September 1974 to October 1978
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hat first day, in September 1974, was a day of meetings - things I came to dread. We started the first half of the morning with a Heads of Faculty meeting. After a coffee break came a full staff meeting. Early afternoon was a Year Meeting. Finally, I held my own departmental meeting, towards the end of the day. I was head of Craft, Design & Technology (CDT), as well as the head of the faculty of design.
I loathed meetings only because of
the time it wasted, when I felt I could be doing something more useful. A
meeting that produces a useful action plan for all personnel is fine; one that
allows exercises in individual verbal discharge is excruciating. I must say that Peter Gaskell was just quite
amazing, and brilliant, as a debater. He would attend several meetings in a
day, one after the other, listen and contribute intently, and all without a
single scrap of paper to help him. The way he conducted an hour and a half staff
meeting, holding forth on many subjects and going through his own agenda - all
without even one note or reminder - was legendary.
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im
Lovegrove was now deputy head at
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was now living in No 1 Civilian Officers’
Mess; meals for me were breakfast and evening dinner, as I had a school lunch.
I left at
His new Head, who had also just
arrived at the school, was Ron Ion whom I had first met in ’64 at
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n my
first working morning at Queens school, whilst in the staff room waiting for
the daily 8.50 am briefing, someone called me over to the telephone saying that
it was for me. Puzzled, I wondered who it could be.
Having
identified myself, the caller said “My name’s Ray Cross. I am the chief
Administrative Officer at HQ BFES. However, I am not ringing you about your
professional role, but rather on the social side. I understand that you are
interested in drama, and that you were a leading light with the Münster
Garrison Players. Well, I am a member of RATS,
and I would like to have a chat with you, at your convenience of course; er,
what about this evening. You are in Number 1 Mess aren’t you? Yes, I know the
place well. Shall we say
Phew! The briefing had started, and
already I had missed myself being introduced to the staff. I felt somewhat
embarrassed. Moreover, what was this ‘telephone call about?
That evening I was in the bar when
in walked Ray Cross. We met up, and he introduced me to Major Colin Mole. Colin
was now a civilian - an RO (Retired Officer). Apparently when Colin had ‘phoned
Jack Barton a few months previously, to talk about Forum, Jack had said I was coming down and that I was ‘a good
catch.’ They therefore regarded me as “indispensable” on the dramatical front,
and they were anxious to ‘get’ me before the arch-enemy, Ariel Theatre Guild (Ariel) had the chance. They knew that Ariel had a couple of keen members
teaching at
I must say they were right to take
the action they did. I would have been very vulnerable, as I proved to them, to
the first approach made to me.
And so that evening, my enhanced and
totally unjustified reputation having preceded me, I walked across the road
from the mess, accompanied by my self-appointed bodyguards, to
So, I had joined the Rhine Army
Theatre Society and had accepted a part in their next play. This was at the end
of my first day in Rheindahlen. Dave Hudson just could not believe it when I
told him. We certainly had a drink to
that, before I retired for the night.
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he
members of Ariel at my school were
later to pass the comment to me about Rats’
underhand method of getting at me before I had had time to settle down. I felt
that they were hinting that I should have said ‘No!’ Still, I got on well
enough with them, particularly Val Quant, as I built her a couple of flats for
her school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She was
delighted that we now appeared to have the ability to actually make scenic
flats, and I was her stage manager for the show. This was performed in the old
dining hall, with just a couple of floodlights, props, and my flats.
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he Rats play, Relative Values, went down well enough. Valerie came down to see it
and we stayed with the Lovegroves. Just days after this, in fact, we marched
into our married quarter at
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y
Faculty of Design job soon began to establish itself. I am not going to talk
about anything educational in these memoirs of course, because that is not the
point of my writing. No one would want to read about such a boring topic -
which ignores the fact that I would be quite incapable of producing such tosh.
However, I thought you might be interested to know that in my first couple of
years at
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very
year in Rheindahlen all the three theatre groups - the other was WRMS, or
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he
Craft Centre where I was based, lay beside the Garrison Fire Station. The
pupils therefore had a first hand view of the fire engines dashing in and out,
and the firemen practising their aim with the hoses, when they seemed to have
nothing else to do. My workshop was a decrepit room, and I decided to paint it
myself. If I went through the official channels, it would be done on its
natural seven-year cycle - whenever that was due. Herr Dahlems, my full-time
workshop technician, said that it was no problem to get the paint from his
contacts in PSA. “Great!” I thought, “Just like the old days back up-country.”
Whenever I had needed anything I just had to ask and we had everything for
painting scenery, making props, and so on. You name it and PSA supplied it.
They were a bottomless pit.
A day later Jim Lovegrove came to me
“On a rather delicate matter” he said. Apparently, our relationship with PSA
was not what it had been in my previous life. And Herr Dahlems, who spoke no
English, had not helped by going to their stores and, in effect, saying “This
new bloke Mr Hunt, wants white paint, some tubes of colour, an assortment of
brushes …” and so on. Jim then had to remind me of the correct procedures of
form filling, requesting politely, and such points of normal etiquette with
which I was of course quite familiar. The apparent faux pas was patched up amicably, and I got to know the DWO
(District Works Officer) very well. He, understandably, had taken exception to
this invasion of his domain. I say apparent faux
pas because all this was only caused by the stupidity of my technician. He
had led me to believe it was easy, and just as I had always been used to. In
fact, once I was established and knew all the right people, the bottomless pit
was re-opened for me - “in the interests of the school/community” - as in the
olden days. Ah! well, we live and learn. Moreover, nobody wanted any damned
paper work or written evidence anyway.
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he
spring 1975 production for Rats was The Happy Apple, a comedy, and I was in
the cast again. I had rather a good part, with many laugh lines. I looked quite
ridiculous in a trilby hat. It was a humorous play, but had to finish with some
kind of a moral message, which rather spoiled the whole thing.
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he
next school play, and from the start I was set constructor and stage manager -
and for the next twelve years! - was The Plotters
Of Cabbage Patch Corner; this was an enjoyable production, for the younger
pupils. With this type of show, you can always guarantee a good audience. Apart
from doting parents - who are much more likely to go and watch their twelve
year old in a musical, than their seventeen year old in a Shakespeare - it was
also the sort of play that encouraged all the younger siblings to come and
watch. They were always pleasant evenings, with lots of excited children
running around. Every production, I was always asked by the pupils in the cast
“Is it true that there are talent scouts in the audience tonight?” How they got
hold of this idea I never discovered; I always told them that I did not know,
but that they should always act their best anyway.
