for school.
School started in September, and an old schoolfriend from Park school, Christopher Mills, came with me on my first day. (I found out years later that he was also gay. You know what they say about birds of a feather...).
There were around 90 new boys starting that year, and we were put in the new pre-fab mobile classrooms overlooking the school playing fields. In that first year, they still had no idea of our academic prowess or otherwise, so they simply divided us into three groups of around 30 boys, and named the classes after the initials of the school, B, G and S. I was in 1G, and my form teacher was Mr Dick Eyeington. It seemed a fitting name for him because he was whorl-eyed. He was a terror, who loved to shout at the top of his voice if he saw you misbehave. Many is the time I froze as his voice boomed out, "Clay! Face front! Or I'll stand on your neck!" In 1969, teachers were also not averse to throwing board rubbers at you from the front of the class. If his aim was good, you certainly felt it when a rectangular block of wood hit you on the side of the head! If he was close enough, he would hit the back of your head with his hand, and practically knock you senseless. It certainly made you sit up and take notice.
That first year was, I think, the last year that the whole school had to stand in the playground for a school photo. This was the result of 500 boys all told to "face front, and no larking about or you are in a week's detention". Lots of glum faces.

The school was very parochial and strict, and the masters dressed for assembly in gowns and mortar boards. Some of the older ones still used to wear their gowns in class. I think it gave them a feeling of superiority to swoop into class in their own Batman uniforms.
In the first year, I made friends with a lad that I'd barely known at Park School, Mick Holland. I have to admit that as well as sharing his silly sense of humour, I also thought him very attractive. He had black hair and green eyes, and always seemed to be smiling. He was what people would call 'a bad influence', because he was always looking for fun, and used to make me laugh in class. One time he had an argument with the cleaners, and to get his own back, at the end of the next day, he littered the classroom with scraps of paper, and wrote on the blackboard, 'Enjoy cleaning it up!' Unfortunately for me, while he went to fetch his bike from the bike sheds, I was seen by the caretaker being the last to leave the classroom. He saw the mess, and I don't know if I chuckled, but he grabbed me, told ME off and frogmarched me to the Headmaster's office. After a kangaroo court judgement, and because I wouldn't tell who the real culprit was, I was told to come back the next day where I would be given the cane. Mick, when he found out, thought he would do the honourable thing, so he confessed. It just meant that he had 'three of the best' too! We dragged our sore arses around to the school swimming pool and went for a swim to cool off our rears. If anything, it brought us closer as friends. It gave us a bit of a reputation when the whole class was talking about it the next day, how Mick and I had become the first two in our year to get 'the Swish'. We were asked, "What was it like?", and "Did it hurt?", but we shrugged it off and said "Nahhh, not really", which was a complete lie because we had whip marks on our arses for a week!
Mick and I hung around together, and in the summertime during breaks, we would play-fight and wrestle on the playing field, rolling down the grassy hill and falling about laughing when we reached the bottom. Fun times. However, at the end of the first year, there were some rearrangements done. There were a few boys that were seen to be less capable of dealing with the schoolwork, so they were moved to Kitwood Boys Secondary Modern for their second year. On the flipside, there were a few boys that were seen to have been misplaced at Kitwood, so they were moved to the Grammar School.
I lost my mate Mick initially to Kitwood, but then ultimately lost him completely to leukemia, which slowly destroyed his athletic body over the next couple of years, and he died prematurely at just 15 years old.

