Bye Bye Birkfield.

My last day at St. Joseph's might identify me but I'm beyond caring.  

I had been caught skiving in the o-level year with a friend (for skiving read : avoiding seeing __) at Ipswich railway station so was summoned to Brother Peter, who by this stage had forfeited any respect I'd reluctantly afforded him.  He'd come into class previously saying that if we didn't work hard for our o-levels, we wouldn't be staying on to sixth form, which of course I grasped as my opportunity to not be there a minute longer than was necessary.  He did his usual low-toned, murderous threat act saying he wanted a three page explanation as to why I had bunked off, on his desk, by nine a.m. the next day, or else.

I, of course, relished the opportunity to compose a narrative so compelling in its rationale that my classmates could be left in no doubt as to who was the oppressor and who the victim.  I duly handed in my masterpiece and returned to my classroom to begin the day's lessons. During register, I was summoned back to Brother Peter's classroom by a worried-looking pupil of his.  I walked into a hushed room .

I can't recall his exact words but it would have been something along the lines of, "So gentlemen, here is our Clever Dick Sluggard. And this, gentlemen is what he has to say about his conduct..."  He thrust it to me. "Read it!"

I began.

"Louder! So they can all hear you Jonny!"

I got to about half way through and could see Brother Peter turning a particular shade of dark puce, his rage barely containable.  It was when I got to the sentence , "but it wasn't my fault because..." that he finally flipped and everything sort of went into slow motion!  I knew exactly what was coming. I'd seen it a hundred times. I knew which fist it would be and how the arm would draw back before the swing, and at what height (short).  So I ducked. There was a collective intake of breath and some laughter.

If memory serves me correctly, and I think it does, ducking wasn't allowed in his playbook and he may have even hit the backboard which was just behind me.  At this point I simply walked out to the scream of "Don't you dare duck! Come back here!"  There may have even been applause, I can't say. Certainly in my mind there was. 

I walked down the corridor, out through the doors and into the sunshine and across the grass towards town, taking off my tie and thinking, "why did I not do this years ago?"

Of course, I'd have to come back in the summer to flunk all those o-levels. Well, all except the one I wanted most and the one which was considered least valuable there. Art.  

In my forties I decided I ought to put an education where one should be. I did an Access to Humanities course and according to my tutors, excelled. I began a degree course which confirmed what I always knew; I wasn't "Stupid".  Okay so maybe I never will "never amount to much" but I tell you this:  In spite of childhood physical, emotional, psychological and sexual abuse by a former lay teacher at St Joseph's College, Birkfield, Ipswich (who, by the way, as a school have still to acknowledge this went on (Feb 2021) and could help us all to heal by doing so) I am more determined than ever to live better than any of the (mostly) miserable gits I had the misfortune to have as my teachers. 

They say you never forget a good teacher. Just one inspiring one would have been helpful!

As previously mentioned,  I have now listed 90 or so first and surnames of my former year group plus a few others from years above and below. Some of them may well be survivors too so if the list of former teachers below looks familiar and you need some help, I'm listening.

Bro Dennis Robert (Squealer)

Bro (Sicker) Terence

Bro (Fluffy) Cuthman

Bro (Jonny) Peter

Bro Benet

Bro Ives

Bro.Richard

Bro. Anthony

Bro Bernard

Mr McGlaughlin

Mr Wilcox

Mr Rae

Mr Hughes

Mr Smith

Mr Hawes

Mr Thuell

Mr Moss

Mr Kearney

Mr Krajewski

Mr Rix

Mr 'Snoddy' Taylor

Mr Sumner

Mr D Bevan

Mr Keenan

and you guessed it, 

__

Labore et Tenacitate - "work and stick to it" 

(I do bro,  I do.)