Humby and Goddard

Amongst the reminiscing articles, blogs or chapters included in this compendium is a piece on my time as a boy at Winchester College, focussing particularly on the staff and their largely beneficent influence on my development. Without them there would certainly have been an ongoing deluge of monumental proportions. To underline the need for salvation I now add some thoughts on the idiosyncratic specialities of that school, which will regrettably mean but little to the uninitiated, as well as a story about a memorial dedicated to a former member of staff. 'And some there be', we are told in the 44th chapter of Ecclesiasticus 'which have no memorial '. Well; a leading science teacher of the early twentieth century does have a memorial but it was brutaly, if unintentionally, disfigured many years ago.

Dear Humby was dreadfully glum,
His bollard without cerebrum;
They smote off his head 
And left him for dead;
No repair for aeons to come.

There's always something more to be said about Winchester College notions. In the older generation agony and ecstasy appear in equal measure at the very mention of the term. So this is important business. I quote from The Trusty Servant of May 2022: ' The term Winchester Football is used universally to offend neither those who use the term Winkies nor those who would prefer to have a return to Win Co Fo '. Well, speaking as one who entered the School in 1960 when the term  ' Our game ' was passing gently out of fashion, ceding dominance to Win Coll Football , I could persuade myself of a testing day that any of the three terms employed by the editor are, to the mildest degree, offensive.

The debate over whether notions have been, and are, in permanent decline is as perennial as the stream running through the Warden's Garden and a good deal less pure. We happy but declining few who participated in or attended ' Wiccamica The Masque ', presented as the highlight of New Hall's initiation ceremony in the final week of June 1961, may remember four ' small new men' ( we'll come back to 'men' later ) singing about notions:

We're baffled by these awful monosyllables  --  like Firk,

And Spree, and Tug, and Brew, and Mug, and Brum, and Thick, and Shirk;

And Cad, And Cud, and Hot, and Jig, and Sweat, and Toys and Slabs;

If this is what we're in for  --  then we might as well Toll Abs,

Though we haven't got a notion what it means.

As we wonder how many of these terms might be recognised by the Wykehamist of 2022, possibly muttering 'O tempora, O mores', pointedly and with a hint of resigned regret as they are the last generation  who, with an obligatory study of Latin, will be necessarily able to translate such things, we correct ourselves sharply, remembering that schools have to develop and change does not inevitable presage decay. If you're old and grey how do you know that there is not lurking in that simultaneously ethereal and ephemeral world of social media, a whole catalogue of Wiccamical notions expressed in memes and hashtags? Take nothing for granted but hope that someone somewhere is recording such niceties of communication for this world too will pass eventually.

I promised a footnote on the word 'man' for in the 1960s all members of the School were 'men' and the term 'boys' quietly hovered between the unfashionable and the verboten. In those days all men in their first year were kettled into Chantry each morning for morning service or assembly and in Short Half 1960 Hubert Doggart appeared to give a talk on notions and other things that mattered in life. He commanded, rather than informed, us in his famously stentorian tones not only were we, without exception, men but that all members of the human race should be thus described. As an example he told of an encounter with the wife of a colleague in Kingsgate Street. This lady was pushing a pram (non-notional words can pass out of usage too) with her delightfully spirited female  baby mewling within. ' How clever you are to have produced such a good man ' GHGD had observed, or probably boomed. 

There are schools and institutions throughout the realm that are trying to achieve gender blindness and if at this particular time Win Coll was to dispense with the terms 'boys' and 'girls' and refer to all students as 'men', it could be the first school nationally to achieve this characterless state of questionable desirability at a stroke.

This, however, is not quite the whole story. I recently asked three of the most senior authorities at Winchester College if the term 'notion' was still used to denote a custom or common practice rather than part of an alternative language. In days of yore it was the accepted notion that a commoner, on entering War Cloister, would out of respect touch the rim of his strat. It was a three year notion to walk down the centre of Flint Court or cut the corners across it; a two year notion to have the middle button of your jacket undone; and in Kenny's for example a similar length of time had to elapse before you could read the newspapers at a particular table in Hall. 

Having enjoyed rather too many years in the British education system that may have been good for me, it was no surprise when my three luminaries replied swiftly and firmly with mildly defensive alacrity that of course anything that smacked of privilege or entitlement had long since passed into the realms of legends and fables. Just to be sure they kindly offered to go to the grassroots, to members of the student population, to see if there were any remnants of twentieth century flies in the ointment of modernism. 

One positive response came back. There is a house currently where 'Sixth Formers' ( did that include Sen Part as well as VIth book, I wondered and indeed does Senior Part still exist at all?) are allowed to attend breakfast in their pyjamas. Make of that what you will but I thought it was interesting as I wondered what might happen one day if this house were to become a co-educational establishment. Of course it wouldn't matter if all members of the house were 'men'.

Perhaps if we move into the gloriously esoteric realm of place names, we may be on safer ground although their legitimacy as notions may be questioned by some. It is sadly now difficult to locate Gunner's Hole but Bull's Drove, Frazer Tent, Moab and Non-Licet Gate are all still there, as is Paradise; this last being specially included for the cognoscenti who will know there are two separate areas thus named in Winchetster's 1200 acres. Perhaps there is a case for a modern map showing these idiosyncratic places of interest  before they too bite the historic dust. In any case such a chart would undoubtedly include Michla Passage, a twitten not without aesthetic merit between St Michael's Church and the lofty, rather handsome red brick wall that faces it.

Passing through the passage, as we did several times every day, we never saw the church door open but we did notice the evergreen, potted shrubs nestling beside the buttresses and enhancing the general scene. They were named Mathew, Mark, Luke and Fred; this last taking its title from our esteemed Housedon, John Manisty, top mathematician, former hut commander at Bletchley Park and part-time ticket collector on the Festiniog Railway. Looking down on the bushes from their perch on the gutter, we were obliged to learn for our notions exam, were two constipated sparrows, named Footner and Merriman, two illustrious members of our boarding house from the early 1950s.

In any case there were  --  we must be honest  --  some young miscreants abroad in the Wykehamist student community at the time (it was the 1960s after all) and one of this number, returning probably not from a strenuous hour in the Fives court but having enjoyed a hefty block of raspberry ripple ice cream provided by the endlessly harassed Mr Nicholas in School Shop (now Cornflowers) thought that some pyrotechnics might brighten the afternoon and, with matches and paper bags, proceeded to set one of the shrubs alight. Perhaps he optimistically presumed that a conflagration of the bush might result in his developing Moses like qualities of wisdom, wealth and world domination. But this was not to be. A most excellent don, Jacques Whittaker, viewed the whole incident from the first floor of his house, now the Headmaster's residence, and soon after the young man returned to Kenny's, retribution involving a whippy, whistling wooden instrument of correction was swift and unforgiving.

It was shortly after this incident that one even more regrettable occurred. At the western end of the passage were two bollards, erected probably in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century, successfully preventing vehicular access for a century or more. To us they were known as Humby (on the left as you travelled up to books) and Goddard. The Science School at Winchester, Stinks Block to some and dating from 1904, a far sighted educational development and a building of some architectural merit although sundry extensions on the Kingsgate Road sign have never been in danger of winning the Pritzker Prize. Freddy Goddard and Spencer Humby were the modest yet huge talented doyens of Win Coll Science teaching in the early to mid-20th century, working together for a notable thirty two years. Not in any way overlooking the strengths of Goddard who was Head of Department for eighteen of those years, we need to concentrate on Humby and his valedictory notice in The Wykehamist of 1959; ' Here he stands like a rock, stubbornly courageous, steadfast in his deep religious faith, infinitely kind to others and regardless of himself. '

It was doubtless encouraging to the spirits of Humby and Goddard that they should receive no less an accolade than having the white Michla Passage bollards named after them, this to be reinforced by frequent friendly pats on their  pates administered by respectful Wykehamists of subsequent generations. However, all such reverence involves risk and on a sharp May morning in 1962 a somewhat uncouth Kennyite gave dear Humby an unreasonably energetic blip on his smooth and innocent dome with disastrous consequences. His neck creaked and cracked; his head was crudely severed from his torso; an unintended but calamitous decapitation had occurred. Humby's head had to spend a quiet morning up to books; he had to lie low and could not be paraded in the style of John the Baptist, Holofernes or King Charles the Martyr. Late in the day he was consigned to the sliding panel which existed at seat level in Kenny's toys. He moved house with his keeper at the end of the academic year and some time in 1963 the weighty skull  of Humby disappeared, not to be seen again. 

There the story might end but, for reasons passing the bounds of human understanding, Henry's torso has remained in that ugly headless state for sixty two years. Perhaps he is regarded as a priceless statue from the world of antiquity while Goddard in a state of full and original health stands proudly beside him and doubtless provides encouragement with long ago tales of scientific derring-do. Other houses, attempting to gloss over the tragedy, have changed their names to Adam and Eve, while others still have daubed them with red or brown paint on significant Win Coll Football (NB) days. They have now been painted a deathly black, appropriately mournful in the circumstances with a touch of the graveyard about them.