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e now
tried a middle school inter-house drama festival, and I was to be the
adjudicator along with the senior mistress. I think she was added merely to
give me moral support, but also to save me - as an individual - from any
backlash (from the teachers rather than the pupils).
It was quite a big undertaking, with
some 400 kids crammed into the old dining room, but the atmosphere was good. A
decision was reached, with the three losing houses each being winners or
runners-up in some category or other. (That is why the senior mistress was
there, to steer our deliberations and make sure that there were no losers - my
first conscious experience of political correctness).
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he
next Rats production, for the British
Forces Drama Festival, was Hotel Paradiso.
This was a particularly ghastly play, and I was a member of both the cast and
the stage crew. There were several of us under the same umbrella, as they
required many ‘walk-on’ characters, at some stage in the play. For the second
act, they needed about ten single beds, mattresses, pillows, and the rest,
carrying up from underneath the stage to their positions in the next set.
Therefore, you can see where these casual hands came in handy.
Under the direction of Ray Cross we
would meet in the United Services Officers Club (USOC) and knock back a few
bevvies over a relaxed three-quarters of an hour or so. The telephone at the
end of the bar connected us to the House Manager over the road and when it
rang, the nearest person would answer it, and the word would go around the bar
“Five minutes, lads!” We would then
troop over, remove our jackets and ties, and start to pick up the beds just as
we could hear the audience applauding the cast off the stage. Often the cast
would see us struggling up the stairs, to the stage, and we were always
gratified when we heard encouraging remarks like “Look at those poor,
hard-worked stage hands; what would we do without them?”
We would then get dressed, ties and
jackets on, back to the USOC. Act II was quite lengthy and it gave us plenty of
time, which we needed because of our exhaustion from the above great physical
stresses. Eventually we would be summoned back to reverse the bed procedure,
and it was hard work believe me. For Act III, we would have to make our crowd
scene appearance in the sets hotel lobby. The only criticism we ever got, from
either the producer or the cast, was that we were too enthusiastic and loud for
our minor roles!
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here
was some cautious excitement, and not a little consternation at the election of
a woman Prime Minister back home. Over the next couple of years, we were to
suffer many cutbacks. There was even the visit of some high-powered female
civil servant, who was apparently acting on Maggie’s direct orders. It did not
bode well having her wandering around Queens school asking pointed questions
like, “Who’s that?” and, “What does he do?” and, “Does it really need one
person just to do that?”. We were all thinking that the present tour could well
be our last, but for the moment, there was no direct hit. It was only with the
passage of time that one gradually noticed the reduction in the number of
pupils, as various units and regiments were cut back and retained back home.
Eventually each faculty was affected, and my design faculty was to drop over
the years from its all time high, to just nine teachers.
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y
next Rats play was Trap For A Lonely Man and was performed
in The Little Hut. This was, er, a little hut, in the woods, on the outskirts
of Rheindahlen Garrison. It was an old prefabricated building, with many
plumbing and electrical faults. It was also prone to vandalism, but it was a
useful clubhouse for the three theatre societies. It had a small stage, and the
auditorium would seat about fifty people. In this play, I was a member of the
cast, in which I paraded as a Catholic priest plying sympathy on a bereaved
male. The highlight, at the end of Act II, was when the drunken husband attacks
me, the priest, with a knife. I, in superb 007 style, grab the knife and the
arm holding it, and swing him over my shoulder. His feet high in the air, he
then falls down to the ground, in a knot of twisted arms and legs. He is
immobile, not a muscle can move, with me effortlessly holding all danger spots
and uttering the lines “I don’t think you have been telling me the truth.” The curtain
falls. The audience spend the next fifteen minutes, over their drinks,
pondering this mild-mannered priest who now shows such skill at unarmed combat.
All is revealed in the final act, when I, as a police inspector disguised as
the priest, finally trap the murderer.
It was a good little play and we
enjoyed doing it. My physical skills, and indeed those of my partner, who so
deftly allowed himself to be swung in the air, were taught to us by a Sergeant
in the Royal Military Police. It took more than one rehearsal, I can tell you,
before we had reached anything like perfection. Most importantly, of course,
without either of us inflicting any injury upon ourselves. We were both weak,
harmless academics in real life.
One final interesting offshoot of
this production was the number of people, who spoke to me afterwards, who had
seen it and had been engrossed in the plot. Of particular interest to the
Catholics was the way in which I had convinced some that I was a priest, and
the way that I had given the game away to others. Apparently, things like a
ring on the finger, or the lack of one - I forget which – are a dead give-away.
Then there is the crucifix to consider, and the belt around the cassock. Do not
forget the type of shoe, and the colour of the socks. The length of my hair, my
apparent age, and the way I spoke, convinced some but not others. I cannot
remember whether or not I should have kept calling him “My son,” - but
whichever way it was, or whatever I did, the sceptics spotted me for what I was
in those first few seconds.
I am so glad that they all enjoyed
it!
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t was
in the summer of ’75 that I took
delivery of my first ever saloon car, the Peugeot 504. They were quite popular
at that time, they and their much larger estate version, but for us it was the
sheer luxury of not hearing the noise - after twelve years - of an engine in
the rear of the car. Also having four doors, and the children being older, we
could not have wished for better.
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henever
anyone wants something doing in a school, or want something from a school, they
always say “It’s just a thought … for
some of the older pupils to do … in their spare time ….to give them a bit of a
different experience … to give them a more worldly perspective … “ etc. etc.
Things like “We thought that in their needlework lessons, the girls might like
to knock up a few nativity dresses for the kindergarten group - but only in
their spare time.” And “Perhaps some of the boys could knock up a few coffee tables
for the summer fête, but only when they have time, at the end of their
lessons.”
Such requests are either beyond the
capability of the pupil, or else would take him/her some two or three terms of
normal lesson time, in that subject, to make. Invariably the teacher for that
subject area becomes involved, to give a rejection or to volunteer to do it
quickly, in order to get the troublesome community member off their backs.
The Commander-in-Chief BAOR was due
to retire soon, and he had contacted the headmaster to see “If a senior boy
could knock up a carved sign for the gatepost of his country cottage in
Five minutes later, the ADC would be
at my craft block in the C-in-C’s car (without either the flag flying or the
staff rank on display of course), and I would give him the samples. A couple of
days later, the staff car would roll up outside, and the ADC would tell me that
the general liked this one. So it was made, and the eventual letter of thanks,
with a small donation for school funds, arrived. It looked quite impressive,
“From General Sir Harry Tuzo, Commander-in-Chief British Army of the
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was attending several meetings at the HQ of
PSA, to discuss the new design block for our school. These meetings were
attended by myself, the head of science, the headmaster, and the architects and
surveyors of PSA. The way the latter went for the architects was a hoot -
indeed, unnecessarily embarrassing.
