Dispatches From a Dilettante

by Paul Rowson

  Political support for us was growing, but often in a rather haphazard fashion. As the financial year end drew close, we pitched for some ‘under spend’ with more than a hint of desperation. In the public sector it is unheard of for a department to return unspent money. They know that it would not be added to their following year’s allocation and so would be ‘lost’. Of course whether or not it could be spent more productively elsewhere is rarely, if ever, a consideration. The result is the financing of hastily cobbled together schemes to ensure every last departmental penny is kept ‘in house’ and spent before the end of March.

  Naturally I hastily cobbled together a scheme to take a councillor to a fantastic local curry house in Sparkbrook to plead the case for additional funds, believing he had some sway in the Department of Recreation and Leisure. A week later on the thirty first of March a motor bike despatch rider pulled into the newly constructed car park at the Ackers Trust. The rider was from a private delivery company and he got me to sign a receipt before handing over an envelope, inside which was a council cheque for £75,000. On one level this was brilliant news which enabled the work on the canoe lodge to continue. On another it was a deeply disturbing example of the ad hoc decision making in local government at year end. It was only after we had received and cashed the cheque that some notional performance indicators were cobbled together. I did however leave a large tip on my next visit to the curry house.

  Single skull rowing requires more than a little skill. I was sitting in one and working up a sweat on the river near Pershore in Worcestershire, figuring that if I could master the delicate balancing required both to prevent capsizing, and yet move forward anyone could. If all went well the idea was to purchase these expensive items for the ‘Ackers’ in a deal which came with free training. Weeks later a trailer arrived at the Ackers Canoe Basin with two single skulls on it for the ‘trials’ on the canal as a prelude to a final agreement.

  A row downriver on a perfect day in the country had more appeal than what was now being offered on a freezing morning on the canal in water that had somehow passed the pollution tests. Sensing an escape route I stopped a passing guy on a mountain bike and asked if he wanted a go in the sleek looking skulls. Mountain bikes had only just begun to be seen in public and this was evidently a top of the range model. I also noticed when the man dismounted that he has wearing a very expensive watch. As he was getting instructions on how to row I asked what he did and received what, in hindsight was a very modest answer. “I play in a band”. He proved to be a natural rower, and after he had performed with consummate ease for about half an hour he got out of the water and back on his bike. “What’s your band called?” I half shouted as he began to ride away. “UB40” he replied, and was off. Top of the Pops that week featured a new single from Chrissie Hynde with UB40, and our rower was the bass player.

  The canoe basin, the climbing wall and the foundations for the ski slope together with the now well used social centre meant that the Ackers Trust was getting a profile in the area. Sparkbrook had heavy unemployment together with all the challenges one normally associates with inner city wards and so security was initially a big issue. We didn’t want it to be prison like but with expensive equipment and top range indoor facilities we had to be vigilant in a non oppressive way. There was an attack on the building by members of the Ethiopian Welfare Association who claimed wrongly to have been excluded from it. This was repelled with courage, dignity and no little bravery by Vinnie who calmly stood at the entrance to the building and talked down some very agitated and armed young men.

  The climbing hut which housed all the equipment was stoned at a time when both instructors were trapped inside it. A keep fit class for Asian women was something we had initiated and during sessions we had to cover windows for cultural sensitivity. However chaos ensued when local youths playing snooker next door broke in to ogle. Those who hold the stereotypical view that Asian women are quiet, reserved and undemonstrative should have been there as they set about the snooker players.

  All of the above happened in one week and was fairly typical at first. Over a relatively short period of time though, these incidents then decreased and almost disappeared. Theorists would say it because locals were included, recognised the investment in them and therefore bought in to what was on offer. This is too simplistic a rationale although it was partly the case. The truth is more about pragmatism and practicality. When the Ackers Trust developments were new they stood out and were a target. When the attempts to plunder resources were rebuffed trouble makers moved elsewhere. We did employ local people wherever possible and this of course helped.