I somehow managed to make friends with one of the 'new boys' that started in 2G, Dave Rimmer. By now the class names had changed to reflect academic skills or choice of language that we were taking. Those that chose to do Latin were put into 2L, while my class, 2G, took German. There was a third class made up of the brainiest of the year, and they were all put into class 2A, to no doubt reflect their higher standing.
Dave Rimmer was so quiet and nervous when he started at the Grammar School, and with the other ex-Kitwoods, was treated as a race apart by the other boys. I felt sorry for Dave, and as he was sat behind me in class, I started to chat, and we became friends. His Dad was a sergeant at RAF Coningsby, not far from Boston. Dave was completely obsessed with all things to do with flight and flying. His bedroom had rows of books on planes, and there were numerous Airfix models hanging on strings from his ceiling. I suppose it was partly his influence that made me decide to join the RAF cadets.
The Headmaster, Mr Ricketts, retired in my first year there, and was replaced by a tyrant called Mr Johnstone. He was the youngest ever Grammar School Headmaster at that time, being just 33 when he took the position. He was a decorated ex-RAF officer, who often wore his old uniform under his gown on special occasions, or if the Combined Cadet Force were throwing an Open Day, as in the pic below, which shows my three best friends from school, Nick Murrell, Ian Wright (Albert) and Dave Rimmer. On the right is Robert Cocks, who later went on to become a Chemistry Professor, but not before one weekend at RAF Marham, where a bunch of lads stripped him naked and 'padawax-ed' his balls with black boot polish, because he was such a snoot and a know-all.

The picture below shows a chubby me in 1970, looking a bit uncomfortable at having to stand so close to the Headmaster, on the right.

The Combined Cadet Force was run by the school, and closely affiliated to the three forces of Army, Navy and RAF. We occasionally would go away for weekends or even weeks at a time and stay on a real camp. I had joined the CCF in the RAF section, and we used to turn up after school in a scratchy blue serge uniform, and 'square-bash' around the playground. We did also take classes in flight dynamics and suchlike, but none of it ever stuck. I enjoyed the excursions away to different RAF camps up and down the country, and was fortunate to be able to get free flights in Chipmunk trainers, and once as a passenger on a Hercules! One particular weekend, Dave and I went with the cadets to stay at RAF Newton, near Nottingham. On the Saturday, we were all due to get a free ten minute flight in a Chipmunk. We had had our briefing and all sat around in one of the huts on the airfield, waiting for our flights. Everyone in our group went up one after another, until there was only me left. The officer in charge apologised to me but said that the weather was getting too bad to fly, so I wouldn't be able to go up. At that moment, the Camp Commandant came in. Hearing about my non-flight plight, he said it was unfair to leave me out, so he would take me up himself. I was thrilled, not least because my flight lasted 35 minutes! During that time, we did loop-the-loops, flew upside-down, and did nose dives. It was great fun! Over the headset radio, he asked me if I liked football. I had to tell him, "No...not really, Sir". He said, "Good! Neither do I. Let's have some fun!", and he flew us over Nottingham, and buzzed Nottingham Forest football club in the middle of a game! A sea of scared faces looked upwards, probably waiting for the machine-guns to start up! On the way back to base, the Commandant let me hold the dual controls, and explained what each thing did. He asked if it felt okay resting my hands and feet on the joystick and pedals, to which I replied that "Yes, it feels great, Sir". He said, "Well that's good because you've been flying the plane for the last five minutes". I instantly panicked, and the plane wobbled in the sky. He laughed, and took over the controls once more. It was one hell of a good memory for me. What a flight!

Another highlight of my cadet days was when we attended a weekend at RAF Coningsby. I was lucky enough to be chosen as one of only three cadets that had a free flight in a Phantom jet simulator. It only took off, flew across the fens and landed back at base again, but what a thrill for a schoolboy.

The RAF section at school had its own glider! Well, so-called, but it was a weird contraption built from a kit, and made of tubular metal and stretched wings over wooden frames. To make it fly, a pitchfork was hammered into the ground, and a rope tied to that and the back of the plane. Then the whole troupe took an elastic rope attached to the front of the plane, and ran for all they were worth across the playing field. When they reached as far as they could pull, a signal was given, the pitchfork removed, and the glider slid across the grass on thin wooden skis. By a complete fluke, I ended up as the pilot! It was nothing to do with any skills I'd learned, but everything to do with that fact that I was a fat kid, and they needed a 10 stone pilot. The 'sergeant' of the platoon, an older boy called Smithbone, was incensed that he was too heavy to be in the flying seat, and it made me unpopular with him as I was flying the glider when he wanted to. It was a fearsome machine, and sometimes I would be gliding around in the stratosphere, all of 10 feet from the ground, sometimes for as long as 10 seconds! It was all good fun, and we had some laughs.