Michla now belongs to Win Coll; the Passage is as busy yet tranquil as ever it was; the Headmaster (perhaps the title  Informator would cover a multitude of difficulties with co-education fully established from Autumn 2023)  is close at hand to serve as Keeper of its permanent inmates. Humby might now appreciate a facelift or indeed having a face at all, while Goddard might be happy to enjoy his colleague's company in genuinely renovated splendour. I am told with a reasonable degree of reliability that the wayward Kennyite of 1962, now clambering into his slippered pantaloon, would like to make amends by providing the necessary for a full restoration.

And thus indeed, some time later, it came to pass. In December 2021 I visited Tim Hands, Headmaster of Winchester College and one of the most talented, far-sighted, accomplished educational leaders of his generation. We had served together on the board of Bedales  so I knew he was also blessed with a generously sophisticated sense of humour. I duly made my confession and Tim, apparently taken by the unconventional nature of the occasion, undertook to stir the pot and boldly bring the contents to the boil.

During 2022 things moved at a somewhat leisurely pace but in the right direction and I knew that due attention was being paid when I received the Headmaster's Christmas card containing not only a photograph taken a hundred years earlier by Spencer Humby but a note about him and an account of my exploits on the back cover. However, I knew that Tim would retire in six months' time and when, after a visit to Winchester in March 2023, no news was forthcoming, I wrote suggesting that the matter, doubtless insignificant in his universal perspective but of life enhancing importance to me on my island of idle myopia, might be left to his successor. 

Suddenly there was a whirr of activity. A dark but multi-skilled bursarial horse named Simeon was on the case, I was assured, of having a new bollard constructed in the college workshops [ two bollards in fact as it was rightly felt that Goddard could not be ignored in a state of shadowy decay ]. A ceremony of unveiling was to be held on Wykeham Day in mid-June; the Warden [ Chair of Governors ] would be present as would Mr Rob Humby, a member of the Hampshire County Council and believed to be a distant relative of the original scientist. Now things were really moving on apace  --  or at pace to use the post-Covid vernacular.

Even at an early 6am on Saturday 17 June the perspiration of warmth and nervousness was gathering on my brow as I passed the trim sun-parched lawns of polite Winchester as I made my way from the Royal Hotel to St Michael's Passage for a quiet, solo dress-rehearsal. I was clutching my carefully prepared script and, despite the onward march of the years, I was comfortable with the public speaking aspect but I had rashly suggested we spoke in Latin, in imitation of an ancient Wiccamical ceremony to honour eminent guests and the bollard of Spencer Humby certainly fitted that description. I was determined not to let down my old friend Stephen Kirkwood, for thirty years  --  and still counting  --  responsible for the teaching of Classics at Gordonstoun, who had kindly translated my script. 

The venue, however, was not a picture of summer solitude as a steady trail of young, eager  --   but I'm trying not to be  --  Wykehamists in quasi-military garb passed through the Passage en route to a rehearsal of the  --  slightly questionable to my mind  --  Gun Run, much favoured by school CCFs in the modern age and to be a centre piece of the day later on. Give me a fire appliance or two any day but mine was not to reason why, just to concentrate on the restored Humby who was now in position [ as was Goddard ] with a look of graceful if slightly disdainful elegance but in any case not drawing whelps of delight from dozy teenagers passing so soon after sunrise.

Private rehearsal completed and the glories of the Itchen as it passes St Catherine's Hill duly appreciated, we assembled at the Headmaster's House at 9.20am. But where was the piper, a young member of the Hamilton clan, who was to lead the procession the short distance to the bollards? He was said to be locked in the adjacent Armoury building and had perhaps incarcerated himself there, shy at the last minute to be playing a part in an event of such importance. Perhaps he had been  searching for his shoes for, once liberated from the storage centre of weapons of individual destruction, below the rest of his splendid Scottish attire was a pair of the scruffiest of trainers which might have seen service at Waterloo. However, young Hamilton could certainly play the pipes we discovered as he led us down with three smartly attired proud cadets in attendance and the rest of us in a procession of serious orderliness behind.

A small crowd of spectators had assembled including, to my great delight and surprise, son Robin who, as he approaches the upper echelons of the slippery pole of authority in independent schools, may have wondered if this was all another essential duty previously unanticipated. The Warden welcomed us all in his smooth Latin brogue and I followed with an apologetic eulogy to the man or bollard of the moment, undergoing resurrection after seventy years. Tim Hands then, with characteristically delightful wit, welcomed the present day Mr Humby in the English tongue, while the latter apologised for ' welling up ' with emotion as he realised that subsequently he would enjoy a new life as the chief bollard unveiler in the county, having now received such exalted training.  He then untied a handsome red ribbon and whisked off a black veil to display the new Humby in all his glory.

More piping followed as did coffee and chat in St Michael's Church cum meeting place; a piece of frivolous entertainment had been enjoyed by a few; Humby and Goddard, their hefty contribution to Science at Winchester once again recognised, basked in their unexpected renaissance.

Sevenoaks Part Two

 We’re still at Sevenoaks but need to go back a bit. In the autumn of 1978 I gave notice to leave St Wilfrid’s Prep School. This was foolish as I had no job to move on to; it was selfish as I was about to be wed and this meant embarking on married life in a state of complete uncertainty; it was arrogant as I assumed the world of work in senior schools would be waiting to welcome me with inviting excitement and a commensurate salary. As we endured that long winter and even more protracted spring with increasing nervousness and devoid of job joy, by May 1979 it was clear that, if I was sufficiently fortunate to receive any sort of job offer, I should agree to do anything and everything however challenging that might make life afterwards. So, when the sniff of a job at Sevenoaks appeared, I assured the authorities there; O yes, I can certainly assist with rugby coaching and I would be pleased to teach a special course on contemporary political trends in sothern Africa as part of the enrichment of General Studies. When a position on the staff there came to fruition some Mohammed Ali style footwork and even a gentle sleight of hand were required to extricate myself  from embarrassing revelation. 

The one new responsibility I felt I could shoulder despite its being in the realms of the novel and the nerve wracking was the administration of the School’s annual arts festival. 

This field of endeavour for one whose knowledge of the arts was limited to a general appreciation of Shakespeare and the enjoyment of Beatles films in the Seaford cinema, was fascinating as it opened the then customarily hermetically sealed doors of an independent school to the world outside. As I assumed control of the whole operation during the next three years, I found myself dealing with artists, performers, agents, local authorities [ we became the largest town and gown arts festival in the country ] and sponsors, even rising to the dizzy heights of the committee of the regional arts authority.  There were challenges of course: 

A Festival’s quite a fine thing;  

Have fun as you act, dance and sing; 

But tickets don’t sell, 

The star’s none too well, 

Why don’t you just stick to teaching? 

However, we hosted over the years a marvellous array of artistic experts and performers, amongst whom was sir Hugh Casson, recently retired as President of the Royal Academy. He gave us ten pieces of advice which I incorporated into a piece about the workings and happenings of the Festival in 1988. 

Sevenoaks Summer Festival 1988 ( reproduced from The Sennockian 1988 ) 

Sir Hugh Casson, invigorated by a spell of cruising in the Med. on the Royal Yacht Britannia, came to share his wisdom with us. His Festival appearance was a quietly stimulating affair, much food for thought presented without glamour or fuss. As the 1988 Festival slipped over the horizon, the Festival Director looked back appreciatively and philosophically, with the help of Sir Hugh's Ten Commandments for those involved in the arts. 

'Tis the morning after the opening and the ship of state seems in fine fettle. The Adler concert received topping notices, the Reception which preceded it was a congenial affair, Toni Arthur has arrived to entertain the very young (atoning for her absence the previous year), ticket sales are healthy, the populus satisfied with the fare provided. The Director's shoulders make tentative but satisfied contact with the back of his semi- executive swivel chair for the first time in weeks. 

 But with the nectar of doubly caffeinated Maxwell House nearing his lips, the telephone-that rude and crude interrupter of so many dreams - does its worst. One of the Sponsors requires us to provide a special brand of champagne for a reception at short notice and on a slightly parsimonious sale or return basis too; the Sackville Theatre has taken on a festive appearance with bunting and straw hats but, demands a second caller, "Is this really art?" Thankfully, following Pontius Pilate's lead after posing a similarly profound question on the nature of truth, this contemporary philosopher does not wait for an answer. James Mason's film "Odd Man Out" has been inadvertently incinerated by the distributors and is not after all available for showing in Sevenoaks 48 hours hence but, they reassure us, "The Verdict" would make a good substitute. Who knows, perhaps the next call will be from John Ogdon informing us that he is indisposed but the pianist who plays Russ Conway-style every other Thursday at the Green Man is happy to take his place. Let us therefore be open-minded or as Sir Hugh Casson advises us, 'Reason should be the slave of passion'.

