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Bring back School Milk...

plimsolls. horrible shitty things, good for very little.

They used to let out an ear-piercing squeal on the heavily varnished and highly polished wooden parquet flooring that was more or less universal in school halls and gyms of that era. A small mound of sawdust would alert you to a spot where one of your school colleagues had either been sick or shat themselves.

It always seemed to be the same few people who regularly shat themselves. It was almost as if they had a reputation to live up to.

Small mounds of sawdust were most frequently to be found in the vicinity of the school dining hall or in the corridor en-route to the toilets.

At primary school, we kept our plimsolls in a 'slipper bag', which was a white cotton bag with a drawstring opening, which you would hang on your designated peg in the cloakroom.
 
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1/3 pt when i was at school back in the late 50s. It was bloody awful stuff very few in my class could stomach it especially in the summer! The school even gave us some straws which contained some kind of flavouring in stripes wound around inside the straw like a barbers pole. (not that most of you will remember them) but it did nothing to improve the dreadful stuff! The only milk i can tolerate now is Lactose free skimmed and that only just!

My bold ... true, bloody freezing in winter & warm/off in summer!
 

Johned

Old-Salt
I passed the eleven plus in 1945/46; whereas we had milk at elementary school for tuppence halfpenny a week I think it was, I don't recall having milk at grammar school. At the latter also, School dinners were only normally available for boarders and country boys not town day boys. Purely as an aside and nought to do with this thread but in the atrocious 1947 winter and our classroom stove being often replete of fuel due to weather, coal strikes or whatnot, our eccentric Headmaster used to organise snow fights on the playing fields involving the whole school to warm everyone up and also British Bulldogs again with all 600 or so, of us. The degree of violence involved and Health and Safety today would go berserk, could be quite over excessive, lads taking it out on each other, eleven year olds at one extreme and eighteen year olds the other end of the spectrum; many of the latter were just hanging on waiting for their call up papers. This was prior to NS which started in 1948 and was still the wartime conscription despite that event being over for three years or so. Making a point, my wife's eldest brother was a school alumnus; left in 1945 and to his chagrin was drafted into the mines. This affected his health and he was transferred into the RASC, where he was commissioned, served in Palestine until 1948 and was demobbed as a Captain. Name dropping but the Head boy of our house for much of that time was Colin Dexter, the lovely and popular chap who gave us Morse.
 
And so came summer. Cricket was out as with 22 people notionally involved only 4 would actually be doing anything; a bowler, one of a very small minority who could be trusted to hurl a solid object without being actively dangerous, two batsmen who were in the same minority but could also swing a piece of wood about without being actively dangerous, and a wicket keeper who was a victim of earlier attempts to widen the minority out a bit and had been clouted by bats and balls to such an extent that brain injuries were no longer much of an issue. They’d just go on to be actively dangerous to society in later life.

With just 4 out of 22 doing something in cricket, a new endeavour that ensured the required amount of physical suffering for all throughout the summer needed to be found. They called it athletics.
Dare I ask, is this all your own work based on happy memories illucidated with lashings of vivid imagination? Or is it part of an existing work previously written. Brilliant. As an ex Club Swinger it has warmed the cockles of my heart.

Now get some fecking work done before the prefect grasses you up to the head of sheds.

My own work. I’ve been sketching out a none too serious Life Of An Ordinary Bloke for a while now, and school was / is a big part of it. Most of it is true to life but with a bit of spin and obviously names changed to protect the guilty.

The idea was to write something that Ordinary Blokes could relate to “feck, that’s Mrs Biggins from Sewer Street Primary to a tee” kind of thing.

I wrote a weekly news sheet for a couple of years during Blair’s reign that got distributed around a few local pubs. It was a pre woke piss take of the emerging anti British shite his tribe were peddling, things like exposes on Jaqui Smith’s bath plug etc.

It was well received, got me a few pints and I’ve always enjoyed writing with a sideways view from an Ordinary Bloke, none of this “I was abused so I must be heard” bollocks. Being furloughed has sort of reignited it.

I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it and it’s a useful bench test as to whether I think I’m funny or other people think it’s funny. A few guys have launched books off the back of Arrse critiques over the years, Picking up the brass was one, a sequel, Map of Africa and another was about a guy and his search dog in NI, I forget the title. All were bloody funny and any squaddie Was immediately right there with them.
 
