The year 1950 found itself wedged, uncomfortably, half way through the century which had burst into life during the death throes of Queen Victoria - and which was itself to die with little more than a whimper. It fizzled out as sedately as a declining dowager - in spite of all the Millennium hype - whose main claim to fame proved to be the much dreaded prediction that, at the millennial 'Auld Acquaintance' moment, all our computers would join hands… and then promptly crash. Then the world as we knew it would end. As it transpired, all the bits of binary seemed to take to 'The New Millennium' much better than we humans.

If one cared to conflate the imperial majesty of the late Queen Victoria with such disparate notions as, say, the new-age uplift of Madonna Ciccone, or the rainbow personality of Michael Jackson (both born in 1958), you might get a feel for the social insecurity that would come to define our age.

1950 was also the year in which I was privileged to join what would now be called a 'minority group'. Apprehensive sprog that I was, I was consigned to the educational ghetto which was West Leeds High School (Boys).

On becoming one of the new (and therefore privileged) 'grammar school boys', I found myself to be quite weighed down by my privileges. For example, I found that I could now be bullied by the masters (no 'teachers' for we the privileged) as well as being bullied by the prefects, the older boys, and the bigger boys of my own age. The bullying alone made me feel about as privileged as a hard-hat diver wearing a leaky suit. As if the cold and the terminal bends weren't enough, I was obliged to play at being a Public School boy.

Rugby Union has been described as :"A game for thugs played by gentlemen"

Rugby Union, as played on the rolling down-land of our school pitch, was de rigueur for we guinea pigs of our brave new educational world. In those halcyon days before Global Warming, the only time that our Rugby pitch wasn't a quagmire was when it was frozen hard. Even so, it wasn't eating the mud, nor even my icicle-lacerated knees and elbows that privileged me the most. It was the fat arses. Every thirty seconds or so, during play, the master blew his whistle. Yes, a whistle. Now I know you must be thinking. What about its effect on the confidence of a poor, working-class lad, never mind the violation of his human rights? But whistle it was. And do you know what? I didn't give a fig.
It was what the whistle portended that concerned me most.
For me "scrum down" was the most dreaded of all Sir's commands. For those fortunate people who are not familiar with the game of Rugby, 'scrum down' is a ritual where a group of grown men bend over - and each pushes his face deep into the crack of another man's bum. Once initial contact has been made, these men are then shoved from behind by their team-mates. Your own group is faced by an identical lot from the opposing team, and their lot then has to push itself towards your lot. As you might imagine, the not inconsiderable force produced ensures that everyone achieves an airtight nose to bum fit.
This is, I think, one of the least well documented dangers of all contact sports, but the more astute reader may have noticed that my description refers to men… and realised that we were still only boys. Similarly, a more historically inclined reader might also be aware that in the early 50's there was no such thing as 'soft' toilet tissue - and that no one except royalty had showers at home. The weekly bath for we commoners was always on Friday night. Consequently, a regular smear round one's fundament with San Izal's paper-thin linoleum floor covering laced with an industrial disinfectant & masquerading as toilet paper, or even a bit of torn up newspaper for those wishing to keep abreast of the (Radio) times, usually left much to be undesired.
Luckily, ours was a posh school, so they provided showers: Unluckily, we had games on Thursday… and we didn't get showered until after the game.
Hence it was a special treat for those of us who had to say "yes" to crack on games day. Serendipity being what it is though, I suppose that it wasn't just the year 1950 that had found itself wedged, albeit metaphorically, into something of an uncertain origin. I myself was wedged into something quite real and rather unpleasant almost every week. Perhaps if I had suffered a rugby player's broken nose, or even chronic catarrh, I might have enjoyed the game. As it was, I hated Rugby from the outset. Of course, real Public School boys don't play Rugby in summer - so neither did we ersatz Etonians. When our summer finally arrived, we gentlemen-in-waiting played cricket instead, and this gentlemanly game gave each of us yet another sporting opportunity to be slapped in the face by someone else's hand-stitched sweaty balls.
Thus far then, I had benefited from masters who wore gowns and who were, quite unwittingly, laying the ground for what would later come to be called 'extreme rendition'. Then there were the prefects. They bore their enamel lapel badges with pride, and wore haughty expressions which wouldn't have seemed out of place on the chiselled Aryan features of an Untersturmbannfuhrer in Hitler's SS. The prefects carried on where the masters left off with what is now called verbal abuse. As a sort of bonus, both groups dished out after-school detentions as though they were preparing to meet an Orwellian Government Target. Call me ungrateful, but so far I had hated my privileges…


Mike Fall (WLHS 1950 - 54) Experience more of Mikes Wit & Wisdom by clicking here

COMMENTS:

Michael Baldwin says:

Great description of life in the 50's, a bath every Friday whether you needed it or not.
The teachers ruling by fear or humiliation, does anyone remember Sest who happened to pronounce C'est wrongly and as a result of Curly Bill's ridicule became
Sest until he left for another school.
Mousey Mounsdon a psychopath if ever there was one.
And not forgetting little Joe Rose and his nose chalking to emphasise his telling off,
the bigger you were the more humiliation involved.
But I wouldn't have missed it for anything as in spite of the regime I still enjoyed it.

Brian Rodney says:

I entered this establishment as one of the first scholarship boys to pass the 11-plus, this would have been 1946. I remember the first time out on the rugby pitch where we were given instructions on how to play the game. Having a life-long total disinterest in any sport, I was not impressed. For the next few years, along with other boys who disliked Rugby Union , I spent the time either larking about or having a soccer kick-about with a rugby ball.
On one such sports afternoon we were all near the goal-posts when a group of players came hurtling down the pitch towards us. It was headed by a boy who basked in the reflected glory of his brother who played for Leeds United - his name was Heaton, I remember. Heaton had the ball and was fending off being tackled when, not looking where he was going, he ran straight into the goal-post and knocked himself out. We thought that this was one of the funniest things we had ever seen, and doubled-up with laughter - for which were handed a weeks detention.

John Swash says:
I'm trying to learn how to play rugby but can't quite get there. Every time I think I've scored, the coach says "good try".

I had never played rugby until I went to West Leeds in 1959. The game was a mystery to me. I remember receiving a brief introduction to the game the first time we hit the rugby field in our new kit. Teams were chosen, and I played as a second-row forward in the scrum, a position in which I continued to play for the next four winters, occasionally shifting to prop forward. After the initial introduction, the total coaching I received was about 10 or 15 minutes before the next couple of games, and after that, zilch. We spent more time on the pre-match boot stud inspection. However, talent will out and one of my classmates went on to become an international rugby referee.

The battle of Waterloo may have been won on the playing fields of Eton but at West Leeds the playing fields resembled a re-enactment of the 3rd Battle of Ypres - Passchendaele ( in which my grandad had "played"). The school pitches were constantly plagued by effluent run-off from a neighbouring mushroom farm, turning them into a quagmire. Occasionally, they were simply unplayable. While I didn't mind getting muddy, I remember one instance where Taffy Lloyd ordered anyone who still had white knees at half-time to be rolled in the mud by their teammates.
I enjoyed playing rugby well enough at the time but after leaving school, I lost interest in playing or watching team sports. I simply preferred participating in individual sports.