 The day draws on  and it is time to look in on a sponsor's reception given before the opening night of the local blockbuster production of "Oliver!" A charming setting and some polished clientele here. A striking female glides in my direction, looking as if she means pleasure. She is one of those women who, if ever she sat in a barge, the poop would be made of only the best beaten gold. "I gather," she start, "you are connected with this production. You must be Lionel Blair." On (rapidly) to the Sackville Theatre, flags and all; passing, with a momentary concern, two members of Sevenoaks School staff who toil all day on their normal duties and, with a versatility of which Galileo would have been proud, run the front of house at night; to the lawn where a wine bar is not providing what it should, at the price it should, for the hairdresser of the School drama production. Gevrey Chambertin would presumably be acceptable, but would it be pronounceable? As Sir Hugh Casson says: 'Every service and advantage brings a disservice. Watch for the latter'.  

 From cock crow on Day Three it is clear that this will be the year of the hairdresser, as an eminent international coiffeur is on the doorstep seeking explanation for the absence of acknowledgement of his expertise and generosity in the styling of "Oliver" scalps. A satisfying wigging having been delivered, he crosses on the threshold an irate Housemaster whose evening has been disturbed by one of his charges, left with the weighty responsibility of tidying up after the opening reception, suffering the ill- effects of over-indulgence of the cup that cheers, or at least the dregs of the Piat d'Or bottle. Had it been Gevrey Chambertin again would his constitution have objected? Would his Housemaster have displayed a more liberal attitude? No time to worry about that, for the King's Singers, in obvious anticipation of their celebratory champagne, have left their music in Germany and search the Green Room in vain for a towel. Meanwhile the tennis sets on the lower car park have not been removed as promised. Sir Hugh Casson, him say: 'Go and see for yourself' but on on this occasion it is more a case of go and do for yourself. 

 Friday is due to be a quiet day of youthful domestic performance. Its full richness is to be savoured by a mildly intemperate dispute between two friends over responsibility for locking the Aisher Hall. One realises that the most impassioned Festival drama takes place off-stage, back-stage, or even in heartfelt attempts to up-stage and that to the twin banes of booze and barbers one must add bolts and bins, for litter overfloweth from every elegant receptacle. As the Director struggles with a black sack (how does one individual hold these things open and pour rubbish in simultaneously?), reports are coming in that the sound system for films in the Little Theatre has finally become exhausted by a life exercising a will of its own and is laying itself quietly to rest. (Just as well, he muses, that the audience were watching a James Mason film which maybe they did not wish to see anyway.) To the Stag Theatre, where the front of house team has found the early matinée stint beyond their contractual responsibilities, so there is a quick crisis of identity while standing rather awkwardly, but one hopes usefully, on the stairs: to be a local front of house worthy, risk embarrassment if you are recognised as something else; or to be an obvious Festival Director-garrulous, charming, slightly superior- and be thought a complete idiot. While he contemplates Alexander Pope's succinct insight, "In doubt to deem himself a God or beast," relief comes in the form of a message from the soundless Little Theatre, where the lecturer has arrived and looks in vain for the carousel projector which has been promised. Ah well, it was to be a quiet day and now it is an invisible one too. Who's responsible?.... On second thoughts, perhaps not. As Sir Hugh Casson opines: 'Always expect to be misunderstood'

 By Saturday a ten year old Oliver, finding the task of throwing his treble voice across the cavernous Stag Theatre too much for him, joins the distinguished James Mason as part of the inaudible Festival, while one of the orchestra who may have been conspiring to drown his every syllable, has suffered a burn to the shirt at the hands of the Theatre's iron. It is in truth a gentle evening, with the Roman food expert, finally provided with a projector of appropriate classical antiquity on the previous night, now finds himself without a food mixture as the burghers of Sevenoaks (perhaps that is what he will be reduced to serving them) arrive for their Devil's Dung. There are no student helpers for a sponsor's reception (have they all been locked in their boarding houses rather than tempt fate with exploring the world of Bacchanalian extravagance?). The dependence of James Mason's success on that rich, distinguished voice is proved by the fact that by now only two relish the challenge of guessing the soundtrack of the Blue Max, and 50% of the audience departs rather smartly; supplies of soft drink are non-existent on the Sackville lawn-but there isn't a hairdresser in sight. Come, let us climb from this morass of detailed bits and pieces. Hugh Casson would have said: 'Facts are the enemies of imagination'.

 With predictable lack of charity the weather gods ensure a damp Sunday morning when we need Mediterranean conditions for our alfresco events. Nothing daunted, we sally forth with faith and hope to greet a breathless representative from the Stag Theatre who has spotted the unforgiveable- a phantom programme Insert pusher who materialises as the secretary of the local Symphony Orchestra. Meanwhile the father of a young lady on gate duty at the Children's Extravaganza is less than enchanted by the carping eyeball-to-eyeball criticism at the hands of a dissatisfied customer. (Don't put your daughter backstage either, Mrs Worthington.) Word is coming in that main car park may be rendered inoperable for the last two nights of the Festival by the erection of monumental tripods for the annual Sevenoaks School Open Day gun run-Festival versus the Falklands factor is a contest many would relish from a distance - but we are reminded that catastrophes invariably occur in threes and Sir Hugh Casson is, we advised, not to be heard at the back of the Alsher Hall. James Mason and Oliver at least may feel privileged at the company they now share. Sir Hugh has instructed: Keep your eyes open'. Strange perhaps that he did not refer to the aural apertures as well. 

 The Box Office reports we have sold tickets for John Ogdon's recital well over the maximum. Allah be praised for the versatile elasticity which the bench seating affords in the Aisher Hall. SOS from Finchcocks - programmes have failed to arrive. Frank Delaney, in no conscious attempt to emulate Dr. Foster and certainly we trust without the same effect, perhaps momentarily thrown by the unscheduled pounding vibrations emanating from the 6th Form Common Room, steps in a sizeable puddle. The search for a towel is hampered by the redoubtable Mrs. Zwagermann from Holland who is staying locally for the Festival and wishes, understandably, to present her suggestions for 1989 - Vera Lynn downwards. 

 Every Festival has its clutch of challenging requests. The actress, Fenella Fielding, fancies a three foot octagonal table "which is not round". When furnished with said item, it does not prevent her from sustaining a hurt to the shoe and causing the start of the interminable Chaucer evening to be unfortunately delayed. The Pasadena Roof Orchestra would like their eleven suppers, as requested some time before, but the Catering Manager, accustomed to the extreme punctuality of ravenous teenagers, has, on noting the lacking of adherence to the schedule, consigned them (the suppers not the PRO men) to the bin. The audience in the Sackville has been thrown more than a soupçon by being deprived of the opportunity to applaud at the end of Penda's Fen. We are asking £1.50 for the programmes but as time and demand dwindles, the cost has been reduced to 50p. But supplies are now running out so, with a pragmatism not easily grasped by the consumer, back up the price has to go. Joshua Rifkin wants showers all day as well as a babysitter, but then Hugh Casson did warn that: 'Artistic problems are often moral and social as well as aesthetic or historical.'  The Prometheus Ensemble can give only muted approval to the version of Walton's Façade (Sitwell's words not the music) which is about to be issued to the audience. The Library is frequently locked, it is claimed, when it should be welcoming the exhibition gazers. Perhaps one should set such momentous Issues on one side and visit Richard Stilgoe, an old friend, during the interval of his one man show in the Stag Theatre. Even in the apparently subterranean ambiance of the Green Room in the Stag, however, the atmosphere seems to be chilly and the entertainer reluctant to chew the cud for more than a fleeting moment over the meaning of life. Then one recalls that in the small break in his show Richard improvises what is invariably a stunning composition, consisting of remarks and suggestions flung at him by his audience. We retreat with apologetic stumbling, remembering that: 'Artists are splendid advisers and pointers out but tyrants in command.' 

 The last day starts with a jolt which presages a whimper rather than a bang-type finale, as the Scottish Chamber Orchestra seems to have left its tympani in Finland. While frantic phone calls to suitable hiring firms ensue, the Director finds himself standing alone - very much alone - in the Marley Sports Centre. It should be an occasion of apprehensive excitement, for Rory Bremner, ace mimic, is due to have them rolling in the aisles that evening, but there are only a few hours to curtain up, the chairs and stage have not been delivered, and slowly it dawns that, in his enthusiasm to pack 'em in, he has moved the show to a new venue but has failed to obtain all the necessary licences to hold a public performance. Suppose the fire officer should appear and close the show down; suppose, worse horror still, fire itself rather than the fire officer should cause a hasty exodus. Thoughts wander to Milton's bottomless perdition and destruction complete with adamantine chains and, most appropriately, penal fire. But what is this monstrous scaffolding structure replete with theatre lights straddling the hall? 