“Don’t
you architects use instruments for drawing these days?” the builders would ask.
“Of
course we do” they would reply.
“Well,
what are these lines all wobbly for?”
“Because
they were drawn freehand”
“Then
they can’t be accurate - how can we work from inaccurate plans?”
So it would go on; these chaps were
supposed to work closely together throughout BAOR and Berlin on all building
schedules, but with rapport like this, I often wonder how they survived.
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was in the cast for the Rats play Conduct Unbecoming.
This was a turn-of-the-century play set in an Officers’ Mess in India. Plenty
of young subalterns were required for this and, despite our efforts to display
the correct length of hair, we were slated by the local theatre critic for
having it too long, or in some cases too short. It was an excellent production,
a humorous highlight for me being when Ray Cross and Len Whittle, both suitably
attired as servants in the mess, brought round the trays of drinks. Now all
thespians know that cold tea, strong cold coffee, or blackcurrant cordial are de rigueur the drinks to serve on stage.
For me of course, the small tumbler of cold tea as served by the aforementioned
renegade friends, was a very generous portion of neat brandy. I was the envy of
the rest of the cast, who all tried to get ‘my tumbler’ before it reached me.
In
the post-mortem following the show, we all asked Mike Luckins who had produced,
why on earth he had not left this play for the Drama Festival. It was wasted as
an ‘off-season’ play. He said that he was worried that he would not have been
able to build the set he wanted, as some key people were due to leave. He was
right on the one hand, but on the other, I felt that the play was so good that
we would have won the festival with a very sub-standard set. And anyway, I was convinced
that with the right design we would not have fallen far short of the brilliant
set upon which we had all just acted.
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t was
in November ’75 that we went up to Münster to see a ‘Cowboy Night’ in the White
Horse Mess. We were staying with the Rees family. It was a smashing evening and
an excellent show. The audience were all sat at tables, drinking and
participating as required. There was the inevitable exchange between actors and
audience, particularly as the evening wore on, and I seem to remember that some
of it involved me!
The next day we had to return to
Rheindahlen, so about 2pm on the Saturday off we set, taking it easy as the fog
was quite dense. Just as soon as we got onto the autobahn, I could sense the
traffic ahead screeching to a halt, and I instinctively did the same. As the
car ahead suddenly appeared in front of me, I swung the steering wheel to the
right, braking hard. I did not hit him, but the car behind me certainly hit me
with a thud, and the one behind him did the same. Our rear window was knocked
out of its socket by the force of the impact. Everyone seemed to yell “Get out,
quick”, we all scrambled onto the hard shoulder, over the fence, and down a
bank which seemed to be covered with prickly bushes. I can still remember
looking back and seeing a Mercedes braking so hard that he was hurtling
sideways down the road.
We kept running across a field. It
was patchy fog and we had not a clue where we were heading. We could still hear
cars smashing into one another. At least we were all fine, although quite
horrified and shocked. The outcome was that over 100 vehicles had been
involved, with twelve deaths. We eventually walked back to the cars, after
about half an hour when all the noise had stopped. After a further long period
of inactivity, a pick-up coach arrived which took us back to Münster.
Our ‘new’ car was off the road for
six months - in fact it would have been written off if the German insurance
inspector had discovered all its faults at the first diagnosis. The pile up was
an experience you never forget, but fortunately, the children were not
traumatised by it.
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he
winter of ‘75-‘76 saw Ann and Brian Leonard come to Germany for a few days.
They would have stayed with the Ions, but as they had a house full, we were
able to put them up. We managed to get them out a bit, but one ingredient was
missing - that zany youth and irresponsibility of the Singapore days. No more
two o’clock-in-the-morning steak sandwiches in the Singapura Hotel. Apart from
the lack of such excitement in Germany, we were all ten years older, we (the
Hunts) had two children, and we were all in N W Europe in winter - and that
required a lot thought about clothing before one ventured out into the cold,
dark night. The lure of central heating was very strong.
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was now helping with Rats’ pantomime Jack &
The Beanstalk, as part of the set construction and painting team, as well
as member of the stage crew for the run. My pièce
de résistance was a large papier
mâché head for the giant to wear, thereby increasing his height. It took me
weeks to make. It had a wire-netting frame and was huge, certainly a couple of
feet in diameter, and the chap we had as the giant, Larry Bishop, was a
six-footer to start with. I was therefore his minder throughout the
ten-performance run of the panto. This was necessary to look after the head,
and to make sure that it was not damaged. In addition, I had to be in the wings
to take the head off, the moment that Larry had left the stage. There were also
a couple of appearances from the back of the auditorium, which really
frightened the kiddies during the matinee performances - seeing this
eight-foot-plus figure in their midst. It is no exaggeration to say that there were
puddles on the floor after the younger ones had been in the audience.
Larry Bishop was one hell of a size,
and his character went with it. He was forever mimicking Laurel & Hardy,
which could be rather disconcerting to one who was unaware of this trait. It
was quite funny to hear Larry suddenly say “What was that you said, Stanley? Do
you know who these people are? They are very important people….” So it would go
on. In fact, and quite unconnected, I always remember that Larry had a
particular thing about virgins, and the accepted scarcity of them these days.
Sue Strawson, a single teacher who lived in the mess, was a particular target.
She had straggly hair, spectacles, always talking about the children in her
class at school, no boy friend, no social life, non-drinker, no vices, the lot
- and Larry would say to me ”Now there goes a rarity. There aren’t many of them
around these days.” Another time he would say “I wonder if she knows how unique
she is?”
I liked Larry, and was invited to
his farewell party. He occupied the quarter that Len and Jan Whittle were to
move into. As with all service life, when some one leaves you do not often hear
of them again. Larry was no exception. Shame really, but that is the way it
goes.
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t the
mess, after a Rats club night, I had
left rather late on my bicycle and, in trying to avoid a hole in the cycle
track, wobbled a bit and gently fell off. I say gentle, because I can remember
it all happening and how I had halted my fall with my right hand. The next day
it started to get swollen, and in the afternoon I was struggling to bandage it
up when colleague Liz Evans entered. She thought I ought to go to the medical
centre to ask if they could help me strap it up; she said that she would cover
her class as well as my own. I said I would, and that I would not be long. At
the Medical Centre they took one look at it, and said that perhaps the doctor
ought to see it. The outcome was that the doctor thought I ought to have it
x-rayed, so off I drove to the BMH. It was soon x-rayed - for some reason on
Friday afternoons everyone is in a light-hearted and helpful mood - and I was
then told that I had broken the scafoid bone. This is the one that goes every
time, apparently, and so I had my hand and arm, up to the elbow, in plaster. I
drove back to the school, and thanked Liz Evans for looking after my class. I
had made it before the afternoon session ended, and the weekend began.