  An outdoor dry ski slope in an inner city area with poor housing, poor educational achievement and huge unemployment had never been a consideration in the UK in 1986. When mooted it provoked divided opinion and was an easy target for journalists and of course tub-thumping councillors. For anybody who was seriously interested in getting past clichéd arguments, there was in fact a robust business plan and outside financing from the Sports Council.

  Why should skiing be the preserve of the moneyed classes anyway? The opening of the slope was to be my last stand in Birmingham as I was about to transport my uncomplaining and well travelled family to a castle on the coast in Wales. The launch day was a noisy and joyful occasion with locals and big wigs falling down together, and with kids from Sparkbrook skiing with uniformed girls from a school in Lichfield. There were turbanned Sikhs skiing with Rastas, and the local paper ran the story under the headline ‘Austrian Alps come to the Ackers’. After a twenty year gap I have had occasion recently to drive past the Ackers Trust a few times and the fact that it is still there makes me wistfully happy – but the past is better left alone.

  9.

  COASTAL CRUISING – 1986-90

  The physical beauty of the view across the Bristol Channel never paled, but coming after the urban wastelands of Birmingham it was worth pausing on a daily basis to look at, which I did regularly when we first moved to Wales.

  In stark contrast, the jagged evidence of poverty in Sparkbrook was always visible. Older cars, poorly maintained roads and crumbling housing stock were the outward confirmation of the inward daily struggle for most of the residents. Despite all this I found it a happy place in lots of ways as many families were aspiring grafters who were clawing their way to a better life by sheer application.

  It is two miles from the coastal town of Llantwit Major along a tiny country coastal road to the hamlet of St. Donat’s. The first thing you see there is the entrance gate to Atlantic College as the road then turns through ninety degrees to go round it. On that drive to St Donat’s, if you look to the left you can catch a glimpse of Devon on a clear day. The coast in these parts has the second highest tidal range in the world which means that the sea view is always changing and never less than staggeringly beautiful. Flat calm sea on a blue sky summer afternoon or all furious crashing waves on a dark winter’s evening as the last shafts of daylight fleetingly poke through the clouds and illuminate the silvery surface of the breakers. There can’t be a better approach to a workplace in the world.

  Set up as the first sixth form residential college in the UK in 1961 Atlantic College, or The United World College of the Atlantic to be precise, draws students aged sixteen to eighteen from all over the globe to study for the International Baccalaureate. In 1986 it was not fee paying. It was then, as it is now, set in a hundred and fifty acres of stunning grounds with a working farm, two swimming pools, tennis courts, a classroom block, and a castle. Previously owned, among others, by the American newspaper magnate of the thirties William Randolf Hearst, well tended gardens sweep down a hill to the outdoor swimming pool and then the sea itself. There is old film footage of Charlie Chaplin walking in the grounds when he was a summer guest. The castle was used by Hearst to spend the summer with his mistress the Hollywood actress Marion Davies.

  Three hundred and fifty bright young people from all over the world transported to a castle in Wal
es to live and study is remarkable in itself and there is a magic to the place simply because of that. Arabs rooming with Jews, black South Africans with privileged white Kenyans makes for lively debates and debunking of sacred cows. There was an internal energy that enabled staff there to spark off students and vice versa.

  Every term there was a suspension of the academic timetable and community service for a ‘project’ week which could be just about anything staff or students wanted to do. At the last minute the Head of the Languages department became ill and I found myself taking twenty five students, from twenty different countries, to Russia. This was all very exciting for them as they were studying Russian, and to go there during a time of monumental change under Gorbachev was a phenomenal opportunity. It was an unexpected opportunity for me too, only slightly lessened by the major handicap of not speaking a word of Russian, yet leading a group who were almost fluent in the language.