 An undertaking has been given to the Headmaster that the hall will be clear by 2.30 for a prize-giving rehearsal; it is now 2.15; the Theatre's technicians are all apparently (and wisely) in a field near a village called Leigh; desperate cries for assistance from caretakers, passers-by, anyone, are in vain (thus proving that inaudibility is an infectious complaint). There is nothing else for it but grasp the slippery pole firmly and tug the edifice into the wings. Inch by inch it moves but only one stanchion. It teeters precariously, uncertain not so much whether but how to take the plunge and great-Samson would have stood proud amongst the ruins of shattered glass, dented floor and twisted metal - was the fall of it. 

 So the Director, in a pique of self-pity, jumps a few Old Testament Books to that of Job and remembers the sage's words: 'God is love but get it in writing'.  And mindful that plans for the following year's Festival are already under way and that there is therefore no escape, he takes comfort in Sir Hugh's final piece of advice: 'Never despair.' 

I hope I have given some explanation why Sevenoaks in the ‘80s was such a rewarding time for me. I would not wish to draw too close a comparison with my time at Gordonstoun, which was of course immensely fulfilling, as the nature of work in the two was so different. As a Head you have overall responsibility for everything and direct control over almost nothing; as a Deputy Head you will have enjoyed the almost exact reverse of that situation. Perhaps a testy, waspish governor at Gordonstoun was right when, at an early stage of my twenty one years there, he expressed the opinion that I was no more than ‘ a glorified housemaster ‘. Various appraisals were slightly more generous but I could have lived reasonably happily with that description. 

In any event a postscript to finish the Sevenoaks story. Experienced readers of these musings will have detected a tendency for me to flirt  --  at times outrageously  --  with artificial, self-deprecating modesty. Now, for a brief nanosecond, the truth is laid bare. ‘ Vanity, all is vanity ‘ says the teacher and he doesn’t even apologise. 

By way of evidence I reproduce a reference written by Richard Barker in 1987 when I made my first application to move to the next stage as Warden [ Head ] of St Edward’s School, Oxford . The reference was unduly flattering [ but expertly constructed ] ; the interview was an appalling, humiliating shambles; I was [ in the light of what eventually transpired ] blessedly unsuccessful and learnt how much I did not know. Thirty six years later I am extremely pleased to be living in retirement next to this excellent school. 

8th May, 1987 

Lt.Col. D.N. Bramble, 
Secretary to the Governors, 
St. Edward's School, 
OXFORD. 0X2 7NN. 

Dear Colonel Bramble, 

Mark Pyper 

Mark Pyper is an unusual young man who has qualities which are rarely found in schoolmasters and experience which is given to few outside head- mastering. I am pleased to support his application for the Wardenship of St. Edward's. This will be his first application for a Headship (although a new independent school in London had head-hunted him, and offered him the job, had they been able to proceed with plans). 

Mark came to us in 1979 from a Preparatory School where he was joint headmaster. In 8 years he has taken over many of the major roles in a large school and his present responsibilities are those normally given to deputy heads. He is Registrar, Office Manager, a Boarding Housemaster and the Director of our Sevenoaks Summer Festival of the Arts. Along with his teaching, these roles require unusual personal and administrative skills. He is dealing with Preparatory Schools, prospective parents, parents, staff, boys and girls, as well as many individuals and organisations in the local community. There are few schoolmasters I can remember who could have taken a load so varied and creative, innovating and administering to the highest level. If there is a concern it might be that he only teaches a few periods a week, but he is centrally involved in matters of curriculum, timetabling and staffing, and respected by all the Heads of Departments for his appreciation of their problems and his ability to make timetables work. 

Mark's achievements come from his facility to administrate and to get on with people. In administration he has learnt to clarify the purpose of any activity, of looking forward, of being meticulous in his research, thoughtful in decision, clear and concise in his communication and increasingly to accept the unexpected or the whimsical ways of his colleagues with a smile and a defusing phrase! His successes in the Festival have been partly due to his great love for the theatre and for music but equally his ability to raise finance, to budget and to market the Festival to the School and to the locality. Knowing the previous history of our Festival and the fate of many regional festivals, I do not look forward to the day when Mark drops the reins. He alone has built this up (for your interest last year's festival programme is enclosed). In registration and within the office he has tidied up affairs to such an extent that I believe others can follow with reasonable ease so clear are his paperwork and his new computer systems; again they reflect his clarity of mind, his sense of purpose, his willingness to adopt new techniques and his tremendous drive. We are an unusually complicated school and it is substantially to Mark's credit that Sevenoaks is administered with a serenity which belies its complexity. 

5 years ago Mark took over a depressed boarding house and has changed this into one highly esteemed by both boys and parents. Mark is renowned for his ability to take on difficult boys, to care for individual problems and allow scope for personal initiatives. The House is known for its sport, its hospitality, its fund-raising and rigorous expectations on the scholastic front. His wife, Jenny, has contributed much to this. She is a most personable young lady, easy to talk to, full of ideas, and a good listener. She strongly supports her husband and is much-loved in the community. 

There are few of the qualities you have mentioned which Mark does not hold in abundance. It would be unnecessary for me to touch on each but I should touch on a few. He is a practised and skilled chairman who is always master of his brief and has the gift of moving forward a meeting whilst apparently giving space to members and allowing a relaxed atmosphere; he is particularly good at following up the committee's decisions. He hes often spoken in the Festival or on the Festival and does this with style, a good classicist's turn of phrase and he is never boring to listen to. He has shown courage in his willingness to press ahead with tough initiatives but, even more, in his unwillingness to show any sign of his injuries which can sometimes pain him. Above all, he has unbelievable energy and a quiet confidence in his own ability. He structures his life with precision, disciplining himself to get things done to a level of detail and in a shortness of time which constantly impresses us all. He needs Little sleep and works both late and early and my constant attempts to slow down his pace and reduce his workload have fallen on deaf ears. He is simply a man in love with his job as a schoolmaster, an administrator, and as an entrepreneur. I should finish by saying that he is a man of traditional views and values. He is loyal, discreet, compassionate and absolutely honest. He has been a pleasure to work with over six years and his c.v. will illustrate the responsibilities that I have willingly delegated to him. 

Mark is now ready for a headship. I believe that he has outstanding qualities to offer and that he will soon find the post that he seeks. If I can help further, please do let me know. 

Yours sincerely, 

Richard Barker 

28th August 2023

Sevenoaks Part One

 Had you been cruising round the Forum in Rome on 18 July AD 64 [ and I am informed with reasonable reliability that this particular activity was not uncommon there and then ], you might have stumbled across the Emperor Nero, resplendent in glittering stage costume and looking upon the scene of the city engulfed in flames as a backdrop to his dramatic activities. Had you then asked Nero what was the most favored spell of his short life, he might have replied it was his brief educational period for it was then that he learnt to play an antique version of the violin, thus enabling him now to fiddle with flamboyant sensitivity as Rome burned around him.  

I took a slightly contrary line when giving advice to young people leaving school, counselling that ‘ I am sure my schooldays will turn out to be the happiest days of my life ‘ was not only rash but defeatist, implying as it did that life thereafter would be downhill all the way. Similarly, those of us preparing foir a chat with the reaper of grim disposition followed, one hopes, with a more cordial encounter with St Peter, might be tempted to remember those long, hazy, smiling, summer all the year round days of school time as a spell in paradise. Largely free of health problems, financial difficulties and relationship tensions those times might be but absent too may have been the joys of young family, the satisfaction of jobs well done, the pleasures of doing well and doing good. 

If you were to ask me  --  and I am going to tell you anyway  --  when in my life I experienced the strongest balance of happiness and fulfilment, I would hesitate only momentarily before declaring the eleven years at Sevenoaks School from age 32 to 43. I am especially weak on the quality of emotional intelligence, which I have always advocated  --  and attempted to foster  --  in others. Indeed a French lady who knew me quite well back in the day [ as they say ] described me with a degree of pitying affection as an emotional pigmy and she was not wrong. This unenviable state of being combined with a single track determination to complete a task once embarked upon, meant that giving any sort of even weighting to family and profession was out of the question. Only a blending of saint-like tolerance and oodles of common sense has Jenny been able to cope with this impeding deficiency and ensure that some degree of sanity prevailed with three young children, all born during the Sevenoaks years, enjoyed some sort of proper upbringing. 