So
now I was in plaster, and continued so for the next eight weeks.
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he
next school play was called Alan and the
King’s Daughters, a musical produced by Sue Shaxon for the younger pupils.
I was also heavily involved with the sound effects for this one. It was a nice
little diddy play, with nothing memorable about it.
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hen Rats did the British Premiere of the
play Saturday, Sunday, Monday. I was in the cast for this play, which was
again produced by Mike Luckins; he was certainly up-to-date with his drama.
This play was a ghastly Italian soap opera, and from the start, Mike had given
orders that we were not to try and use pigeon Italian, but just our normal
voices. Anyway, at a very early rehearsal, another member of the cast tried the
Italian accent, and everyone else, who thought it was quite funny, did the
same. Mike liked the idea, and so we stuck with it.
It really was a terrible play,
rather than production; we did our best, but it had little audience appeal. I
had my arm in plaster, which was nicely concealed behind a piece of cloth slung
over my arm; I had the part of the tailor, so was always measuring people up
and had a suitable piece of material to wave around. What an awful play it was.
I always felt sorry for people like the C-in-C and the Ambassador to Bonn, who
had to come and support such plays. I remember having a chat with the latter,
Sir Oliver Stone, and naturally, he was well schooled in the art of small talk.
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he
summer of 1976 saw me at a two-week residential course at Caerleon College in S
Wales. It was on my first day that I had a cryptic telephone message. I
wondered what was going on when one of the lecturers asked for me by name. He
then informed me that I had a caller on the telephone in his office. Who on
earth could it be? Well, it was Martin Baker’s dad calling me from somewhere
else in S Wales; once we had identified each other he gave me the message from
Martin, which was “RPG has got it.” His dad did not know what it meant, but had
been asked to try and contact me, and pass it on. I thanked him, saying that I
understood it.
In fact, it meant that Peter Gaskell
had been appointed as Deputy Director of BFES, and that Jim Lovegrove would now
be acting headmaster for a term.
My time at Caerleon was interesting
enough, and as this was the heat-wave year, there was a water shortage in many
parts of the country - including S Wales. Consequently, one relied on beverages
from the bar throughout the day, and certainly during the evenings.
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hen
Colin Mole did it. He persuaded Rats to put on that pseudo-musical, A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The
Forum. I do not actually remember auditioning for it, as Colin had already
made up his mind that I would play the part of Hysterium. This production also brought in quite a bit of new
talent, and with a large orchestra, from the band of the Royal Green Jackets,
we decided to run for five nights instead of the usual four.
For
just about the only time in my acting career I took a hand in designing my own
costume; I took along a length of light brown scenic canvas which we folded in
half, cut a hole for the head, and they sewed up the sides. Costume finished,
except for a piece of rope for the waist.
Come the final Dress Rehearsal on
the Sunday evening, I arrived at the garrison theatre in good time. The lack of
activity, movement and lights immediately struck me, but I knew that I was
early and I assumed that everyone else was going to be very late. Surprisingly
there were quite a few sitting in the auditorium, and just Colin Mole on the
stage. He was watching the door, and as I entered he said “Sit down please,
Dave; I will speak to everyone in a few more minutes time.”
I sat in the first seat, on my own.
A few more members arrived and had the same request. We all knew something was
up, but did not quite know what. My own instinct was that the band, of whom
there was no sight, had been called back on duty and would not be able to play.
Finally, when just about everyone
was present, Colin spoke from the stage, with all the rest of us sat down in
the auditorium.
“I
have to tell you some bad news,” he said, “Very bad indeed. It is with regret
that I have to tell you that Dennis Green is dead.”
We
all gasped. Dennis Green was a WO2 in the army, and one of our leading men in
the play.
Why?
How? When?
“He
was playing football this morning, and he was the goalkeeper” continued Colin,
“When they suddenly saw that he was lying in the goal mouth. They went to him,
realised straight away that it must have been a heart attack, did what they
could and sent for an ambulance, but it was too late.”
We were all stunned, full of shock
and, eventually, wondered about the play itself. Colin said that we would have
to call it a night anyhow - he had already sent the band off even before they
got off their coach. He then wanted a meeting with the principals, at his home,
to seek their views and to see if they wanted to carry on.
I was one of the handful that went
along. Colin had already sent word, or had seen Dennis’s wife, and she had said
that the show must go on, if that was possible. What did we think? Obviously,
the big question was “Who will take Dennis’s part?” Well, Colin had thought
about this and the answer rested with Major Chris Etherington, a member of all
three Rheindahlen theatre societies, who was away on leave and would not be
returning until the Monday evening. Colin was confident that Chris would be
able to learn the songs and the relevant parts of the script in a day! At least
we all knew he could sing, and he had a feel for the stage so that he would
instinctively know where to stand if he saw one of us at a certain part of the
set.
We agreed that it would all hinge on
Chris, and what he could do. He eventually arrived back in the early hours of
Tuesday morning, with an important message on his doormat asking him to
telephone Colin Mole whatever the time of night. Colin was in his armchair
snoozing, and waiting for the call.
The outcome was that Chris could do
the part, and the show went on. He had various parts of his songs written on
large cue sheets in the orchestra pit. In his hand, he held a kind of scroll -
fully in keeping with his part - which contained cryptic parts of the script.
It all worked; each evening the intercom was switched off to the dressing rooms
whilst the audience were told of the sadness which had necessitated this change
of cast
For my part, I was back to my old
antics of dressing as the bride and eventually leading a nonsensical chase
around the set. And that was the end of Forum. I was to see it twenty years
later, put on by an amateur company at Chatham in Kent, and whilst they did
well it naturally wasn’t a patch on either of my two military theatre clubs.
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was now stage manager for the next school
production, The Tempest. We were
still in the old dining hall, with its ceiling strip lights and no stage - not
even a platform. However, Shakespeare was, again, a set piece for GCE and kept
Val Quant, the producer, and the upper school students out of mischief.