  The trip was arranged by Landon Temple who ran an offbeat specialist travel agency with strong links to the Communist Party in Russia. I mention this for two reasons. Firstly it gave us incredible and unusual access while we were there – the downside being that we were ‘accompanied’ at all times by a Communist Party official who rarely smiled and was never off duty. The second was that Landon’s son was the film maker Julian Temple and as they had clearly both led interesting lives, on our return from Russia, I invited Landon to Atlantic College as the star turn at one of the Friday night speaker sessions.

  Each week somebody famous, interesting or controversial would be invited to talk to the students. It might be a trade union leader, a politician, a climber or a film maker. They were often great and inspiring sessions but woe betide any speaker who underestimated the intellectual quality of the teenagers that made up most of the audience. They could sniff a patronising attitude at fifty paces.

  Landon Temple was an unmitigated disaster and it was months before I plucked up the courage to book anyone else. I had drummed up interest in the preceding week by getting students to stand up in lunch, Speakers Corner style, with an invitation to ‘Start the revolution’ or ‘See a firebrand communist in action’. The result was a big crowd in the Bradenstoke Hall on the Friday evening, including the Principal, when I introduced him.

  He started off in eccentric but cogent fashion with a couple of minutes on the history of political injustice in Denmark. Interested Danish students took notes. He then launched a vitriolic and incoherent attack on the German government. Agitated German students shuffled in their seats. He then, a propos of nothing, worked himself into a rage about political martyrs in Japan. Puzzled Japanese students looked down at their feet as the volume level increased. He began to get emotional at the injustices he had suffered as a communist in the thirties. As teardrops started to fall, all students joined the Japanese in looking at the floor in palpable embarrassment.

  This wasn’t going according to plan and as he began sway behind the lectern I stood up and rather pleadingly asked for a round of applause for a ‘stimulating speaker’. Say what you like about students but they politely applauded and it was only as they were filing out that their own volume levels began to rise. ‘Who was that nutter?’ was perhaps the politest of the comments that reached my ears.

  Even worse was to follow as my wife and I had the job of entertaining him for the evening. We had enlisted the help of the Principal’s PA and her husband who we thought would enjoy the evening, given their left wing leanings. At the local restaurant that Landon insisted on driving us to in his enormous Citroen Estate it was abundantly obvious within ten minutes of arriving that he was going to get hammered, which proved to be the case. Even worse, he insisted on driving us home. Throughout the mercifully short journey he gripped the steering wheel with a manic determination and clipped the wall coming into the college after almost missing the turn completely. We made our excuses and left him at his room, never to be seen again. He sent a charming letter a few weeks later saying how much he had enjoyed his talk and stay.

  A few days before the departure for Moscow I went down to London to collect all the visas from Landon’s travel agency Progressive Tours ( I am reminded as I type the words ‘Progressive Tours’ of the singer Harry Nielson who once said to John Lennon ‘everything is the opposite of what it appears to be’). There was nothing ‘progressive’ about their organisation. The visas had been promised for weeks and I was getting edgy after the third ‘they’ll be ready in a day’ call. On the assurance that they were ready to be handed over on arrival I took a taxi to the offices of Progressive Tours and needless to say there wasn’t a visa in sight.

  Eventually, after a long wait and much signing of paperwork, the visas were located and passed over the desk. I stuffed them into a bag, got straight back into the waiting taxi, which had an amount on the clock that corresponded to exactly twice the price that I had paid for the train ticket from Cardiff, and headed back to Paddington. I dashed onto the concourse, stopped to buy a paper, and then slumped into my seat on the train. As the doors were being slammed by the guard walking along the platform I realised with horror that I had left the paper bag with all the visas in on the counter at WH Smith’s. At this point a novelist would say ‘I broke out into a cold sweat’ as I realised my bag with the visas in was missing. It would sound trite so I won’t say it. However in an instant I could envisage letters to the college from angry parents about lost passports, questions as to the suitability of staff taking young students abroad - and that was just for starters.