For eight of those eleven years I was housemaster to fifty five  teenage boys and, without that bruising, often rewarding experience I could never have been head of a boarding school at the next stage and certainly could not have aspired to effect a modicum of social reform in that role. However, I was also able to do the job as a family figure at the same time. Son Robin from age zero accompanied me around the sleeping quarters at 7.15am as I tried to prise reluctant adolescent bodies out of bed. So much did he value the experience, he decided thirty years later to do it properly himself. Daughter Sarah, aged three, could charm the crudest thugs into playful submission halfway up the vast Victorian staircase. As I tripped over her, I never dreamt that she too would enter this strange world but as a fundraiser rather than a teacher and employ those same charms to elicit contributions from similar rogues once they had at least superficially reformed and created a modest pot of loot. Alice was only one when we left Johnsons House and thus still at the stage of doing her own very definite thing regardless. Thirty four years later nothing has really changed as she has studiously avoided any contact with schools, preferring instead to run a business looking after dogs with rare whispering skill. In any case I was able to maintain reasonable contact with both my own children and other people’s. 

What a place it was, Sevenoaks School, 
Never one to play by the rule; 
Just experiment 
Whatever your bent, 
So Vista, IB, VSU. 

Indeed Sevenoaks was a pioneer in education from 1950 to 1990 [ and may still be in 2023 ] and working there we felt a remarkable career freedom, an unusual degree of trust shown to the staff to do their own thing and do it really well. People later frequently remarked what a substantial change the move from Sevenoaks to Gordonstoun must have been. Not a bit of it; both majored in true independence for individual and school alike; both therefore engendered a powerful camaraderie among the staff.  I might note in passing that assuming senior leadership [ or management ] status in schools does not impede the development of friendship. I have never been particularly adept at fostering that condition but two of the strongest ties  --  with Mike Bolton and Casey McCann  --  emerged from Sevenoaks. When you move onwards and upwards to become a Head, everyone is amicable but all have a box of chocolates and a harpoon gun simultaneously at the ready and true friendship within that environment is not possible. Here is another reason perhaps for looking back on those years in Kent with affection. 

I could write volumes on my time in that boarding house but I will resist the temptation. I will not talk either about my modicum of amateur Latin teaching [ never above GCSE ] nor my life as Registrar, responsible for admissions and a degree of marketing, vital work but essentially repetitive and even more grindingly dull for the reader. If you are still there, Moriarty, I will give you a taste of the other two strands of my life at Sevenoaks, in both cases through accounts written at the time for the sschool magazine.  

The School’s administration was based in Claridge House, a previously reasonably elegant building in the Upper High Street; at some stage  rendered rather less so by the addition of brown harling to the exterior and inevitably a surfeit of office paraphernalia within although the long garden leading down to Knole Park had retained its historic attractiveness. Headmaster, cleaners, Bursar, secretaries, porters, lost property specialists, prefects and all the rest were housed here and my job was a sort of catch-all majordomo in this establishment of educational support to the extent that a parent once addressed me as ‘ Claridge House man ‘. Considering myself alongside the Piltdown and Selsden varieties, I was happy with that. The following was written when I had been in post for about eighteen months.  

A View from the Office ( reproduced from The Sennockian 1982 ) 

"There's no heating in Swanzy, the cleaners refused to touch the Concourse last night and the telephone's already ringing in the Office". 

Ritson lifts his other leg ponderously and deliberately from the floor of his trusted Morris Minor, eyes the very tarmac of the Claridge House forecourt with defensive suspicion and braces himself for further disillusionment. Comfortable thoughts of executive serenity, coffee in hand, friendly and irrelevant con- versations, contemplation of the length of grass on the lawn outside and the thickness of the carpet within, rapidly evaporate as apprehension of unwelcome conflict replaces them. Heating, the Porter said. Oh dear. The Boilermakers' Union may be powerful but for sheer formidability you will find it hard to beat the boiler- makers' wives union at 7.55 a.m. 

 Letters, notes, lists....To whom it may concern. Dear Sir, I live in Hopgarden Lane and have recently lost my parrot (turquoise in colour and capable of quoting the Koran at length). I wonder if you could ask your boys if they have seen it.... 'Dear Mr. Ritson, I am writing to you on behalf of the Naturist Movement, Clackmannanshire branch, requesting use of the Aisher Hall for a performance on Saturday 20th May which will include the production of some original work... 

'Charles, the following missed Private Study yesterday. I think they may have been busying themselves in questionable pastimes at the bottom of the garden. Please investigate." 

With senses now dulled, but vaguely conscious of hot air rising from the very paper, Ritson exhales the final semblance of freshness from his lungs, shuffles these and a plethora of other documents in the customary anti-clockwise direction round his desk, muses momentarily on the disquieting contraction of the Amazonian jungle and prepares for the real demon, the internal telephone, to make its mark. 

There is not long to wait. "Is that the Office?" Ah, he thought, how I appreciate the impersonal touch. 

"No this is the Vatican and his Holiness is in Castel Gandolfo". 

Deathly hush; clearly stony ground for early morning humour. "Is Smetherington absent today or not? He's on your (of all the possessions he counts most dear this is certainly among his most treasured) Absentee List but I have just seen him in M7". 

"No, he came in late, after the list had been prepared, as his father had a puncture". 

 "But his father's in Borneo". 

 "That's probably why he was so late...". On second thoughts perhaps it wasn't. 

"Well I need to see him". 

"Hold on, I'll just look at his timetable card". 

"That will be useless as they (the imprecise and disparaging third person plural) have lumbered us with so many room changes this week in connection with the new mural in the computer lab; anyway I think he's doing Swahili Oral in one of those cupboards at the top of your empire," Mr. Disgruntled of Sevenoaks added with inimitable candour. 

When in doubt, Ritson hadlong ago decided, don the propaganda/ promulgation mantle and dream up a few witticisms for the next day's Bulletin. But what's this? Simultaneous resuscitation in the dissimilar forms of a call from the local garage to discuss a faulty condenser on one of the school's minibuses, and a statistical print- out from the computer (trusty exponent of the esoteric art of condensed faultiness) for checking and dissemination. Now why should anyone want to know the number of girls born on the 17th day of each month who have suffered from scarlet fever? 

 Enter, stage right, the Headmaster's Secretary, a ship in full sail. "An undernourished Inspector of Education from Baluchistan is visiting the school at half past eleven. He wants to learn about our school administration. He doesn't speak English. Over to you". "Hello," Ritson regrets that invariably in this egocentric age no more elaborate telephonic introduction is deemed necessary. "There is a lot of undesirable spitting in the school at present," Ahah; the moment for a semantic discussion as to whether spitting is ever desirable. But probably not. "Yes. Without wishing to sound brusque, so what?". 

 "Well, I assumed you (significant shift to second person) ought to know." 

 A steady stream of bright-faced youngsters meanwhile trail in and out, in urgent search of bus passes, early lunches, change for telephone calls and so on. "Where is the Bursar?" "How is the Headmaster?" "What is the Undermaster?" "Why is the Chaplain?". Ritson's mind wanders nostalgically back to his own school chaplain who was in the habit of attracting the attention of disinclined adolescents at the outset of indifferent sermons with a remark such as 'Have you ever been through Finsbury Park on the tube and tried to spell the name of the station backwards?" An explosive entrance: red-faced disciplinarian, stout bastion of a passing order, drags reluctant, leather-jacketed youth into the room. 

 "I have never seen such disgracefully dangerous driving; across the flat at 70 m.p.h. with a pillion passenger. Is he even registered as a driver? He should be whipped and banned for life. He's already coming to you for Conduct Detention on Friday." Ritson wonders whether physical castigation had been added to his multifarious responsibilities without his being informed, when a punctilious voice with a ring of artificial humility emanates from behind a filing cabinet, "Speaking of vehicles; Mr. Gumbleton has been parking his car in my space for two weeks. I would be most grateful if you could see fit to request him to attend to this indiscretion". 

 Lunchtime heralds a genuine break from routine as a parade of celebrated rogues, scruffy, surly and gated for a week or two, are obliged to be in attendance at various times. 'Was I ever that ill- kempt and bolshy?' he asks himself. Doubtful, but they will probably be high-fliers in fields industrial, political, ecclesiastical even, in twenty years time when some of us are still... 'Know then thyself, as Alexander Pope was wont to remark. 

 One of the more progressive members of staff, eager for extra computer usage, arrives only to be thwarted without apology as the word processor is churning out scores of disappointing head- magisterial refusals for aspiring members of the tapestry department. Last laugh for him however with a parting shot about broken: chairs in Cottage Block and alterations to the design of report forms: 

 "On whose authority were they changed?". 

 "Well I thought they might benefit from a slightly more futuristic style". 

 "Here we go again, Admin. throwing its weight around, making unilateral decisions. No thought of consultation." Ritson bites on his Bic with inadequately concealed self-restraint. 

 ... There's a St. Bernard on the running track; a boy is dispatched homewards with diptheria, the telephone system ceases to function-blessed relief-and... 

 "Why hasn't a timetable for school exams been posted yet?". "Because the staff hasn't yet decided whether they should spill over into Saturday." 