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t was
time to help Ariel again, with the
annual Panto, in the winter of ‘76-’77, with Toad Of Toad Hall. I was a member of the set construction and stage
crew. I learned one thing from this show, and one thing only: despite effective
scenery and a brilliant cast, it is a lousy pantomime! It is all talk, and no
action. The little ones in the audience just could not hack it, and talked from
beginning to end. The point is, they come expecting to participate, to shout,
to hiss, and to sing. Toad offers
none of this. It was a lesson to us all - do not try to educate your (young)
audiences, but give ‘em what they want! None-the-less, a lot of hard work had
gone into the show, and I had spent some time making a horses head, together
with its cart and wheels; quite an undertaking.
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he Worms production of Oklahoma! was a great success. The American accents (and they were
very good at them) made a change from the traditional ‘G & S’ routine. I
was working backstage for this and became quite a dab hand at stacking bales of
straw! John Loring was the producer, Valerie was helping out with wardrobe, and
the band of the 13th/18th Hussars supplied the music.
|
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t was
at Easter 1977 that Valerie and I decided to part company - a sad event for us
both.
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now moved into No 1 Civilian Officers Mess.
Dave Hudson, who was the PMC, had obtained a suite of two rooms for me. These
were suites for those of field officer rank, namely majors and their civilian
equivalent. This was to be my home for almost four years, although at the time
I did not know it, of course.
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ats were now doing A Murder Has Been Arranged, and I took
over as stage manager from a chap called Brendan Shilton who worked for PSA. A
good boozing chap, was Brendan, and quite a character, but somewhat unpredictable.
I was helping him with the scenery, and one day he said to me, “Dave, I’m just
a bit pissed off with ‘am drams’ generally. Would you mind taking over as stage
manager!” What a nerd!
It
was a serious play, and one or two ghostly effects were quite well done. This
was also another occasion when I saw how easy it was to get the author to write
a letter for inclusion in the programme. Emlyn Williams wrote appropriately,
and it gives the society a bit of cuedos.
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nother
Royal Visit in my life! HRH Duchess of Gloucester came to Queens’ School, a
short visit but long enough to tour the faculty of design. I was introduced to
her, in my woodwork room, and I invited her to have a look around. I had a
class of 3rd formers, boys and girls, and she went straight to the
one boy, on the woodturning lathe, that I would have wished she had not seen.
“What
are you making?” she asked.
“I
don’t know Miss,” he said, “Mr Hunt told me turn this wood round.”
I tried to save face, with a smile
hiding my gritting teeth, and explained that, step by step, he was making a
little wooden figure, and that the first stage was to turn the wood to a round
(or cylindrical) shape!
Anyway, her two or three minutes in
my room were over almost as soon as they had begun, and she was off to other
parts of the design suite. It was interesting to see the behind-the-scenes
minders in my office, on the telephone to the powers that be, giving them a
move-by-move account of HRH, even things like “She’s going through the double doors
on the ground floor, turning right and up the stairs.”
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he
next Lower School play was Hijack Over
Hygenia, another fun musical produced yet again by Sue Shaxon, with myself
as stage manager. This latter meant, of course, that I had to make not only
what scenery we could, but also difficult props. Sue’s plays always included
something impossible to make. Most producers accept a blue sky with white
clouds, but Sue wants the clouds to move. Everyone recognises the tree down
stage left as a bit of scenery, but Sue wants the damned leaves to drop off -
preferably, if I could manage it, to get one to drop on Fluffywobblethrobble’s
head. (Her plays always had impossibly named characters).
As ever, Sue’s shows went down well
with pupils and parents alike, and it was a delight to be involved with them.
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hanks
to Dave Hudson, I went to Berlin for the first time. He had booked into the Toc
H and knew that there was a spare bed. So it was arranged - not without some difficulty,
as there was so much red-tape to go through - and in the May half term of 1977
we set off through the corridor. We spent a few days there, although we were
not short of a drink, particularly in the Hofbrauhaus.
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still had not given up the idea of a degree,
and was encouraged to take a serious look at the Open University. A couple of
teachers were already doing the OU course. As qualified teachers, we already
had three credits out of the six credits needed for the degree - which meant
that we were half way there. In my case, it would have meant studying the
theory of education (again), and in some depth, plus any two subjects that had
to be a certain combination. In effect, it would have meant me going for
something like maths or a science subject, and straight away, I saw my path
blocked. Here I was, as head of a large faculty - the pinnacle of my career -
when every waking moment should be spent thinking about my next plan for the
benefit of the faculty and the school. I was also fully involved with RATS, so why the hell did I want to
spend my night hours studying a subject that was new to me, for a qualification
that would be of no use to me.
Finally, I gave up all thoughts of a
degree - yet again. Actually, I spoke at length to Derek McCrimmon and Warren
Pope, when they finally got their degrees. It had taken them both several years
of night study, with summer holidays spent on the obligatory summer school.
They both said - separately, but with the same sentiment - ‘Never again. I
could not say to somebody ‘don’t do it’, but I would say ‘do you really need
the qualification?’. Warren Pope then went into early retirement a year after
obtaining his degree. They both mentioned the midnight oil, the frustrations,
family conflict and so on. That was it for me.
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orking
breakfasts were catching on in the UK at this time, and one of our
under-worked, over-inflated heads of faculty thought that we should have one at
Queens School. When an initiative like this is put forward, no-one likes to
decry it for fear of being branded as an antique, so the outcome was that we
all assembled at some totally inconvenient time like 7.30am, basically an hour
earlier than most members would have arrived at school. Inevitably, there were
late arrivals, and one who did not even make it at all; he lied through his
teeth, but we all knew he just couldn’t get up an hour earlier.
Anyway, despite coffee and an
attempt at eating biscuits, the whole thing collapsed and that was the last we
heard about working breakfasts.
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orms and Rats decided to combine, in July 1977,
and do an Old Time Music Hall, in the
Garrison Theatre. I was to be the stage manager. This in itself was a great
honour, but I felt that it was regarded as a ‘B’ team production, with little
support from the combined might of the two societies. Apart from this, it was
to be performed early in July, which because of holidays and personnel leaving
the command at the end of the school year, is the kiss of death to any such
initiative.
Alas, the producer was untried, and
we had merely one pianist, rather than a band. With many inexperienced helpers,
the Rheindahlen theatre critic slated us. Even the scenery, which followed
strict guideline decreed by the producer, was not particularly inspiring.
However, some individual acts, and I
think particularly of Audrey Simpson, Jan Bradley, Jan Whittle, gave superb
RADA performances, and their cameos would have been outstanding even in the
West End.
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ats’ next play was Move Over Mrs Markham, and I was set
designer and stage manager. This play required a split-set, with one half of
the stage being the bedroom, and the other half the lounge with entrance hall.
