Wednesday 27 May 1987

Posted on 27 May 2012 by Ian Jones

…Lunch today was HORRIBLE.
Chips, cheese pie and tinned tomatoes, followed by strawberry whip.
School dinner are revolting.
YUK!
Didn’t go to PE because of my cough and my ear but I had to watch instead…

Just as taking part in school sports was no doubt a formative experience for some, not taking part in them had something of a similar influence on me.

Watching others working and playing together while you looked on from a distance, usually by yourself, was something that – perhaps by instinct, perhaps by chance – helped nurture vague feelings of individualism (and isolation, both literal and imagined).

I spent a number of PE lessons as a spectator, not a participant. It came at a point in my life where I guess I was starting to become more conscious of being a bit different and being a bit of a loner. Here, to my vaguely-adolescent eyes, was an example of what such distinctions could and would be like put into practice.

Thankfully I hadn’t yet become too much of an introverted arsehole to not record in my diary a splendidly visceral reaction to today’s school dinner.

The combination of cheese pie and tinned tomatoes makes me feel slightly nauseous even today.

YUK!

Monday 25 May 1987 (Bank Holiday)

Posted on 25 May 2012 by Ian Jones

…The first of two days off school for half-term.
I am feeling much better.
I’ve been up all of today and have eaten and drunk a few things.
Listened to Cat’s Whiskers this morning, which are radio programmes for
children that are on every holiday.
My ear is still blocked up,
but Mum has already said I won’t have to do PE this week…

Now there’s a tonic to make anyone feel better… although obviously not too much.

Sunday 24 May 1987

Posted on 24 May 2012 by Ian Jones

…All I’ve had to eat or drink today was an apple and three glasses of orange juice.
I am on my death bed.
I stayed in bed all day and didn’t go anywhere.
My symptoms are: ear-ache, blocked-up nose, dizzy, sick and utterly horrible.
I’m sorry…

Oh dear, yet another bout of ill-health. At least I made the effort to apologise to all of you, 25 years in advance.

Saturday 23 May 1987

Posted on 23 May 2012 by Ian Jones

…CAR CRASH!
This afternoon me and Dad were going to buy some more plants for the pond.
We were on our way to Birstall from Loughborough, and were at the bottom of a
hill waiting at some traffic lights which were on red.
Suddenly this mad lady driving an orange van came whizzing over the hill and
crashed into the back of us.
It was like something off a Carry On film.
The stupid lady got out and began shouting at us
but she will be forced to pay the damage.
HA HA HA…

I like how my frame of reference isn’t something like The Dukes of Hazzard, The A Team or even a Bond film, but the Carry Ons.

An approach that continues to this day.

Friday 22 May 1987

Posted on 22 May 2012 by Ian Jones

…After lunch the Woodbrook lot had to go off to Cobden again*.
Today it was about bullying.
We had to watch a video about a bully and a victim.
It was a good film but left me feeling queasy.
There is to be no cycling proficiency test this year, so I am not going to qualify…

And I never did.

I was quite cross about this, but I don’t mention any reason for the test not taking place. It had done so every year at my primary school for at least as long as I’d been there. Traffic cones, cardboard traffic lights and chalk drawings of a road junction were an annual occurrence in the playground. Not this time, however.

Maybe the local authority couldn’t afford it anymore. Cycling proficiency tests were funded by the government from 1958 until 1974, when responsibility was devolved to county councils.

It’s now called Bikeability – “cycling proficiency for the 21st century”. A bit more of it in the 20th century wouldn’t have gone amiss.

However my lack of qualification hasn’t stopped me using the cycle hire scheme in London. Take that Boris Johnson.

*The Woodbrook/Cobden visits are explained here.

Tuesday 19 May 1987

Posted on 19 May 2012 by Ian Jones

…Another day with none of the teachers here.
Only Mrs Davenport [the school secretary] and the dinner ladies knew what was
going on.
The supply teacher made us design coats-of-arms and
make models using balloons…

This kind of stuff would become off-limits once the National Curriculum was imposed. I usually felt irked by any sort of disruption to the school routine caused by teachers being away and lessons being changed. But given how things currently stood, this time I was really rather glad.