And so came summer. Cricket was out as with 22 people notionally involved only 4 would actually be doing anything; a bowler, one of a very small minority who could be trusted to hurl a solid object without being actively dangerous, two batsmen who were in the same minority but could also swing a piece of wood about without being actively dangerous, and a wicket keeper who was a victim of earlier attempts to widen the minority out a bit and had been clouted by bats and balls to such an extent that brain injuries were no longer much of an issue. They’d just go on to be actively dangerous to society in later life.

With just 4 out of 22 doing something in cricket, a new endeavour that ensured the required amount of physical suffering for all throughout the summer needed to be found. They called it athletics.


My own work. I’ve been sketching out a none too serious Life Of An Ordinary Bloke for a while now, and school was / is a big part of it. Most of it is true to life but with a bit of spin and obviously names changed to protect the guilty.

The idea was to write something that Ordinary Blokes could relate to “feck, that’s Mrs Biggins from Sewer Street Primary to a tee” kind of thing.

I wrote a weekly news sheet for a couple of years during Blair’s reign that got distributed around a few local pubs. It was a pre woke piss take of the emerging anti British shite his tribe were peddling, things like exposes on Jaqui Smith’s bath plug etc.

It was well received, got me a few pints and I’ve always enjoyed writing with a sideways view from an Ordinary Bloke, none of this “I was abused so I must be heard” bollocks. Being furloughed has sort of reignited it.

I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it and it’s a useful bench test as to whether I think I’m funny or other people think it’s funny. A few guys have launched books off the back of Arrse critiques over the years, Picking up the brass was one, a sequel, Map of Africa and another was about a guy and his search dog in NI, I forget the title. All were bloody funny and any squaddie Was immediately right there with them.
Ive read all those books, including Stumpy and the Old Sapper, great read. Nothing like a bit of good old squaddie inappropriateness and unique sense of humour to get the ribs aching...

So err...back to Milk then....
 
Were we at the same skool?
We found out a large 'glob' of toilet paper mixed with snot, gob and ink would stick to the ceiling above teachers desk, and the let go sometime during the day.
Well, it passed the time....
The swotty kids and the girlies had to be bribed/threatened/coerced into keeping shtumm.
Also the advantage of the lobbed projectile over @Toasties' more direct weaponry was the majority of the room hadn't a feckin clue from which direction owt was raining down on 'em from.
Happy days.

We called them "grollies" (which was also a name for a dockers oyster).

Chewed up paper launched by ruler at the ceiling. A wooden ruler (used ballista style) would do but the true sculptural artistes used a metal ruler held against the desk with said grollie launched at hypersonic speed towards the ceiling with a resounding spoing noise.

The ceiling of our woodwork room looked like an upside down version of the Black Hills of Dakota.

Our woodwork teacher was called (in a triumph of nominative determinism) Mr Woodward. Naturally he was known as Woody Woodwood. He used to park his car outside the woodwork rooms. One day a bunch of naughty boys launched a full on barrage of grollies at his car.

Woody only had a passing relationship with reality and started crying when he saw his car.

His grip on reality was so slight that he got carted off to the local loony bin for chucking a chisel at a boy. Big uproar. He immediately vanished and they found him eventually in the wood cupboard chewing a piece of PAR.
 
I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it and it’s a useful bench test as to whether I think I’m funny or other people think it’s funny. A few guys have launched books off the back of Arrse critiques over the years, Picking up the brass was one, a sequel, Map of Africa and another was about a guy and his search dog in NI, I forget the title. All were bloody funny and any squaddie Was immediately right there with them.
Fucking hilarious, I had a small coughing fit reading your description of the gym wall bars.
 
Cruel, heartless b#stard.....
If they got a lungful of derv fumes or cone out with a dodgy back in their thirties, you're gonna do time!
It gets better, they were pushing their own transport for a 2 day forced route march voluntary walking expedition.
 
I had a dozen teenagers push starting a coach a few years ago if that counts?
I'm gonna start a campaign to have study of the Moors murderers become part of the history syllabus.
That will make your days more 'interesting; :)
 

robins1

Old-Salt
We called them "grollies" (which was also a name for a dockers oyster).

Chewed up paper launched by ruler at the ceiling. A wooden ruler (used ballista style) would do but the true sculptural artistes used a metal ruler held against the desk with said grollie launched at hypersonic speed towards the ceiling with a resounding spoing noise.

The ceiling of our woodwork room looked like an upside down version of the Black Hills of Dakota.

Our woodwork teacher was called (in a triumph of nominative determinism) Mr Woodward. Naturally he was known as Woody Woodwood. He used to park his car outside the woodwork rooms. One day a bunch of naughty boys launched a full on barrage of grollies at his car.