We were quite pleased with our efforts, particularly the theatre critic’s line
“The set was delightful.” I always regret never having bothered to take
photographs of all these artistic creations, both for Rats and for school. I hope I shall always have the ability to
retain happy memories - but that leaves nothing for posterity. (Another reason
for these jottings!).
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here
was in No1 Civilian Mess a hard-core drinking group known as The Lower Deck. It
had as its president one called Ed Sullivan, a retired Wing Commander, now
working as NATO finance officer, in charge of budgets. They had their own
corner of the bar, by the window, which was the actual lower deck. The name
originated when a high ranker in PSA, smartly dressed in suit was entertaining
officials from the UK. He jokingly referred to the casually dressed few at the
other end of the bar as the lower deck. The name stuck, and I was privileged to
be accepted as a member. There were no rules, but the sole criterion for
acceptance was that the member had to be “One of us.” This phrase was not
unknown in those days, and would be used if one were questioning the integrity
of some-one to join us for a session at the ten-pin bowling alley, or to
accompany us to the officers’ mess for a steak sandwich. It was therefore with
some bemusement that I saw the phrase attributed to Mrs Thatcher many years
later, and repeatedly used and analysed by the political hacks.
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t
last, the new areas of Queens school were opened, and the first play on the new
stage was Much Ado About Nothing,
performed by the seniors, with myself as stage manager and, finally using his
talents, Martin Baker in the sound and lighting box at the back of the hall. I
think he would admit to learning quite a lot from these theatrical sessions.
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hese
architects, you know, are pretty clueless when it comes to the basics of
design. Here we were, in a brand new building and they have only one stage
door. Consequently, when actors go off down stage right, they are marooned in
the wings. There is no way they can get to the other side of the stage and into
the dressing rooms! Actually, I had spotted this error in the early days. There
was every hope that they were going to insert an extra door to facilitate such
access. At the last minute, they retracted, saying that it would lead either
into a busy corridor or else into a utilities and services room, full of pipes
and control knobs.
The
consequence was that my first job was to build a false cyclorama along the full
length of the stage, about a meter away from the back wall. Herr Dahlems and I
first made a number of canvas flats, sized them, fireproofed them, and then
placed them in what can be described as a ‘semi-permanent’ position. In other
words, they could be unscrewed and taken away, but if left alone they would
last forever.
And so they did last, with many
coats of emulsion, and in a way it became my epitaph and was much admired. It
was a good, solid, functional cyclorama.
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n No
1 Civilian Mess I had been approached to stand as PMC, as Dave Hudson was
retiring after eighteen months - that’s three terms of office of half a year
each. I immediately said that members would not take me seriously and that I
would give the wrong image, but I was told that they all recognised my serious
side. Anyway, I stood and was elected. This was a highly coveted position, one
that was not always - or not particularly - fought over, but which carried a
lot of responsibility. It also meant carrying the can when things did not go quite
right. Complaints, grumbles and all criticisms were directed towards the PMC.
On the bright side, the PMC was the figurehead of the Mess, the one to whom
others looked for a lead. All visiting dignitaries were received by the PMC. In
my case, I met many Heads of Establishment like the Garrison Commander - who
was a full, red-tab Colonel, - the Director of Army Education, and the Regional
Director of the Property Services Agency (PSA). The latter two were a serving
Brigadier, and the civilian equivalent of a Major General respectively.
Dave Hudson told me that the
committee needed some new blood, and that with my arrival, plus a couple of
other schoolies, and a couple of
females, the atmosphere on the committee should now be much better - and certainly
much healthier. Apparently, it was all ‘effing and blinding’, with all the
chaps - most of who were in PSA - trying to outdo each other with their
obscenities. The worst of the lot was John Kell, the senior member of the mess;
he was appointed by the civil secretary to ‘oversee’ the mess and to make sure
that it was run according to the laid down procedures. Well, John could outdo
the rest of them, when it came to language; he was a loveable rogue, and I was
to get on well with him.
Unbelievably, after I had been in
the job just a short time, Stan Paterson, who taught PE and lived in the mess,
was organising a vote of ‘no confidence’ in the PMC! This was not actually a
crusade personally directed against me, but was a vendetta against an increase
in mess charges. However, this upset me somewhat, as I was far too busy with
school and with RATS to have some
bloke, or some members demanding my head. My attitude was “OK! I’ll resign. You
do the job. I don’t want it! You’ll probably do it better than me anyway.”
I spread word of my disquiet around
the bar, and one I’ll always remember was the administrative officer for BFES
who said to me “How long have you been PMC, Dave?”
“Three
weeks,” I replied.
“Well,
he said, if you resign, no-one will ever know how good you might have been,
will they?”
This
certainly made me think.
It was Dave Hudson who tackled Stan
Paterson, in my presence. They were two strong verbal hitters, but Dave won the
day by accusing Stan of “Having done fuck all for the mess except moan; why don’t
you put your name forward to serve on the fucking committee instead of having a
go at everyone who volunteers to help out.”
Well, that did the trick; Stan
calmed down and said that it was a principle he was fighting, and so on. Anyway
nothing more was heard about the motion of no confidence, and I was to remain
as PMC for five consecutive terms of office, that is two and a half years.
Eventually Stan himself came onto the committee as the member representing
North Lodge, an accommodation annexe of the main building. I often think of the
admin officer who cautioned me to consider the options carefully, when I was on
the verge of resignation, and I thank him for this.
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or my
fortieth birthday, I invited a few people to a small mid-week gathering in the
mess. I’d asked Jock to collect the afternoon sandwiches that are usually left
over in the lounge, and place them in the bar at around 8pm; that way there
would be no wastage, and it would give the handful of people I expected something
to nibble at. Well, Jock certainly laid on a few sandwiches, far more than I
had expected; he really looked after me, with crisps, cheese and nuts.
I was
a bit miffed when my mess bill showed a debit of DM50-00 for ‘private birthday
function.’ Jeez! What a waste of my money; we could not possibly have scoffed
it all, and so I was giving it away to everyone who entered the bar. Ah! well,
perhaps I gained something in popularity, if not in bank interest.
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t was
about this time that Wing Commander Ed Sullivan, and his wife Thelma,
celebrated their ruby wedding. We all went to it, a good thrash in the Visitors
Mess. Thelma kept saying to me, come along David, I want you to meet my little
boy, also called David. Well, this was David Sullivan, a chap who had already
made his millions through pornography; was later to be more well-known
throughout the country as the porno-king, the chairman of a midlands football
club, publisher of the Sport newspaper, and so on. He had his minder with him when
we met, and his handshake was of the wet-fish variety. Thelma talked of him as
being in publishing, whilst Ed never talked of him.