  The woman in WH Smith calmly handed me the visas from under the counter where she had stored them. I took a later train back to Wales heroically hinting on my return at my long day in the selfless preparation for the Russian trip while conveniently omitting to detail the cause of my delay.

  Russia

  Westerners in Russia then were still a relatively rare sight and having students who spoke the language gave me a terrific insight into daily Muscovite life. “He’s talking about your expensive jacket” one of the students whispered to me about the man sitting across from us on the Moscow underground. “It’s so embarrassing” was another translated comment on the same train as a man paralytic with drink slumped in his seat. The week passed without incident but with quirky interludes.

  A few of us were invited to the southern perimeter of the city for a communist workers club entertainment night where every act was applauded for exactly the same amount of time and with the same volume. The headline act was a man who, surreally, juggled live doves and when he dropped one at the climax of his act he kicked it aside hoping that no one would notice. Needless to say he got exactly the same applause, even though we could see the wounded dove staggering about in the wings and banging into the walls like a boxer getting up after a heavy knockdown punch.

  The drama was to be reserved for the final day in Moscow. I had, prematurely as it turned out, given the students a big ‘thank you for being great representatives of the college’ talk in the hotel foyer as we waited to leave for Sheremetyevo airport, which was a grim soulless place full of armed guards in those days. Actually it was a bit like terminal three at Heathrow today only in sepia tones and with less shopping opportunities.

  We were flying Aeroflot and as we were early I reminded everyone to keep an eye on the departure board and then let them wander around. My colleague and I bade farewell to our Russian minder and headed for the bar. In due course the flight was called but we were three students ‘light’ when I got to the departure gate. Anxiety grew and turned to anger and then mild panic as the flight started boarding. My colleague rightly decided to get on the plane with the students we had. This left me, a non Russian speaker, to hope that others would show up in time. I was now beginning to wish that I had left the sodding visas at WH Smith’s.

  The flight was closed and I began to compose my letter of resignation. About twenty seconds later I could see the missing three hurtling down the corridor shouting something in Russian which I presume was ‘hold the
flight’. The Russians at the desk were unmoved and dramatically pulled the line rope across the entrance to the boarding tunnel. The three students were a gregarious and witty American girl from New York called Susan Randall, a smouldering macho Romanian Nikolai Nedkov and a quiet English lad called Simon Smallwood. Susan dramatically and theatrically broke down into what were clearly crocodile tears as I tried to get Nikolai to persuade them to reconsider. Simon remained silent and stoic. For moment he looked to be quite enjoying the predicament he found himself in. As I did not know the Russian for “they are stupid immature fuckers and I will bollock them severely if you could please let us on the flight”, I was in the hands of Nikolai. After what seemed like a lot of shouting and waving of arms they relented and re-opened the gate to let us onto the now delayed flight. When we actually got on the half full aircraft, we were met by hysterical laughter and cheers from the other students and impatient looks from most of the other passengers.

  True to my word and partly as an outlet for my own tension as we prepared for takeoff, I sat next to the miscreants and delivered a frank and brutal assessment as to their shortcomings, which was delivered in uncompromising language. Simon looked mildly chastised, Nikolai didn’t understand the colloquialisms but got the drift and Susan once again started crying unconvincingly. After the flight took off and we had reached altitude she immediately went to the loo carrying her hand luggage. She remained there for at least twenty minutes then eventually emerged with a dramatic flourish wearing full Russian military uniform complete with hat and gloves. Winking as she passed me Susan then took her seat to loud applause from her admiring if captive audience. She had swopped two pairs of Levis for the uniforms from a Russian Army deserter that she had met at a party the night before.

  It was always hard to stay angry at Susan for long and she stayed in uniform for the rest of the flight, most of which was spent singing along with a couple of travelling Argentinian gauchos who had a guitar. Prior to coming to college Susan had been the baby sitter for Tina Weymouth who was then the bass player for Talking Heads. They were a band who seemed increasingly to be tangentially involved in a few of my professional mishaps.