Woody only had a passing relationship with reality and started crying when he saw his car.

His grip on reality was so slight that he got carted off to the local loony bin for chucking a chisel at a boy. Big uproar. He immediately vanished and they found him eventually in the wood cupboard chewing a piece of PAR.
Our woodwork teacher used to throw stuff as well, started off at the beginning of the lesson with pencils then moved on to wooden rulers or 'stick of inches' as he used to call them. He even threatened a lad by waving a wood plane at him and saying he would chuck it if he didn't shut up. Thankfully he didn't but the class quietened down from there on in! As for sticking stuff to the ceilings, we used to chew up pieces of paper and then make little cups out of tin foil (the inside of a Woodbine packet usually) and form them into projectiles with a tail, they stuck to the ceilings for weeks sometimes and the caretaker would be seen occasionally going round with an uptuned broom sweeping them off the ceiling.
 
I hated school milk when it had stood out in warm weather. In winter it was lovely, but warm it tasted awful.

Forty-five years later I still have a hatred of room temperature milk. I love it icy-cold or boiling hot, but room temperature is disgusting.

Anyway, as has been mentioned the delightful Mrs T. scrapped school milk, and I have noticed that as I step outside of my front door there are thousands of waifs-and-strays with deformed limbs and other Rickets induced deformities laying in the streets. I keep tripping up over them, as they cry "a penny for milk guv'nor!" and other assorted Dickensian bon mots.

There they lie, with their legs and arms bent at odd angles, decent folk tracing paths around them to avoid falling over on their Rickets raddled limbs. Hundreds of thousands of them, all around the country. I'm sure the situation must be the same where you live.

Oh. Hang on a second! No it isn't true! There aren't any of the poor Rickety tykes laying in pain or shuffling carefully around the streets. I do believe I was having a flashback to the news in the early-seventies when left-wing types were predicting the impact of the Great Baroness' policy decision.

My mistake. Sorry.


To be fair, she didn't scrap it - and Germany was the first country to introduce it for school kids about 1896?...now that's what i call long term planning

 
I'm gonna start a campaign to have study of the Moors murderers become part of the history syllabus.
That will make your days more 'interesting; :)
Providing it stays over in the happy clappy Jesus sandals humanities and English block I couldn't give a toss. Besides, I've had a hair cut.
 
Can’t imagine a bus driver asking the kids to get of his bus and push it up the hill happening today. Happened in 1979.
At secondary, we had a bus company for the poor kids called John Pike. They took all the MOT failures that were pensioned off by other bus companies, and pressed them into service.

The drivers were no better; there was one called Rolf who wore bottle-bottom glasses and segregated the bus by school, meaning the top deck was dangerously overloaded. He drove like Senna, and often had two wheels in the air following tight corners he just hadn't seen.

These buses had the fuel tanks held on with straps, and one broke off and deposited the tank in the middle of Ludgershall High St with the ensuing spillage rivaling the Exxon Valdez disaster.
 

Oops

War Hero
Back to the Gym...
I wonder if they built em to a singular plan drawn up by some Dept of Ed. bod after the War (either of the big 'uns), ours was 50's vintage, stage,piano, wall bars, drop down beams that only moved once a kid climbed up and sat on one end, then three came at once like a 15ft bloody guillotine, followed by a flailing freefaller.
We also had a balcony at the far end over the equipment room........
First snog, first fumble, first....

Anyway, moving on.
Youngest two attend same ( under new management) establishment, first time back in gym for a Christmas Carol Service in thirty years, glad handed by New Owners and Headmaster, mulled wine etc.

Strange looks directed towards Oops Snr....

I'd subconsciously slipped my boots off at the Gym doorway....
How the feck was I to know they could afford some fancy floor non slip protective floor covering nowadays?
Maybe the holes in the socks didn't project the image they were keen to cultivate amongst the sets of parents that had helicoptered in from their City flotation.
They didn't ask me to contribute to the £5Mil. listed hall's restoration appeal!
Eta.
For all the ridiculous rules, and they were legion...
Regarding regulation plimsolls,
they were for the swots.
Adidas samba trainers were de riguer.
The Chinky lads wore Puma.
Mad Mike McF...... never bothered about that.
They left that funny pattern of stripes and dimples on many an arrse however.
Apparently they're making a Retro comeback.....
I'll pass.
 

Yokel

LE
We called them "grollies" (which was also a name for a dockers oyster).