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t the
end of 1977, and to start the year ‘78, I was heavily involved with the Rats pantomime Cinderella. Colin Mole was producing and I had put my name down to
help backstage and also to have a part, if there was one. I had not been in a
panto before, and rather liked the idea as they seemed such fun. Obviously, I
would be looking for a fun role, nothing serious or glamorous or one that
required a singing voice!
Also, I definitely did not want one
of those roles that required interaction with the audience, like “Where is he?”
and “Behind me? - where?” I had seen others do that, with varying degrees of
success, and I found them a bit cringing.
I was
therefore dismayed and alarmed when Colin approached me after the auditions and
said “I’ve got just the part for you, Dave. A vital role that will suit you and
your skills as a teacher, in acting alongside younger members of the cast and
dealing with a young audience.”
Straight away, I said “It is not one
of those jobs that require me to whip up enthusiasm with the audience, is it?”
“Yes!
That is right! I want you to be Buttons!”
Well, we spoke at length. I said I
did not want to do it as I would not feel right. I asked him if he had thought
of so-and-so who would be much better than me. However, Colin made it clear
that he had not asked anyone else, and that he did not want to, as he wanted
me!
So, I became Buttons! Colin was a
very persuasive producer. The song I had to lead, with the audience singing
along - all 485 of them - was a nice catchy little ditty with the words “Oh! I do like a dumpling in my stewdle
oodle ooh! / I doodle oodle ooh / don’t youdle oodle ooh / and if you don’t
like a dumpling in your stewdle oodle ooh / you know what you can oodle oodle
ooh!” It was fun, with one half competing against the other, and “All you
lot in the cheap seats down here” against “All you lot up on the mantelpiece”
I thoroughly enjoyed the part and
for months afterwards little kiddies would come up to me in the NAAFI and say
“Hello Buttons!” I was fairly recognisable as the part did not require any
disguise, although I felt that by not wearing my spectacles on the stage I
could get away with it.
I had spent most of that Christmas
vacation in the company of Captain Dave Fisher, who was one of the Ugly
Sisters. If we were not rehearsing, we were boozing. He had an old 1920’s Ford
motor vehicle he wanted to sell, and he was hoping to do it on the German net.
The outcome was that he used my policeman’s outfit - a bobby’s helmet, and the
uniform, whilst I had my top hat and tails on, white gloves, the lot, sitting
in the back seat and giving a royal wave to everyone who stared at us. We drove
from Rheindahlen to Möenchengladbach, then on to Düsseldorf. At one stage, Dave
said “Christ, the polizei are behind me and they won’t overtake.” Anyway, he
pulled off to get some petrol and they followed. I remained in the back seat,
discreetly keeping the crate of booze - our only sustenance - hidden from view.
The polizei were only interested in the car, and Dave finished up by giving
them one of his ‘for sale’ sheets, written in both our languages. We parted
happily, and finished up on the street corner in the Alt Stadt of Düsseldorf,
handing out the fliers. You only do this sort of thing when you are young - or
nuts.
In
fact, back at Rheindahlen we went, in the old banger and in our costumes,
around the married quarter area - specifically to call on Wing Commander Bill
and Barbara Spencer. Bill arrived back from work later, to find us all having a
cup of good cheer. Equal to any situation, Bill merely said - on seeing a
vintage Ford motor on his lawn, a bogus London bobby and an impostor of an
English gentleman - “Have another drink”
Back to Cinderella. I suppose that with some 96-or-so amateur shows behind
me, as I write this, Buttons has to be my finest performance - in terms of
rapport with about 4,000 audience members over the ten day run. I can still be
moved when I think of those full houses, every performance, listening to me and
obeying my instruction to “Sing it all together, for the very last time, and I
want you to lift the roof off!”
I always got a good cheer when I
came down the ballroom steps, in my finest costume, for the end-of-show bow.
The Rheindahlen theatre critic gave the final accolade with the comment
“ …
Dave Hunt as Buttons was very traditional and superb - what a rapport he
established with the children in the audience! …”
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ollowing
on from this, I was asked to be the adjudicator for the little Brownies in
their playlets, at four or five different locations in our part of Germany, and
on each occasion, the girls all shyly sang for me Button’s Song “Oh! I do like
a dumpling in my stewdle doodle do!”
One of my demands for attending
these sessions was that, firstly, I could have a small snort of something
strong before I went and, secondly, that they provided the transport. There was
no problem on either count, and on being returned to the mess by the Guide
Commissioner, Joy Reeves, with her sixth-form daughter at Queens school, a
mini-session would develop. Then husband George would arrive, he was a WOI in
Sports & Estates, Rheindahlen Garrison, and a good time would be had by
all. I always enjoyed such impromptu sessions.
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here
was one mess night when there were a couple of rowdy gatecrashers. I was not
really aware of them, to be honest, but a couple of members came up to me and
told me that they were unknown. They were probably new arrivals in No 3 Mess,
and they were making a nuisance of themselves. Their drink was taking a hold of
them and some sort of trouble was anticipated if we did not try and nip it in
the bud now.
I
thanked them and said I would deal with it. I approached Jock, in the corner of
the bar. Now when Jock was on duty at a function, as the manager of the mess,
he was always immaculately dressed, with shirt, blazer, flannels, marines tie
and badge. He looked very authoritative. I went up to him and said “Jock,
there’s a couple of chaps over there who look as though they are going to cause
me a bit of trouble. Now I don’t want to cause a scene, so I wondered if you
could ….” My voice trailed off because Jock had stiffened, turned towards the
exit, and stiffly marched out of the bar!
I was
at a loss. No one was privy to what I had said to Jock, because the bar was
pretty crowded, and now I was on my own, to face the troublemakers. A couple of
different members came up to me. “Dave,” they said, “Are you aware of those two
over there?” I replied that I was, and that I hoped Jock was going to help me,
but he had disappeared.
Just then, the bar door opened, and
there stood Jock. He had been up to his room and changed into a singlet - which
showed his tattoos to their best effect. Jock was a great one for tattoos; he
even had ‘l-o-v-e’ on the finger knuckles of one hand, and ‘h-a-t-e’ on the
other. There he was, like a raging bull, snorting as only he can, when he came
up to me. “Where are they, PMC?” he asked. I weakly pointed then out, saying
that I would like them to leave the mess straight away. “Leave them to me, PMC”
said Jock, and he went over to these two chaps - who were, of course, quite
oblivious to our conversation but, like everyone else, were stood in awe
looking at Jock.
