Chapter Six: Grammar Snobs (Part 1)

1969: The Biddulph valley lies shimmering and faintly buzzing in the near heat of a July afternoon. The air is filled with the fragrance of England; otherwise known as new mown grass. In the distance Mow Cop Castle sits wavering against a petal blue sky looking for all the world as if someone has plucked it from the bottom of a fish tank and popped it on the hilltop to dry. And below, the slate rooftops of Biddulph town give off a steely glare which forces the eye to the soothing green of cow dotted farm pastures which separate slate from sky.

I don’t recall sitting the 11+. There was certainly a lot less fuss, palaver & pressure about things like that in those days. I do remember getting the results though. I desperately wanted to go to the Grammar School. For a start, Tim went there and I kind of liked the thought of us going to school together for the first time. This also meant Mum being able to recycle some of Tim’s uniform rather than having to buy everything brand new.  “Knypersley Hall Boys” was single sex and most of my friends were girls. The only advantage of the boys school was it being less than a minute for our front door, whereas the Grammar School was a good 40 minute walk. I did get in, and assumed that my mates would too. They didn’t. They started referring to me as a Grammar Snob and suggesting I only got in because my mum was a local teacher. That hurt.

On this particular afternoon, every door and window of Biddulph Grammar School is open against the summer heat and the sounds of a normal Thursday afternoon spill out over the playing field. Form 3 girls playing badminton in the school hall, Mr. Crawley the chemistry master (Creepy Crawley to us) drilling yellow Form 1 on the periodic table, someone having a 1:1 cello lesson in the medical room and Mrs. Biddle battling to put a group of sluggards through their heptatonic scales.

Out on the field, games master Mr. Biddle (husband of the aforementioned Mrs. B) is umpiring a cricket match between Form 3 yellow & blue houses. The usual suspects are dominating the game – Paul Staniland is demon bowler for the blues while Melvin Withey and Carl Brassington are putting in a decent innings at the crease for the yellows. And out lurking at deep cover there’s me. Resplendent in full cricketing whites including cable knit jumper despite the heat - I look for all the world like a true sportsman. But inside, I’m desperately hoping that none of the action comes anywhere near me. By rights, I shouldn’t actually be out in the field of play. You see, by dint of good fortune, in our year there were 11 boys in the yellow form but 12 boys in blue. Being a blue myself and totally inept at anything sporty, this meant that, when it came to 11 a side games like football or cricket, I was always the spare and would happily assume the role of linesman or scorer. But today, Martin Axon having taken a day off school due to a nasty bout of croup, I was lumbered.

I hate sport. Always have. Always will. I’ve no objection to anyone else doing it you understand. We can’t all like the same things, so please feel free. Personally, I don’t like being cold, wet, hot or sweaty. I don’t like mud & I don’t want to be hurt or risk injuring someone else. Not having a competitive bone in my body doesn’t help. If winning is important to you, then frankly, I’d rather lose and give you the pleasure. Something I really resent is the idea that there’s something wrong with you if you don’t like sport. I remember staying at the beautiful Langstone Hotel, Hayling Island a few years ago when some species of European fixture was being played. Every tv in every bar & lounge was tuned in to it. Being a regular customer there I half-jokingly requested they switch to BBC2 at 8pm to enable me to watch a Matthew Bourne ballet, which elicited the polite but frosty response that maybe I should consider ordering room service. My point being that, if there was no football on that evening, their response would probably have been the same.

I did have a brief flirtation with cross country running. Six foot tall, lanky & with less meat on me than a butcher’s pencil, I was definitely built for endurance not speed. But the main attraction of running was that it involved leaving the school gates unsupervised to follow a prescribed route through a very beautiful part of Biddulph. Down Woodhouse Lane and along Congleton Road the route then took me up Grange Road and past the now world famous Biddulph Grange Gardens:

“This amazing Victorian garden was created by James Bateman for his collection of plants from around the world. A visit takes you on a global journey from Italy to the pyramids of Egypt, a Victorian vision of China and a re-creation of a Himalayan glen.

The garden features collections of rhododendrons, summer bedding displays, a stunning Dahlia Walk and the oldest surviving golden larch in Britain, brought from China in the 1850s.

The Geological Gallery shows how Bateman's interests went beyond botany. Opened in 1862 the unique hallway is a Victorian attempt to reconcile geology and theology.”  – National Trust

In those days the main house was an orthopaedic hospital and the grounds sadly neglected. The hospital closed by 1991 and the garden, thanks to a large fundraising effort, was bought by the National Trust and opened to visitors in May 1991. It was the largest garden restoration project the National Trust had taken on at the time, and its restoration journey continues to this day. You should visit. It’s glorious.

Skirting around Grange Woods one would then head along Hurst Road past a working quarry and up the notoriously steep Spout Bank; a gruelling 1:4 uphill gradient with a very welcome natural spring or spout halfway up. At its top the road would then split into two lanes: one called Over the Hill which literally took you up & into Biddulph Moor Village, while Under the Hill cut below the summit eventually intersecting with Woodhouse Lane and leading back to school. I think I might have become quite good as a runner had something hitherto unforeseen occurred. I met Andrew Webster.

