You Did Say Have Another Sausage

by John Meadows

  “Oh, that went fine. They offered me a job as well.”

  As the smile returned to his face, I added with a deliberate, matter-of-fact shrug, “And by the way, I’ve got a house thrown in. That’s two jobs and a house, not bad for a day’s work.”

  It got the desired effect as my parents stood there bemused, with disbelieving expressions on their faces.

  The reason for their concern was that Norma and l had decided that we were going to get married that summer. No house, no job, but, to quote Mr Micawber, I was waiting ‘for something to turn up, which I was hourly expecting’. It turned out to be a memorable day. I had an interview in the morning for a job in Widnes at the British Copper Refinery. In the afternoon, I was interviewed for a post as an art teacher at Norton Priory, a very large Comprehensive School in Runcorn. I had travelled home from Reading University in Berkshire, where I had just completed my Post-Graduate Teaching Certificate.

  “Are you planning to actually live in Runcorn?” asked the Headmaster after I had accepted his offer.

  “Possibly,” I answered vaguely. “I am getting married soon, so we will probably look for a flat to rent now that I have got a job.”

  “Would you like a house?”

  “Eventually,” I answered, intrigued.

  “No, I mean would you like a house now. Today...?”

  Now this is not the kind of question that usually crops up in general conversation.

  I almost said, “No, I’ll get these, you bought lunch.”

  He went on to explain that the school was in an Educational Priority Area and school teachers employed by the Local Authority were offered a house on one of several new estates.

  “Er, yes please,” I replied with an air of bewilderment.

  He rang the Education Officer at the town hall, and arranged for me to go straight there. Armed with the necessary credentials, I was allocated a brand-new three bedroom house with a garden. That’s the thing about waiting for ‘something to turn up’; like buses, sometimes three things turn up at once.

  Norton Priory did not have a school-uniform policy, and on my first day it was interesting to note the dress code as everyone made their way along the school driveway. Our old friends the Bay City Rollers set the ‘style’; the feathered, mullet haircut was ubiquitous, male and female, and billowing half-mast denim jeans with tartan edging was worn over brightly coloured socks. Even though it was early September, everyone wore two scarves... tied around the wrists. Everyone plodded along on heavy, chunky platform-shoes while wearing denim jean-jackets with tartan shoulders. And that was just the staff.

  At that time, Runcorn was expanding rapidly as an over-spill for Liverpool, and the distinctive ‘Scouse’ accent was creeping inexorably inland. Most of my classes had a fifty-fifty split between Liverpudlians and locals, and for some reason Scousers refer to non-Scousers as ‘woolly backs’ (I believe that the historic origin of this terminology dates back to the Liverpool docks when labour was drafted in from nearby towns to carry bales of wool). Occasionally, other accents were thrown into the mix: Scottish, and one or two from London. This was because there was a huge ICI Industrial plant nearby, and families would re-locate from other parts of the country. Remember when I arrived in America, I quoted George Bernard Shaw’s ‘two nations divided by a common language’? Well, I could extend that notion further to within Britain. One of my fifth year pupils, Raymond, had a strong Cockney accent and some of the conversations he had with his new Scouse friends were almost impenetrable to the casual eaves-dropper. It was a world where two estuaries collide: the Thames and the Mersey, guttural-stop versus guttural-go. Thank goodness for ‘The Sweeney’ on television. I watched it as if it was a language course.

  I was collecting homework sketch-pads one lesson, and when I got to Raymond he gave me an apologetic look and said, “Sorry sir, I ain’t got it.”

  “Don’t tell me Raymond, the dog’s eaten your homework?” I said, rolling my eyes sarcastically.

  “Nah, me sports bag was stolen this mornin’ at the bus stop. An’ all me stuff was innit.”

  “Did you see who stole it?”

  “Yeah, but it was too late. He ’ad it away on ’is toes.”