Back to the school proper. I have to admit that I was not a particularly good student. The work was hard, and all through school, we were tested on our knowledge every three weeks. The three-weekly test scores would be put on the notice board of the classroom, and I always seemed to hover around the 20th - 30th position in most subjects. Maths was a weak subject for me, and I inevitably would be in the last three or four every three weeks. It just would not sink in, no matter how many times it was repeated to me. The Maths teachers may just as well have been talking to me in Swahili, for all the sense it made.

I was better in subjects that interested me. I consistently got good marks in Art, and my English was usually pretty good. I even managed to get a poem of mine published in the school magazine. I also liked History and Biology, but the other sciences, Physics and Chemistry were a mystery to me.

The other part of school life that I never looked forward to was Games. Most of the boys couldn't wait, because it meant that they could get out onto the school playing fields and play their beloved football. If I was ever forced to play, the others would soon groan if I was put on their team. I would more often than not accidentally kick the ball to an opposing player than one of my own. Yes, I can safely say that my football skills were nil. However, it made it easier to get transferred on to the Cross-country team instead. I hated running too, but because the teachers were usually taking charge of the football games, they would send us off on the 'school cross-country route' and leave us to it. I, along with a couple of others, would run-walk to the bottom of Rowley road, duck under the bridge over the river there, and chat and smoke for half an hour or so. Once the runners started coming back, we would let most of them go past, then tag on and run back up the street to the school, trying to look like we'd just run three miles.

There were a few occasions when this plan didn't work. Every year, the school would hold its annual cross-country event, and everyone had to take part. It was divided into three races along the same route depending on age. First and Second years would run together, third and fourth, and so on. The route would be dotted with marshalls made up of teachers and prefects, who logged your number on a clipboard as you struggled by. The whole route was three and a half miles long, and would take us alongside the Maud Foster drain, past the docks, along the Witham river and past Skirbeck church. On reaching the school gates, you then had to also do a whole lap of the playing fields before they clocked your time at the end. I was always one of the last stragglers to stumble home. The teachers couldn't understand it, as I did cross-country every week...

When I felt it was all going a little over my head, I was all too willing to look around for distractions, and one such distraction came in the shape of another school friend, Ian Ainsworth. He and I would giggle our way through so many lessons. We would make faces at each other across the room, draw cartoons or just generally take the mickey out of whichever teacher was mooching about between us. There were so many times when I was reduced to tears of laughter, and it was always the more funny because we had to stifle it, and try to look as though we were working. Inevitably, I got caught out for messing around, and would end up in detention. Some teachers took great pleasure in dishing out half-hourly detentions after school, and my school day more often than not finished at 4.30pm, whilst everyone else had gone home at 3.55. Sometimes we were allowed to do homework, but depending on the teacher taking the detention, we may just have to sit facing front in perfect silence for 30 minutes. They were the longest half hours ever!

Speaking of misbehaving, there was a lad called Mark Smith, a slightly-built blonde lad with tortoiseshell glasses who looked as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, but he was the bane of most teachers' lives. He loved fighting, destroying things, and especially seeing things explode. One day in Chemistry, we had all settled in our places before the teacher got there. Mark Smith ran round to each set of acid bottles on the ends of each bench, and dropped sticks of chalk into the sulphuric acid, replacing the glass stoppers as he did. The teacher entered the class, and within seconds there was a mini-explosion as a glass stopper flew into the air and crashed to the ground. It was quickly followed by another 10 or so bottle stoppers, as each bottle of acid reacted with the chalk. The class was in uproar, and the teacher was purple in the face. Mark Smith didn't last long at the school, and was expelled after he'd found a quarry somewhere with a shed full of TNT, and decided to blow the whole lot up!