Andy joined our class in the third form, having relocated from Heald Green on the outskirts of Manchester with his mum & dad, Geoff & Moira, & his younger sister Julia to a house on Congleton Road, a mere 20 second diversion from the cross country route. Having been introduced to the class, he was sat with me and John “Quackers” McQuade with instructions that we were to “look after him”. No instruction needed. Andy and I hit it off instantly and became boon companions. Having a similar sense of humour based on The Goons, Tony Hancock and Monty Python we also shared a love of “songs from the shows”. Our rendition of “Some Enchanted Evening” was quite the thing & we would often entertain people in bus queues with it whether they liked it or not. We also shared a love of theatre production, although I was more on-stage & Andy was more interested in sound and lighting.

The thing was, Moira Webster was an ‘at home’ mum and it didn’t take us long to work out that rather than head up Grange Road, it was the work of a moment to sprint down to his house where she would serve us with milky coffee and a delicious homemade flapjack. Having enjoyed this welcome break, Andy & I would head back along Congleton Road & nip back up Woodhouse Lane to arrive at the school gates around the same time as everyone else albeit from the wrong direction. We also saved ourselves the trouble of running up Spout Bank. Clever huh? A major blow fell when the Websters moved to a house up on the moor, nowhere near the cross-country route. But we at Webster-Hirst Enterprises Ltd (very) as we now styled ourselves, were equal to the emergency. The night before games, we would secret a primus stove and tea making comestibles in Grange Wood along with a packet of No.6 fags as flapjack substitutes. To buy enough time to make a decent brew we reversed our route so we ran down Spout Bank rather than up gaining at least 15 minute and sparing ourselves a lot of effort.

In the fourth form we had double games first thing on Monday mornings. Horrendous. One cold, bleak, November morn, Andy & I set off for a run as per. I have a feeling that it was so cold and bleak we even wore our school coats over our games kit.  On our approach to Under the Hill, Andy spotted that at one of the houses there had a chimney fire. We rushed to the property and hammered on the door to rouse the sole occupant – a middle aged lady who was obviously enjoying a bit of a lie in. She was somewhat startled to find 2 trouser less boys at the door and a short comedy cross talk ensued.

Andy: Excuse me but your chimney is on fire!

Sleeping Lady: Yes of course there’s a fire. It is November.

Andy: Yes of course, but it’s your chimney that’s alight.

Sleepy Lady: Of course, its alight. Its a fire.

Andy: But its spread to your chimney.

Sleepy Lady: Well, the smoke has to go somewhere.

Me: Perhaps you ought to come and see for yourself?

Sleepy Lady: [spots flames now belching from the side of the chimney stack] Arggghh!

At this point she had an attack of the vapours, leaving me to pick up the phone and dial 999. Things were very different in those days. Call handlers didn’t work to computer generated flow charts and I suspect addresses were looked up in a paper A to Z.  Fire dispatchers were no-one’s fool, and a 14-year-old trying to tell a seasoned member of the Staffordshire Fire Service that there’s a fire “Under the Hill on Biddulph Moor” smacks of the prank call even now. It was like something out of a Rob Wilton sketch:

Wilton: [on phone] Hello…hello…is that you Arnold? Well don’t keep going away. There’s a fire now in Grimshaw Street and I’m here by myself. Have you got any petrol?... I know its no good for putting fires out with, you blithering idiot. Have you got enough petrol to take you there? The Fire Station 1931.

Wilton used to perform this sketch with his wife Florence. I enjoyed recreating the piece from time to time in the 80s with the second Mrs.Hirst.

The brigade did eventually chip up and practically demolished the chimney stack to ensure the conflagration hadn’t spread into the loft. The lady of the house seemed non too pleased about this and we never did receive any thanks. Back at school we had to explain why we were late back, but nobody seemed too fussed. I think we were just grateful that no one questioned how we’d got up on the moor quite so early.

Meanwhile, back on the cricket field I was skulking about, ignoring the game and doubtless distracted by something going on nearby. Cows fooling about? Arboriculturists in Grange Woods? Miss Rushton the games mistress passing by in her netball skirt? (The thought of Miss Rushton the games mistress passing by in her netball skirt!) Who knows? Whatever it was, I was suddenly conscious of a great hue and cry that involved all of blue form excitedly shouting my name. Melvin Withey had hit a ball skywards and it was heading straight for me. Instinctively I started to move backwards with my hands outstretched to catch the speeding projectile. Sadly, for me the sun was in my eyes and I lost track of it. I did take the catch amid much cheering but only when the ball had ricocheted off my mouth causing wobbly teeth, much bleeding and a laundry challenge for mother. My front teeth have never been the same since.

Yet more confirmation that sport is only for watching.