  Following a brief silent pause, there was an eruption of uproarious laughter from the rest of the class. Raymond sat there looking totally bemused. My Head of Department, a Scouser named Ron, popped his head round the classroom door to find out what was so funny. I tried to suppress a laugh, but I had to give way otherwise I might have blown a gasket. The laughter gradually subsided and I gently explained to Raymond that “In the North of England to ‘have it away on your toes’ does not mean running away.” Ron laughed so much his knees trembled.

  That ‘old chestnut’, ‘the dog ate my homework’, has even been upgraded in the modern digital age. While we are on the subject, let me time-travel again and fast-forward thirty years into the future to the Deanery High School in Wigan.

  Often I would set a homework involving research into paintings or artists, and many of the children would do this work on their computers. Same scenario,

  “Sorry sir, I’ve forgotten my memory stick,” explained one boy apologetically.

  “Forgotten your memory stick? What an oxymoron,” I announced, pleased with my witticism, but temporarily forgetting that my audience was a class of 13-year olds.

  The following day, the headmaster sent for me to tell me that an irate mother had rang to complain that, quote, “Just because he forgot his homework Mr Meadows called my son a poxy moron.” Such bittersweet memories.

  Anyway, let’s go back to the present, or is it the past?

  Ron and I organised a coach trip for our sixth form students to the Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool to view an exhibition of Pop Art. The A Level Art syllabus required students to produce a personal study, which was an illustrated booklet based on first-hand research, and we felt that this exhibition would be ideal. Pop Art is the name given to a movement of the 1950s and 1960s based on ‘popular’ culture and which draws its inspiration from aspects of modern life such as commercial posters, food packaging, and comic books. The exhibition included work by Roy Lichtenstein and Andy Warhol who, incidentally, coined the phrase ‘Everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes’.

  Chinese Pop

  Back at school, my role was to supervise the students on an individual basis and guide them through the process of writing and researching a personal study in much the same way that a University tutor would advise a student writing a thesis. One of my students was a Chinese girl called Su who was very pretty with dark eyes and glistening straight black hair, which was fashioned into a ‘bob’ to frame her face. She was an intelligent, highly conscientious student who followed instructions unquestioningly. In fact, my only criticism of her was that she lacked the spontaneity and originality-of-thought that I liked to encourage in my art students. In Su’s case, I felt that the illustrative aspect of her study was lacking and this was the catalyst for a chain of events leading to much hilarity amongst my colleagues.

  Perhaps you recall an episode of the TV series ‘Monty Python’s Flying Circus’ which featured a sketch about the world’s funniest joke. It was so funny that people died laughing. The writer keeled over at his typewriter just as he had finished it. A member of his family discovered his body, read the piece of paper thinking it could be a suicide note, and promptly dropped dead. Bodies piled up, all clutching their sides in agony until someone eventually made the connection. Anyone who happened to catch the merest glimpse of a word or a line ended up in intensive care. The house was cordoned off and the joke had to be carefully separated into sections to avoid the fatal consequences of anyone else reading the whole thing. The army used the joke as a secret weapon.

  Such a weapon once came into my possession in the form of a book: not a joke book, not a compendium of witticisms by the li
kes of Oscar Wilde, Groucho Marx or Mark Twain, not the anecdotal reminiscences of an Orson Wells or a David Niven, not even the hilarious life-story of a stand-up comedian. No, the book in question was an art book: the ‘History of Pop Art’, to be precise. It is the funniest book I have ever seen. All I had to do was to tell a brief story to any unsuspecting colleague, and then open the book in front of them. Tears of laughter were guaranteed without fail.

  Su had bought some post-cards at the gallery gift shop, but not enough to sustain her booklet. Generally, students would utilize photocopies from textbooks, their own photographs, and perhaps photos of their own paintings if relevant to the study. In the early 70s, Pop Art was still relatively recent and the movement had not yet been widely written about and appraised. Consequently, there wasn’t a vast array of information or books available. Fortunately, at home I had a book on Pop Art which was packed with glossy reproductions. Although I don’t normally lend out my own books, I felt that I could make an exception in Su’s case. Besides, I was beginning to feel a bit guilty because every time Norma and I went into her father’s Chinese restaurant in Runcorn he would greet us with a respectful bow, ‘to his daughter’s teacher’, and refuse any payment for the meal. It became quite embarrassing really. Eventually we stopped going there because we felt as if we were taking advantage of his good nature. And, after all, we had tried everything on the menu.