Chewed up paper launched by ruler at the ceiling. A wooden ruler (used ballista style) would do but the true sculptural artistes used a metal ruler held against the desk with said grollie launched at hypersonic speed towards the ceiling with a resounding spoing noise.

The ceiling of our woodwork room looked like an upside down version of the Black Hills of Dakota.

Our woodwork teacher was called (in a triumph of nominative determinism) Mr Woodward. Naturally he was known as Woody Woodwood. He used to park his car outside the woodwork rooms. One day a bunch of naughty boys launched a full on barrage of grollies at his car.

Woody only had a passing relationship with reality and started crying when he saw his car.

His grip on reality was so slight that he got carted off to the local loony bin for chucking a chisel at a boy. Big uproar. He immediately vanished and they found him eventually in the wood cupboard chewing a piece of PAR.

In other words, Woody Woodward was on a different plane much of the time. But you made him crack, and the he varnished....

When I was at school in the early nineties we did not do anything like woodwork.

At secondary, we had a bus company for the poor kids called John Pike. They took all the MOT failures that were pensioned off by other bus companies, and pressed them into service.

The drivers were no better; there was one called Rolf who wore bottle-bottom glasses and segregated the bus by school, meaning the top deck was dangerously overloaded. He drove like Senna, and often had two wheels in the air following tight corners he just hadn't seen.

These buses had the fuel tanks held on with straps, and one broke off and deposited the tank in the middle of Ludgershall High St with the ensuing spillage rivaling the Exxon Valdez disaster.

I was on the bus to school once and the exhaust pipe fell off.

I do wonder what any of this has to do with milk?
 
Can anyone comment on the 'transition to 'trendy'' they observed during probably the 4th going into 5th year of high school? That strange time when catapults and elaborate makeshift weaponry are suddenly discarded- due to a miraculous new discovery...females.

In my school there was a bit of a class system...probably same in any other school. The son's of bank managers / local dignitaries etc were all in the 1st football team...had the latest trainers and were regarded as virtually angellic. I was probably in the middle tier. Not from a poor family but- a working class one. My mum was not gonna spend £100 on the latest Reeboks for me - although I had a cool Head sports bag as my school bag. The middle tier normally were regarded by the top trier as sort of semi-ruffian. We didn't have extra-curricular football / golf coaching etc- we were too busy sticking lolly sticks in bits of white dogshit we'd discovered. We did understand music though, we were musically aware (in our minds)...namely- Top of The pops.

Music for schoolkids in 1991 was like walking on eggshells. Some (like I simply listened to what they liked)...In my case- Depeche Mode and mainly acid house music. Others went for the 'Indy' scene and the whole Happy Mondays thing kicked off. That's the point when us ruffians- who spent our weekends on the park drinking MD20/20 and hoping to get a chance of fingering Sarah Marshall (so we could boast about it on Monday morning) came to the fore. Of course- Sarah Marshall never got fingered by anybody- we were all too busy trying to outblast the other person with our walkman earphones or...puking in a buch after smoking an Embassy Number 1 a bit too quick.

The 'Madchester scene' was in full flow. Flared jeans and curtain haircuts. The 'Top tier' had been wondering for a while what those strange stirrings in their nether regions were when they saw Anneka Rice on 'Challenge Anneka'..and now they wanted a piece of the action.

They started appearing in the park wearing what they thought ws de-rigeur. Often played it safe by wearing a parka jacket and not getting their haircut. We'd often be able to talk them into retrieving somnething from their parent's booze cabinet...Chateau Neuf de Pape...on a park bench...That's fecking civilised trampery that is!
Inspiral Carpets, Happy Mondays, Stone Roses...there was one common denominator and- schoolkid logic for these arrivistes meant only one thing...pretend to have a mancunian accent! It was fecking hillarious.
One belter used to get on the bus one stop before me and, although he never actually smoked...used to spark up a fag on the bus so it was halfway down just as we got to the stop where most others got on. He went full on Shaun Ryder...grew the floppy haircut and affected a manc accent. He came from a decent background but he got caught in the tran tracks. I bumped into him maybe 5 years later when I was on leave- still the shit hair, faux-manc accent and- was proudly boasting about how many times he'd been to Ibiza and its his second home etc etc. At that point the whole Adriatic thing had been in full flow and I'd forgotton how many times I'd stopped off in most places in the med. I didn't bother telling him that now though.

He's probably still on a becnch somewhere with his phone playing music too loud thinking it'll inpress a passing bird who will let him finger her...
 

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