Besides, everyone knows it’s the secretary and the dinner ladies who call the shots in primary schools.

Monday 18 May 1987

Posted on 18 May 2012 by Ian Jones

…Back to school today and because of last Friday morning we all had to
sit by people we hate…

Throughout my time at school I was regularly struck by something.

It was a blackboard rubber.

No no, it was by how childish teachers could sometimes be. They would accuse you of being immature or juvenile, then promptly go into a sulk, act out of spite, or behave in a thoroughly selfish fashion.

You can’t help being immature and juvenile when you’re 10 or 11. You can help being that way when you’re an adult. Or rather, you can better disguise being that way when you’re an adult. Why was our teacher failing to do this, and in the process just making all of us even more fed up?

It was around this time that I remember mentioning to my mum and dad how unhappy I was becoming in class. All the events of the last few months had crystallised into a persistent dislike and distrust of my teacher, feelings I also believed to be mutual. Nothing ultimately came of it, as I was leaving in a few weeks’ time anyway. But had I been in the year below, I think I might have ended up switching schools. It was certainly discussed over the kitchen table.

Saturday 16 May 1987

Posted on 16 May 2012 by Ian Jones

…The day of the school fair.
Mr Sutcliffe was in the stocks, which meant a chance to get him back for all
the shouting yesterday.
Out came the buckets of water and on they went over his head.
The maypole dancing ended up a BIG LAUGH.
The top of the maypole fell off and landed on a parent’s head.
It was put back on, but then all the ribbons fell off.
It ended a shambles – HA HA HA…

When you’re 11 years old, revenge is a dish best served piping hot.

Friday 15 May 1987

Posted on 15 May 2012 by Ian Jones

…This morning we had our trip to the Great Central Railway.
Everybody was behaving a bit stupidly and I must admit I did too.
I don’t know whether I went a bit mad or something, but at one point when
Mr Sutcliffe asked if we were all having fun I shouted out “NO” in a comedy voice.
When we got back to school Mr Sutcliffe went beserk.
He was shouting at people, splitting them up and moving them around the room.
Luckily the Woodbrook children had to go off to Cobden school for another talk,
so I missed most of it…

Something was definitely up with my teacher – and had been for some time.

Admittedly this was his first proper job after qualifying, and he was only in his early 20s. But if this was how he was starting to behave after just one year’s experience, heaven knows what he’d be like after five or 10.

Luckily I wouldn’t be around to find out. Woodbrook was the name of the secondary school that I’d be starting in the autumn. Cobden was the location for a series of “getting to know you” sessions run by Woodbrook teachers to which all the prospective intake were invited.

“Big school” was sidling rather menacingly into view. I had more things to be bothered about than observing the correct etiquette while on a heritage railway.

Tuesday 12 May 1987

Posted on 12 May 2012 by Ian Jones

…I am still deaf.
I have started my election folder.
Mrs Thatcher has said no to the idea from Neil Kinnock of having a debate
live on TV together.
She said: “There would be more hot air than light.”…

One of the few things Mrs Thatcher has ever said with which I agree.

The election folder was a ring binder in which I saved clippings and cuttings from newspapers and magazines. Looking through them now it is, inevitably, instructive to see the depth of coverage that used to be given to a general election.

Every day newspapers profiled contests in individual constituencies. Every day came long accounts of what each of the main party leaders (including David Owen and David Steel) had been up to. Sketchwriters penned inconsistently witty pieces from around the country. Ministers, shadow ministers and SDP no-hopefuls were afforded exhaustive pen portraits.

And then there were the opinion polls. Dozens of them, sometimes two or three a day. I kept a record of them all and plotted the results on a chart on my bedroom wall.

Meanwhile there was a month to go until polling day: a month to convince my mum and dad to let me stay up to watch the results – to stay up later than I’d ever stayed up before.

Twenty-five years ago today

A real-time rummage through my old diaries