  At our next tutorial I loaned my book to Su. “Use any of the illustrations,” I said, “See Mr Tomkins in the reprographics office.”

  “Thank you velly much, Meester Meedos,” answered Su gratefully, “I will return to you next week.”

  “There’s no hurry, take as long as you need up to the deadline day.”

  Over the next couple of weeks, the students started to finalise their coursework exhibitions and to prepare for the practical exam. Handing-in day for the personal studies started to loom large, and, invariably, each student breathed a huge sigh of relief as they submitted the final booklet. Su gave me her finished study formally with a deep bow. Then with a broad smile she handed back my ‘Pop Art’ book with both hands as if she was presenting a trophy.

  “Thank you again, Meester Meedos.”

  “Oh, it’s a pleasure,” I answered as I took it from her. “I hope it was useful,” Su nodded and continued to smile. “Which paintings did you decide to photocopy?” I asked, opening the book.

  I stood there totally perplexed, expressionless and motionless. As I looked at my beautifully illustrated text book, I couldn’t help but notice that something seemed to be missing. I know what it was. It was the illustrations. It was no longer a Pop Art book. More of a pop-up book! Something had been lost in translation. In Chinese, reprographics or photo-copies must mean craft knife or scissors. The pages sprung out as if I had opened a child’s ‘Jack-in-a-box’ or as if a magician had produced a bunch of paper flowers from up his sleeve. All that was left of some pages were loose margins flapping around, others remained rigid still intact as a recognizable page but now with a small rectangular window cut out where the picture had been. Others were in strips as if passed through a shredder. As I flicked through the pages the book seemed to resemble a latticed fan or a paper sculpture. Perhaps it was a branch of origami, the ‘Oriental Art of Vandalising Books’. My expression can only be described as ‘post-lobotomy’ as I stood there dumbfounded.

  Throughout all this Su continued to smile innocently, oblivious to my inner turmoil. I didn’t have the heart to raise my voice or even to show annoyance. I bit my lip and maintained a ‘poker-face’. And I thought it was the Chinese who were supposed to be inscrutable. Su’s eyes glanced towards her personal study on my desk. She looked at me expectantly, obviously waiting for some feed-back. I picked up her study and flicked through the pages. I nodded and said, “It looks very professional and well-presented.”

  Su smiled even more and turned towards the door. Just as she was leaving, I added wistfully, “And beautifully illustrated.”

  Still suffering from mild-shock, I wandered zombie-like to the staffroom holding my once-precious, once-book, in my hand. One or two staff were scattered around during a free period. Some were marking exercise books while others were chatting quietly over coffee. As I stood by the sink waiting for the kettle to boil, I told my tale of woe (that wasn’t Su’s surname by the way) to a group of ladies sitting nearby. I didn’t know them particularly well, and one of them had a reputation as a stern, un-smiling woman. I finished my story up to being handed my art book, and then all I had to do was to open it in front of them. There was a stunned audible gasp followed by an outpouring of incredulous laughter. The previously un-smiling lady found ‘giggle muscles’ she didn’t know she had. One lady had to dab tears from her eyes and then coffee from her skirt. I remained deadpan throughout.

  “John, you should be able to claim a reimbursement from the school bursar,” one of the ladies suggested reassuringly.

  “I don’t think so. This story is worth every penny.”

  As I was walking along the corridor, I bumped into a colleague and friend, Damien, a P.E. teacher. He was wearing a track-suit top and shorts; a sure sign that summer was on its way. As we approached each other, I pointed to his bare legs and said, “That reminds me, I must cancel the milk.”

  Being a gregarious, out-going character, he responded with his distinctive booming laugh. We often chatted wherever we could, invariably about rugby, but not this time. I told him my story and then hit him with the visual punch-line. His laughter rattled the picture frames on the walls of the corridor. Damian held his sides and doubled-up. He looked up at the book again and his laughter went on to another level. He was making so much noise that a teacher popped her head round her classroom door to see what was going on. Cathy Myers was a science teacher in her mid-twenties.