 "Good Heavens ! Why don't you take a bit of initiative, stop all this consultation nonsense and make a decision. What are you administrators paid for?". 

 The afternoon wears on. Ritson accomplishes one of his occasional forays into the classroom. "One is barely entitled to voice an opinion about education if you don't gain some experience at grass roots level. Bit of chalk dust, felt tip or whatever under the finger nails, you know." so he occasionally tells himself, and is told by his colleagues much more frequently. However he is relieved when his amateur attempt at this daunting pastime is over and he can return to the reassuring womblike security of his office, there to encounter a balding stranger, intense and diminutive, leaning over a typewriter. 

 "Oh good, how kind of you to come so promptly. The carriage return on this one has been giving endless problems. If you could sit down; no really; please do; and try for yourself. That's it. Now you can see the problem. Can I suggest you take the back off? No, please feel free to take it to bits here." 

 "But I am Marmaduke Godfrey, Social Democrat M.P. for  Sixpenny Handling.

 Caernarvon and I have come to address your Sixth Form on the recent walrus cull on Anglesey." 

 Embarrassment, grovel, exhaustion. Ritson finally relaxes, looks with modest satisfaction through the elegant Georgian windows at the impressively flourishing copper beech in the garden. 

 'Hey ho', he thinks, 'another one knocked off, now for an hour or two's indulgence in drab domesticity. Rumblings above in the  Headmaster's Office however warn him that the mountain may be in the process of descending to Mohammed. 

 "Hello, old boy. Glad to catch you. I have just heard that the site for the 1988 Olympics hasn't yet been finalised. I've put our name forward and I think it's in the bag. Leave all the administrative arrangements to you. Cheerio." 

28th August 2023

Reducing the Pressure through the Press

 During my time at Gordonstoun I was periodically invited to share my views on an issue of the day with a national audience through articles in established newspapers. This sometimes helped with a right of reply with tricky issues in the wider world but, almost as significantly, could be employed as a means of underlining messages to the community on the home patch.

When all is said but little done,

When cards seem stacked against just one;

 Then spin them a tale

That's quite past the pale; 

The critics will just cut and run.

There follow six pieces in no particular order; the first responding to a well known school in Berkshire which, on the cusp of a national trend, put all its students through lessons in happiness.

 

It's a lovely day for happiness lessons, missus

[ Published in The Scotsman on 30 August 2006 ]

HAPPINESS, Ken Dodd, below, observed, was the greatest gift that he possessed. As that doyen of the 1970s populist philosophical movement went on to share with us his thanks to the Almighty that he possessed more than his share of that elusive commodity, we have to admit there are some who are so compellingly bright and breezy their very presence can lighten the spirits of the rest of us. Some are indeed born happy.

Others clearly achieve happiness. Current debates centre on whether the depth and intensity of that happiness is governed by a supposed 1950s environment of having little and achieving much or by the perceived snapshot view of society 50 years on, where material acquisition is said to be paramount and meaningful accomplishment at a low ebb. However, there is no doubting that our degree and sense of happiness can be determined by what we believe, what we do and what we have.

So far so good; this uncluttered analysis had stood all manner of tests as it has been practised and proven for many years. However, it is now complicated by a third cate- gory, those who are to have happiness thrust upon them. In certain eminent establishments, under the cloak of positive psychology, lessons are to be given in the acquisition of happiness, as if it were on a par with conducting an experiment or appreciating the sprung rhythm in the poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins.

It is a rare irony that, when artificial stimulants are frowned upon by those who would guide the youthful generation, hypnosis into happiness is to form a compulsory part of the curriculum. And isn't happiness in any event, like another well-known ethereal quality, in the eye of the beholder, so a catch-all formula is unlikely to be effective? "Sir, I don't think your version of happiness is quite applicable to me" can reasonably be compounded by "I don't want to be happy today, anyway." Are we to deny students the freedom to experience sadness as well as elation?

Medicines are antidotes. Instead of groping in the cupboard for the bottle marked 'Happiness', the architects of this perverse strategy might, with advantage, pause to ask why the remedy is needed in the first place. Why are the young so entrenched in the slough of despond, if indeed they are?

It might just be that they have had the lifeblood taken from them, by a diet of undiluted and unadulterated academic slog. They are not seen as fires to be lit by intellectual and mind broadening stimuli, balanced with formative experiences of life elsewhere. There are too often vessels filled to overflowing with exhausting exam information and techniques, as they battle to grab an extra grade and ensure their schools maintain their place in the spurious league table battle.

Perhaps it is time we set young people free from this myopic and remorseless tyranny and tempered their diet with broader experiences. Let them cycle from Thanet to Thurso; let them work in a drama project in a deprived inner city area; let them sail the seven seas; let them follow their dreams not with an eye on ticking yet another UCAS box but as a way of developing and becoming themselves. And"let them" means give them the encouragement and the means to do these things, explaining that, through them, fulfilment may be found. The student who acquires a sense of perspective, sense of duty and sense of humour will not require artificial aids for happiness.

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" someone once observed, although uninspired Jill would rightly merit a mention also nowadays. I can remember in the early 1950s sitting in a group on the beach at Frinton-on-Sea under the benevolent eye of a generously proportioned Scripture Union lady as we all sang: "I'm H-A-P-P- Y; I'm H-A-P-P-Y; I know I am, I'm sure I am; I'm H-A-P-P-Y."

At the time I probably resisted the temptation to comment on the gratuitous tautology of being sure as well as knowing in this refreshingly simple ditty. However, I do remember being happy as I viewed with relish the miles of golden sand and deep blue sea; happy at the prospect of jam sandwiches on the beach hut at 4pm sharp; happy perhaps to be free of parental influence for a while; and happy to enjoy the camaraderie of, and activity with, the group around me. The singing was indeed a reflection of happiness at the thought of many sources of fulfilment - past, present and to come. This state of associated contentment did not stem from our leader telling me that I had to be happy and jolly well to sing about it too.

Our overworked, exam driven school students are more likely to find their own version of happiness on the beach than through collective brainwashing in the serried ranks of the happiness classroom. It's all a matter of developing your soul rather than pondering it.

__________

Of course the eternal debates about the importance of examinations and the relative merits of different systems is always with us.

Are A levels really as good as gold?

Be aware of the real value of learning, says Mark Pyper

[ Published in The Times on 13 August 1998 ]

T he interminable wait is almost over and thousands of young people experience temporary respite from traipsing through Tuscany and lounging in Lanzarote to discover their fate at the hands of the A-level examiners. And just as August 20 will be a "frabjous" day for many and Armageddon for more than a few, the time is ripe to question not so much the inevitable benchmark qualities of this idiosyncratic system but whether it merits the sobriquet "gold standard".

"Gold" attracts overtones of ostentation and swagger not totally divorced from an arrogance which would claim the "one and only" label for A levels while looking askance at other excellent systems such as the International Baccalaureate or Scottish Highers.

However satisfactory A levels may be for those who take and benefit from them, to claim for them a position of pre-eminence serves to undermine and dismiss the majority of the population who have different talents, who are busy obtaining other qualifications and who will be at least as useful to society as those who have traded in so-called gold.

If the recipients of the result slips really believe they have an ingot of high-carat gold in their hands, we shall have done them and the rest of us a grave disservice. If success at A level has been of such para- mount importance to teacher and student, the chances are that spoonfeeding will have played a substantial part in preparation for the exams.

Contrary to popular opinion, it is relatively straightforward in an educational context to get a young horse to drink the water it finds in front of it.What is much more challenging and important - is for the same horse to appreciate for itself the need for water in the first place and then to have sufficient motivation and skill to seek it out.

Those who have been crammed can come sorely unstuck at the higher education stage with disillusionment, mental turmoil and a limp academic performance the frequent consequences.

Equally if, in pursuit of that elusive crock, our sixth-formers believe that the knowledge that brings success at A level is all they need to know while at school, they will be utterly ill equipped to face life and play any meaningful part in the wider and increasingly unpredictable world. To academic qualities must be add- ed the skills and personal qualities which will enable this generation to lead itself to- wards an even better tomorrow.

Just as there is no point in the individual sacrificing enterprise, initiative and the ability to prosper on a short-term altar made of gold, still greater is the pity and harm for society if our bright young people conquer the academic world but lose their souls in the process. We all need training, not only to meet the challenge of life in a fast-moving and international age but an education in responsibility and compassion.

These are aspects of personal development which require resources of time, thought and energy as essential complements to an academic education. We neglect them at our peril and are more likely to forget them if we believe that the streets of life are paved with A- level gold..

___________________

At an early stage in the headmastering proceedings I realised that, if you are running a philosophy driven school, you should not be shy about explaining that philosophy.

