Teach Your Children Well (16/5/13)

First day off in what seems like years with genuinely absolutely no commitments;  nothing to do, nowhere to be, fantastic. Promised myself a lazy day and, in general, I've managed it brilliantly so far - done all the washing, unloaded the dishwasher, paid the gardener (that was strenuous), played a bit of FIFA, bit of Call Of Duty.

Didnt start work on this half hour TV play script that I've got rattling round as I thought I might. So next time you hear me complaining that I'm not a rich and famous writer it may be worth pointing out that sitting down and doing some bloody writing might be an idea. I've even been putting this blog off for the best part of five hours (though I have managed a bit more of Day 150) - its amazing the things that you can find to do in order to avoid writing if you really put your mind to it.

And of course I did the school run. Just for Matty, Tom was in at 10 but I had a phone to wait for so Tom was walking (it's only five minutes, he'll be fine) and as we were driving Matty was talking about his teachers. His History teacher is his favourite teacher. He was expressing amazement at the fact that 'Sir' plays five a side at Goals over the road from us a couple of times a week, is an Evertonian and his favourite player is Tony 'Hibbo'' Hibbert, something Matty has in common with him.

If Matt wasn't already interested in the subject you can guarantee that he would be just by virtue of having an interesting teacher. From my time at school there were two teachers who really stood out;

Mr Roarke taught History, he was nicknamed Rocky after a BBC kids show that was running in the late seventies, 'Rocky O'Rourke'' adapted from the book 'A Pair of Jesus Boots' and set in Liverpool. He wasn't overly chuffed when Ste Beb decided to shout "Hey, Rocky!" across the yard at him. It was Mr Rourke who taught me that it was Gavrilo Princip of The Black Hand Gang that assasinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Prussia to ignite World War One. He wasn't going to, the details weren't important but I kept demanding an answer. I failed my A Level history (not his fault, I just couldn't bring myself to give a toss about the repeal of the corn laws) but thirty years on I know exactly who killed Franz. And you never know when that'll come in handy.

He was also the first person to ever mention the band 'The Pretty Things' to me. The class was trying to find out whether he was a Beatles or Stones fan; which of those washed up old bands he listened to while we were all listening to punk, 'cos he was old - we were all 14ish and he was in his late twenties at least. They were both good he said, but those of us who really knew what was going on were listening to The Pretty Things. It was another decade before I heard 'S.F. Sorrow' but when I finally did I realised 'Mr Roarke was right'

And then there was Dougie Milner, our English teacher. Clearly a bit of a hippie, longish hair, John Lennon glasses, wore clogs. Clogs. We did the music thing on him as well, obviously listened to rubbish. While we were talking about how great the first Public Image Single was (and, in fairness, it still is) we asked him;

"Sir, Sir, what music do you like Sir?"

"Well, mostly a guy called Leonard Cohen"

"Sir, are you a hippie Sir?"

"Yes, I think I probably am"

Christened Douglas as he was born in the Isle Of Man's capital, he encouraged us to talk about the books that we were studying, to debate the points that we needed for our exams. Two girls left the A level class early on because they didnt like the way that the lessons ran, didn't feel they were learning anything. I felt I was learning everything.


I've no idea where they are now, not a clue what they did after I left Fazakerley Comprehensive. I presume that they're in their early to mid sixties. I hope they're still with us, healthy and happy and have had a good life. It's the least that you can hope for for your good teachers; they're so much more than the details of wars and events and authors, what a good teacher teaches you is with you for life.