Jock went up to them, took the
glasses gently out of their hands saying “Shall we just put these down here.”
He then grabbed them by their ears, which he twisted unmercifully, pushed the
stumbling chaps in front of him, towards the bar door which he kicked open with
his foot and within seconds they were gone - all three of them. “Phew!”
somebody said. We all felt the same. “Well, that’s what I call action.” said another.
Jock himself returned to the bar just four or five minutes later. “They will
not be giving you any more trouble tonight, PMC” he said. And that was the end
of that episode. We never saw those two chaps again. And I must say, my own
stock rose somewhat at the apparently decisive way in which I had dealt with
these two intruders. To the casual observer it looked as though I had ordered
Jock to evict them (which I had, really) and had then nonchalantly carried on
drinking. It was one hell of a scene.
|
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he
next big Sue Shaxon extravaganza, at school, was The Snow Queen; I must say that Paul Reece’s designs were quite
superb and the chilling effect was appreciated by all. The kids looked superb
as polar bears, and all sorts of other peculiar creatures. Martin and I had now
got a good system working, using the intercom, between the stage and the
lighting box. The only problem was that Martin just could not, indeed was
incapable, of speaking quietly. Furthermore, I had no control over the volume,
so frequently - and this would always happen during quiet moments - Martin
would ‘whisper’ some funny line down the intercom, and send the backstage crew,
and many cast, into fits of laughter.
|
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ne of
my major functions, as PMC, was to make speeches to fit the occasion. Presiding
over the monthly committee meetings, at the half-yearly general mess meeting
where I delivered a ‘state of the union’ address, at formal dinners and balls,
and finally, but by no means least, at farewells. This latter, was usually
tinged with sadness at the start of the evening, and great happiness and
insobriety by the end. One leaver was Francis Campbell, a PSA ‘high-flier,’ who
was due to go on to better things. My speech was in the form of an open testimonial,
and I must say that I thought that I had a couple of good innuendoes in it. One
was that ‘Mr Campbell almost became PMC of this mess but unfortunately he could
not find anyone to second him’ (prolonged laughter) ‘Which did not really
matter anyway, as it was later discovered that he had proposed himself.’
(hilarious, falling-about laughter).
I was also pleased with my quip
about his dress. Francis was, like most people, well dressed in a suit for
work, but anything went for the casual, after-work code. In Francis’s case, it
was his jeans outfit. So I read, in a serious tone, from this supposed open
reference that ‘Mr Campbell is well turned out young man; his jeans are always
smartly pressed, (loud laughter), and he keeps the frayed cuffs of his denim
jacket very neatly trimmed.’ (very loud laughter).
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or
the Rats 1978 drama festival entry,
they decided to do Alan Ayckbourn’s Absurd
Person Singular. Now this play requires three different dining room sets,
from three stratas of society. I was stage manager and I had recruited an able
ally in George Reeves to come and help out. George was quite a catch, because
as the WOI Sports & Estates he had a lot of clout around the garrison. I
needed George’s brains to solve the problem of running water, as the first set
required a working refrigerator (light to come on when the door is opened), and
a sink with taps. George got over this with a bucket of water held high above
our heads, and various hose pipes leading to the taps - including a bucket to
catch the waste under the plug hole (I bet most people forget that, until it’s
too late).
The programme featured photographs
of many members of the society, including myself, under the heading “Some of
the people involved tonight.” Finally, on Adjudication night we were delighted
when we (quite rightly and justly) received the “Runners Up Award.” Again, I
have to say that I have no photographic record of the sets. What a shame.
|
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new colleague at the nearby Kent school was
John Butterworth. He was a bit of a lad, just banned from Berlin for going to
bed with a fag in his hand and nearly burning down the mess. He was not in his
own bed either. Now he was with us, staying in the mess, and I had a good
drinking pal but one who led me astray, so I keep telling myself and anyone who
will listen. Many are the nights that we would stay up late, playing liar dice,
then chatting.
One night we decided that we liked
the mess bar so much, that we decided that we’d sleep down there. We both
agreed that sleeping time interfered with drinking time. So I went upstairs -
my room was directly over the bar - and got the kids’ two sleeping bags and
pillows. We then lay these along the length of the bar, climbed up on bar
stools, crawled into the sleeping bags, and clanked out.
In the morning, Jock recalled the
scenario. He’d heard voices coming from the bar and thought that he’d got a couple of intruders
on his hands - but it was the radio which had been left on, with voices
gabbling away in German. He then saw us on the bar, still out of this world. He
had thought of waking us up, but was afraid that we would be startled and would
fall off the bar. As Jock said, “If you’d fallen one way you’d have impaled
yourselves on the upturned bar stools, and if you’d gone the other way you’d
have drowned in the sinks.” Therefore, he wisely left us there. I often wonder
how we managed school that morning, but we did, and only compared notes when
the bar opened the next night.
In fact, this was now the
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now gave some of my time to working on the
plans for the proposed new secondary school in Berlin. Peter Gaskell, who was
now deputy director of education in Germany, liaised with the architects, and
myself. He wanted to convert an old barrack block into a workable practical
subjects area. I think we got it all to work alright. I never ceased to be
amazed at how architects convert a room beautifully, but make it totally unfit
for use. A workshop to be full of machinery and hand power tools, has only two
electric point sockets. I could go on with other blunders, but it was brought
home to me when I had previously had several chats with my Design Suite
architect; he admitted to me that architects can’t guess what you want in a
room, or school, so you have to tell them. With this in mind I found more than
once thereafter that my suggestions, and drawings, were not only gratefully
received but were acted upon.
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ne of my jobs as PMC was to allocate each new arrival with a mess number. I had a large exercise book in which these were all pencilled in, and kept safely in my room in the mess. After a very short time the chap who had Mess No 1 left, and I let it be known that I was having his number. However, I had reckoned without Alison, from Kent School who claimed that it had been promised to her. She even insisted that she was going to use it anyway, and that if I also used it then she would refuse to pay her mess bill. She had got me. the bitch, so I defiantly said that I was going to have her old number, another classic single, being No 4. Alison agreed to this, and for the next two or three years we signed our respective bar chits as A1 and D4. Every single member of the mess knew our mess numbers, and us. I got on well with Ally, and had been rather taken aback by her adamant attitude regarding the mess number. Obviously, it had been promised to her - quite illegally, unofficially, and with no ground whatsoever - and she wanted it as much as I did. She promised to let me have it when she left, but as we were both in the business of enjoying ourselves in Rheindahlen, there was not much chance of that.
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