Broadening their horizons

In all the vogue phrases and acronyms, says Mark Pyper, the point of education can be lost

[ Published in The Times on 25 January 1993 ]

What should we be asking of our educators in 1993? The question may appear trite, but is surely not without significance for, whatever the benefits or otherwise of the past turbulent decade, education has at last achieved recognition as one of the most powerful influences in com- munity and national life. Schooling has moved from an "Any other business" item on social and political agendas to the point where we rouse ourselves at the mention of the topic. Few would dispute that this is right and proper.

However, while fresh institutional and ideological saplings shoot up apace with the proliferation of educational acronyms now reaching encyclopaedic proportions, it may be prudent to examine some specific fundamentals and to appreciate the broader picture. I have a few suggestions which may sharpen the focus and stiffen the resolve of those responsible.

First, I wish we could stop "opting out". Of course we should applaud the trend towards increasing independence; but my real contention is that the term "opting out" represents a potentially harmful irony. At this time we should be encouraging our young people as never before to eschew a minimalist, defeatist approach to education and to life, committing themselves instead to positiveness in thought and action. "Opting out" is heavy with overtones of by-passing conviction and side-stepping endeavour.

A more assertive phrase is clearly called for. Should "turning around" appear to lack decisiveness and "setting forth" conjure up visions of a journey into the unknown, may I suggest, with the benefit of several literary allusions, including kindly lights and the good Macduff, the notion of “laying on” [ when Shakespeare of course meant ' leading on ].?

Second, let us wave a cheery goodbye to League Tables (please note capital initial letters to reflect the grossly inflated status of these vapid but menacing documents). Many have already - but thus far to limited avail pointed to the shortcomings of comparative lists; the inevitable lack of information on intelligence levels and social backgrounds; the tendency in some schools for doubtful candidates to be discouraged from sitting the exams; the use of artificially high criteria in devising tables, basing them, for example, at A level on A and B grades alone; and the deceptive narrowness of banding, whereby the distinction between, say, 73rd and 173rd place in a list of 200 top schools (all of which are excellent) is minuscule.

"Ah," I hear the protagonists claim, "something is better than nothing and we can always crunch and refine the figures ad infinitum." Or is it that the statistics on academic performance - or attendance, or conduct, for that matter - like your steak and kidney pie or your nut roast, are equally unpalatable in their raw state?

But all this is barely relevant and possibly dangerous - window dressing, implying that the league tables may have some intrinsic merit. Further critical questioning shifts the argument to the no less spurious realms of the "value added" factor. The term itself, soggy with the ethic of commercialism, invites us blinking and grasping down a cul de sac of indefinables and incomparables.

The one certainty about league tables is that they militate towards a stereotyped sameness, with schools employing battery methods to lay pale, insipid eggs in glamorously prepared baskets of uniform de- sign. And all this paradoxically at a time when the government's latest white paper on education is called "Choice and Diversity".

The real heart of the matter, as far removed from soulless statistics as you could possibly travel, but vital as the lifeline and lifeblood of the salvation and good health of our planet, is the responsibility of us all to foster and develop those basic essentials known as human values. These are not examinable or easily definable items which can be "added" to other factors as an afterthought. They are, however, hallmarks of independent schools and central to the procession of education and upbringing.

Our children will want to do well and of course we share with them their aspirations to achieve success but, to an equal and perhaps greater extent, we should want them to do good also. The two are not incompatible. Boys and girls must become honest, caring, decent people; whole people, knowledgeable certainly, but wise too. They must gain an awareness of the differences between right and wrong, and be willing to make sacrifices to serve others.

If such an objective is to be achieved in a tough world it will be through challenge, commitment, courage, self-discipline and an understanding that parents and educators will support young people but that the world does not owe them a living. This need not entail a puritanical philosophy but it does involve the development of a moral code as a foundation for bettering themselves and the world in which they live.

I find myself wholeheartedly in agreement with the authors of a national curriculum document published by the Department of Education and Science in 1989, called "From Policy to Practice". In the aims of education are defined as "promoting the spiritual, moral, cultural, mental and physical development of pupils at the school and of mental and physical dev- Society, and preparing such pupils for the opportunities, responsibilities and experiences of adult life". Hear, hear and in that order, too.

Finally, and implicit in these thoughts, is the belief that education should combat the rampant, uncompromising materialism of contemporary society. There is a personal aspect here. I do not believe that this can be achieved with humanism alone, for "do as you would be done by" can all too easily descend into subjective hedonism. Let us rather, through teaching and example, encourage our young people to look beyond the secular and the temporal to the spiritual dimension of their lives.

Let us hope that 1993 will be a year when educators lead those in their charge enthusiastically and successfully in their quest for truth, and may they find it in the God of peace and love.

______________________

Then there were occasions when one was momentarily on the defensive -- defending the cause of rectitude of course but facing all manner of slings and arrows from foes and supposed friends alike. Such a situation arose in 1996 in the wake of Channel 4 producing a warts and all documentary of a school in transition. The storm was not long in abating and interestingly the demand for places rose markedly in succeeding years.

In the eye of the critical lens

Mark Pyper, Gordonstoun's Headmaster, on the fly-on-the-wall film of his school.

[ Published in The Times on 27 September 1996 ]

Was it an act of courage or one of folly? The reference is not to Napoleon's decision to march on Moscow but to the policy of an independent school allowing television cameras to cross its threshold.

True Stories: Gordonstoun, the two-hour full-length documentary on Channel 4 in July, did at least provide a little holiday digression, fuelling the fires of Common Room and dinner party debate more even than the cricket results, early jitterings about league tables and the cost of the school tracksuit. It was open season and battle was enthusiastically joined.

What was it like at the time? We are a year on from the television focus and in the middle of an HMI inspection. The atmosphere is less strained and important aspects of education are scrutinised openly and sympathetically -- a marked change from the intrusive camera and microphone being thrust in the direction of unsuspecting mortals whatever their line of business.

We never allowed the hunted feeling to get the better of us and, even if we reached the state of scanning our most private rooms for hidden devices, we remembered that the world into which our young are moving is thickly populated with paparazzi, musing perhaps that preparation for this is an essential life skill. They -- the young rather than the paparazzi -- came across in a most reassuring way with a strong relaxed and reflective confidence.

Some of our pupils were able to transfer their acting talents from the life-and-flesh environment of the stage to the small screen with comfortable deftness. Many who had recently been involved in a school production of Macbeth showed themselves and their wares with rare aplomb.

The camera team filmed -- one cannot be quite sure why -- hundreds of hours of many pupils following a challenging and inclusive curriculum. The director was apparently enthusiastic about the balance of a strong academic programme and Gordonstoun's philosophy of overall personal development. Meanwhile, a few of the young were tempted to assist the TV crew in their search for items of tabloid interest. Initiative and resourcefulness are important qualities to develop at school and, with the cameras in their midst, some energetic students were able to take these skills forward to first-class degree standard without difficulty. The television folk could also be useful in terms of providing information.

Was it all successful and worthwhile?

The answer is that there must be a specific objective for opening doors to television cameras and a risk assessment carried out in advance. Gordonstoun was keen to divest itself of an image and a reputation -- ill-founded and inaccurate -- that its environment was both 'spartan' and exclusive. We calculated that, even if the film makers did their best -- or worst -- to sensationalise in a highly selective way, myths would be dispelled and some of the School's strengths would shine through.

Three months later success becomes more measurable. A major step in removing folklore has indeed been taken, while the film's undue dwelling on some superficial juvenile behaviour has not influenced mature and perceptive viewers. As one headmaster colleague said to me 'If that's all they could find in your school after fifteen weeks, your pupils must be saints'.

While the film did not, as expected, do our promotional work for us, investigate our philosophy or analyse our practices, it did not on the other hand attack the core of our ethos, and the lasting impression seems to be one of normal, spirited youngsters receiving a very sound education with a range of unusual and exciting experiences.

Recruitment was not a primary objective in admitting the cameras. we have a full school but interest in Gordonstoun has been further stirred; we have put ourselves on a different plane for the next stage of our development. Inquiries about the school from prospective parents have already increased. Honesty and boldness with a reasonable measure of confidence inevitably win through in the end.

So back to the inspectorate. We are awash with performance indicators and up to the gunnels with quality assurance but quietly suspect that what they will really want to discuss will be 'the film'. The search for truth goes on.

_______________________

The holding of the annual conference of Round Square schools, all subscribing to the ideals of Kurt Hahn, at Gordonstoun provided a further opportunity to proclaim the merits of holistic education.

Putting ideals into practice in Moray

MARK PYPER explains why next week's gathering of Round Square schools will celebrate the work of the educationist Kurt Hahn

[ Published in the Scotsman on 4 October 2006 ]

A REMARKABLE gathering of more than 400 young people from five continents will take place next week in Moray. It is the annual conference of Round Square, a movement based on the theories of the educational philosopher Kurt Hahn, whose birth 120 years ago will be marked at the event.