As schooldays wore on, we found ourselves becoming more bored by it all. When I turned 15, they decided to raise the school-leaving age to 16. At the end of my fourth year, we took mock 'O Levels, and out of 9 subjects taken, I passed 6, (failing Maths, Physics and Chemistry, of course). They had no syllabus for the added year, so it became a year of revision. We were taken back over subjects we had already covered, and some of us were just champing at the bit to leave. My pal 'Albert' and I spent more time and intelligence trying to get out of school than actually studying. Albert was so-called because his name was Ian Wright, but there was a butcher in the town called Albert Wright, so the nickname stuck. We would turn up for Registration, get our names marked as present, then disappear after the first period. Most times we had to run under windows and past full classes to get our freedom. We found the best route was to go through the bike sheds, over the wall into the swimming pool area, (provided it wasn't being used), then a last fence and we were out on the street. We would take off our jackets and ties so as not to be identified, and hang around the shops in town. In the summertime, we sometimes used to shoplift sweets and paperback books and climb the fire escape ladders at the back of the cinema. The cinema's flat roof had a low wall around its edge, and it was a perfect place to sunbathe, read and snaffle our booty without danger of being disturbed. From the roof we could see the school grounds, and hear the bell, so as soon as the final bell went, we strolled back into school, mingling with the other students, collected our bikes and went home.

On one occasion, Albert and I didn't actually leave the school grounds, but skived off all the same. On the perimeter of the playground through the bike sheds stood an old house which somehow belonged to the school. I guess at one time it may have been for use by the Headmaster. Anyway, the only uses it saw when I was at school was as a meeting place for a chess club, and had previously been used by a Model Railway club. It was largely derelict, but there were a couple of old sofas and chairs still in there, and it seemed like a good place to hide out. Albert and I did our usual sign on and scarper, and although the old house was padlocked, there was an old ladder at the side of the place. We put the ladder up to the broken upstairs window and climbed in. We dossed around on the sofas, chatting and laughing until final bell. On the way out, Albert noticed that one of the interior walls had been broken through, and amidst the plaster and wood laths was a cable. He pulled on it, and the rest of the plaster stripped off the wall until we realised that the cable was connected to an electricity meter. We wondered if it was still connected, but assumed that it wasn't. In a wanton act of vandalism, Albert took a chunk of wood and slammed it down on the box. It fell from the wall revealing two bare wires. We stood looking at them, and then Albert dared me to touch them together to see if they were still live. Like an idiot, I did! There was an almighty boom! and I was sent hurtling backwards across the room, crashing into the crumbling plaster on the opposite wall. The explosion alerted boys collecting their bikes, and we soon had a small crowd of onlookers peering through the windows. We opened the window to huge cheers, and quickly hightailed it out of there. Luckily we were never caught for our roles as Explosive Demolition Experts. Shortly afterwards, the house was re-opened by the school as a Tuck Shop, in an effort to stop boys leaving the school grounds during break times to buy sweets and drinks.

If I ever see kids vandalising old property nowadays, I have to try to remember that I was not always blameless on that front myself, much to my shame.

The final year drew to a close, and we had the awful, inevitable 'O Level exams to get through. Because I had wasted much of my final year on having fun instead of studying, much of what I had previously learned was just a distant memory. No amount of last-minute cramming was going to help either. I managed a pass in English Language and R.I. strangely. When congratulated by Reverend Spurrell, our Religious Instruction teacher, I remember annoying him somewhat. I had never really believed in the stuff they'd tried to teach us about Jesus and his gang, and all through school I used to question everything the Rev told us. He seemed to think that by passing an exam, it made me a little more religious or something. He said something like, "So after all this time, some of the teachings of the Lord have sunk in then". I said, "No...I am a more confirmed atheist than ever...I just remember fairy stories well". He blustered something about getting out of his sight, as his face turned purple. Silly man.

During my last couple of years at the school, I had had a Saturday job with a supermarket in town, Keymarkets. As my educational qualifications seemed next to useless for a worthwhile career, and I needed a job, I asked at Keymarkets first. The Manager was a nice man, and offered me a place as a Provisions trainee, but I needed to start straight away. I went to see the Headmaster, and sucking air through his teeth in his usual style, hissed, "Go! I shall be pleased to see the back of you, Clay!" No love lost there then. So off I went, to start working for a living...