  “So, it’s you two disturbing my class,” she proclaimed with mock officiousness, “What’s so funny?”

  Damien couldn’t answer. He went over to her and took her by the hand.

  “I will watch your class for a minute,” he managed to splutter. “Go and listen to John’s story.”

  So Cathy took Damien’s place, and I went through my routine for the third time, polishing my straight-faced delivery. She screamed with laughter and eventually returned to her class where Damien, still laughing, told all the kids to ‘blame Mr. Meadows for disrupting their lesson’.

  The following day, as I was on morning-break duty patrolling the school yard, a group of fourth-year boys halted their game of football and came over to me

  “Sir, tell us that joke that you told Miss Myers and Mr. Halsall yesterday.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t a joke, it was a true story,” I answered walking away, leaving them intrigued.

  The Pop-up, Pop Art book still has pride of place on my bookshelf. It has livened up many parties ever since.

  A Day in the Life

  During the exam season, members of staff were given an invigilation schedule.

  I have had to do some boring jobs in my time. Watching a ‘magic-eye’ sort bottles on a conveyer belt in a St Helens glass factory comes to mind. I would spend eight-hour shifts standing underneath a huge clock, which at times I could swear was starting to go backwards. That must top my list, but there must be many to rival it on the ‘mind-numbingly tedious’ scale. The TV weather forecaster often tells us that there will be high pollen-count. I don’t know who counts it, but I wouldn’t fancy the job.

  Invigilating examinations in a school hall is another way of getting time to stand still. I don’t know if Einstein has a formula to explain it, but when you are sitting at a desk an hour seems to disappear instantly into a black hole, but that same hour spent walking up and down aisles waiting for someone to put their hand up for extra paper seems to be an eternity. After completing a couple of sessions during the exam season, I got used to the system. There was no system. Three
or four staff would cover the hall by some sort of telepathy. If a bored teacher leaning against a wall decided to make a move, the others tend to follow. Somehow all the angles were covered. If a candidate’s hand is raised everyone seems to race to be the first to deliver a piece of paper. It was something to do.

  In every school hall there is invariably a piano in the corner below the stage. I remember fondly the ‘Thunderclap Newman’ style of playing during assembly at St. Aidan’s primary school a few years previously. With the lid down, the piano at Norton Priory provided a comfortable little seat to sit on for a short time, like a shooting-stick at the races. One bright afternoon the sun was streaming into the hall as the candidates scribbled away, heads down deep in concentration. There is always the occasional pupil with his head up, chewing his pen with a puzzled look on his face. Invigilators develop the ‘teacher’s frown’ which eloquently tells each candidate to stop looking around. After a couple of circuits of the hall and once or twice up and down the aisles, I edged towards the piano. I continued to keep an eye on the rows of tops-of-heads as I plonked myself on the piano. And plonked is precisely what I did. One of my mischievous colleagues had raised the piano lid. You know that final chord at the end of ‘Sgt Pepper’, the one that goes on and on until slowly fading out? Well, amplify that by what seemed like a couple of decibels in an echo-chamber of a school hall. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to fade it. A hundred candidates raised their heads in unison like Muslims worshipping in a Mosque. I mimed a meek apology raising the palm of my hands as a submissive gesture. Many heads shook contemptuously as they went back down to agonise over mathematical formulae. My two colleagues at the back of the hall were doubled-up, covering their mouths with their hands. To this day I cringe when I listen to ‘A Day in the Life’.

  Eyes Wide Shut

  On another occasion, I took over from a colleague who handed me some sheets of foolscap paper. She reminded me of the finishing time of the exam and then said, “The piece of paper on the floor of aisle 3 is the current record.” I felt as though I should reply with some secret phrase like two strangers meeting in a spy movie. My confused expression was enough to let her know that I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. She looked at her watch and whispered, “I have to get to my class, ask him.” She nodded towards Alan, who was relieving a colleague at the back of the hall, as it were.