Most people reading this may not have heard of Hahn and would be surprised at the influence he has exerted on our world. Yet the worldwide growth in the number of Round Square schools, linked by a belief in the practice of Hahn's educational thinking, shows his philosophies provide an answer to the vital question those of us responsible for preparing the young for today's world are continually asking: "What are we going to do for the young of today?"

The major educational projects initiated by Hahn are still going from strength to strength, and influence educational thinking today. He founded the Duke of Edinburgh's Award in 1956, originally started in 1940 as the Moray Badge. He established Outward Bound in 1941, United World Colleges in 1962 and Round Square schools in 1967 - quite a legacy.

Round Square has become a world leader. It is now so large that this year's conference may be the last when all the schools can get together, as there are a limited number of schools in the world where this number of staff and students can be accommodated.

Students will meet at Gordonstoun next week for a packed six-day programme. George Reid, the presiding officer of the Scottish Parliament and for 12 years the director of public affairs for the International Red Cross and Red Crescent, Olympic medallist Kriss Akabusi, and mountaineer Jamie Andrew now disabled after a climbing accident - will each give a talk to generate ideas and encourage fresh thinking on the development of personal potential and good citizenship. Students will take part in discussions and activities based on the Round Square 2006 theme: "There is more in you than you think".

Hahn used this phrase to sum up his educational programmes. His ideals and precepts seek to achieve a holistic development in the education of each individual. He considered his ideas were not original but drawn from many other great thinkers. It was the "living" of ideas, of experiencing and implementing them oneself that was important to him.

"IDEALS" provide the initial letters giving Hahn's six principles on which the Round Square movement is based: Internationalism, Democracy, Environment, Adventure, Leadership and Service. These principles are just as relevant today as they were when Hahn formulated them more than 60 years ago. Those of us who advocate his ideals do not undertake mainstream education by putting these areas of learning and experience on the timetable as "optional extras". They are fully and comprehensively integrated into the curriculum of each school.

At Gordonstoun, we put students to sea in a sailboat during mainstream curriculum time; mountain rescue training is scheduled in the main timetable; fire service training is given during the core school curriculum (we have a fire engine and equipment based at the school for use in the district). Students train in living and working together. This is different from non-Round Square schools, where such training is voluntary or put in with the cadet activity.

What of internationalism? As Hahn explained: "An eminent man challenged me to explain what sailing in a schooner could do for international education. I said in reply we had at that moment the application before us for a future king of an Arab country who was about to enter Gordonstoun. I happened to have at the school some Jews. If the Arab and one of the Jews were to go out sailing in our schooner, perhaps in a north-easterly gale, and if they were to become thoroughly seasick together, I would have done something for international relations."

Before the days of television, public relations and sophisticated marketing techniques, Hahn created these innovative projects and made sure they were put into practice, not only in Britain and Germany but across the globe. I never met him, but can appreciate what an expert publicist he must have been. His networking skills must have been honed to work with politicians to obtain influence. He developed connections with the British royal family so their children went to Gordonstoun.

Hahn believed passionately in education that developed the deepest qualities of character and compassion. He viewed the decline of compassion as one of the greatest ills of modern life. Today we are confronted by a progressive inhumanity in the society in which we live. It is no wonder the banner of the Round Square IDEALS is waved by today's educationists.

People still associate Gordonstoun with a harsh regime of cold showers, physical exertions beyond normal bounds and general discomfort. Yet this was equally true of most independent schools in the first part of the 20th century. One has only to read autobiographies of great men who attended other well known British schools at that time to learn about accepted educational practices then considered "normal" but today would make headline news. Perhaps what led to this reputation of harshness at Gordonstoun was Hahn's emphasis on personal learning experiences. He did not particularly like team games: activities inclined to be elevated to iconic status in other British independent schools. He believed in the need for real, hands-on, practical challenges for the development of character. He considered his students learnt better by individual experience. Hence the Gordonstoun motto: Plus est en vous (There is more in you).

Prince Charles, The Duke of Rothesay, when asked on TV earlier this year what was the inspiration behind The Prince's Trust, said: "I think it was partly probably my education. The thing about Gordonstoun, the school I went to in Scotland, was it basically tried to encourage people to take the initiative and not to sit around expecting other people to do everything. The main principle underlying the school was that in order to be able to help with the transition from childhood to adult- hood you needed to give young adolescents responsibility."

This international gathering next week at Gordonstoun gives us the opportunity to implant a cascade of Hahn's beliefs among young people: all human beings are intrinsically worthy, and we are proud of our own identity and appreciate other people's.

________________

Sometimes it was helpful to state very publicly the nature of the School's policy on contemporary issues affecting young people in society. My views on drugs were not universally appreciated at the time but may appear rather run of the mill twenty years later.

Weaning teachers off zero tolerance of drugs

An uncompromising stand by schools on drugs is unjust and doomed to failure, says Mark Pyper, the head of Gordonstoun

[ Published in the Sunday Times on 27 October 2002 ]

The government's downgrading of cannabis from a class B to a class C drug has been viewed with alarm by some head teachers, who worry that it may make it more difficult for them to keep schools drug-free.

I do not believe that it will make any difference as long as schools have the right policies in the first place. At Gordonstoun we abandoned the "zero tolerance" policy automatic expulsion for a single drugs offence in 1996, recognising that it was unrealistic, unreasonable and unhelpful.

Zero tolerance policies were tried in our schools from the 1970s to the 1990s and were found wanting, not least in practical terms. The possibility, particularly in a boarding school, of a sufficiently large number of students being discovered with cannabis and facing expulsion that the school would perhaps have to close through a sudden fall in revenue might sound fanciful but is within the realms of reality.

Nowadays, in mediating between parents and pupils, head teachers have a useful role to play in the drugs debate. Parents need to be guided away from the syndrome of hanging and flogging towards a policy of reasonableness and empathy that their children will appreciate also.

In bridging the yawning divide between the generations, teachers should start by leading parents into the world of potentially unwelcome reality. Parents need to appreciate the nature of the drugs threat: the names of drugs, both official and on the streets; their composition and possible effects, physiologically and psychologically; the symptoms displayed by users; the legal position; the assistance that is available to all parties.

In achieving this, parents are not only increasing their understanding, they are coming to terms with a phenomenon they will then not automatically reject in fear but over which they will have control.

Both pupils and parents need a policy that is absolutely clear and uncompromising but which has an awareness of the world and an empathy with the young at its core. That is why many schools changed their policies in the mid-1990s and why government reclassification, under which cannabis is still illegal, is not really a relevant issue for schools with such policies.

There is an immediate moral shortcoming to zero tolerance and enforced immediate departure for every single drugs offender. Parents who will subscribe only to a school that is "clean" in drug terms should consider the case of the student who has been at a school for 4½ years and is within months of taking her A-levels. She has been a model pupil -- industrious, co-operative, responsible but then, almost unwittingly, makes a minor error of judgment and consumes a microscopic amount of cannabis - perhaps just one puff of a cigarette passed to her.

Where is the morality in requiring such a girl to be excluded immediately and permanently from the school without consideration for past record, future prospects or comparison with alcoholic misdemeanours?

A successful drugs policy will emphasise prevention through education and cure rather than trading in peremptory exclusion. On the sanctions side, it will have to under- line that some offences use of category A (hard) drugs or trafficking merit instant expulsion.

However, for a single use of a class B or C drug such as cannabis, there may be an opportunity to learn. The policy will insist on a period of suspension from school, followed by periodic drug testing when the pupil returns for the remainder of her career. A positive test, pupil and parents have to agree together, will mean her leaving the school. The test may be taken at any time and, as cannabis can stay in the bloodstream for three to four weeks, the student has to think carefully about her behaviour, even in holiday periods.

Students as well as parents need education. They also need a policy that is clear but reasonable. (This, incidentally, can involve informing the police of all drug incidents, provided the young know this will happen). Above all, they need an environment that fosters informed discussion on a difficult topic.

This is where zero tolerance is so damaging and frequently serves to increase the amount of drug-taking in a school. In making a taboo of the subject, a school will drive drugs even more into the shadows where they flourish more profusely while the innocent, the ignorant and the potentially vulnerable have nowhere to go for help and advice. A more reasonable approach opens up and increases the likelihood of the topic being openly and effectively discussed by students, staff and parents.

Young people in the alternative, supportive environment I advocate will openly ask for a drugs test to establish innocence when an accusation or suggestion of drugs involvement has been made. Stu- dents can, and do, approach school staff, in the most genuine manner, to express concern about the possibility of a friend consuming some- thing illicit, knowing that the matter will be properly dealt with.

It is possible to create a school environment where the pupils will not want drugs to be prevalent or even present. The good school will offer its pupils a positive ethos of challenge and controlled risk taking, an alternative scenario to the supposed verboten delights of the underworld.

28th August 2023