by Len Goodman
Next morning at our school assembly the headmaster stood on stage. As usual he was wearing his gown, but today he also had a rather stern look on his face, which was, I thought, somewhat surprising given how well we'd done at cricket. He surveyed the whole school before saying, 'Goodman and Dawson, please come here.' The pair of us walked forward smiling, as we knew we were about to be congratulated for our fine performance the previous afternoon.
'Goodman and Dawson, I understand from the sports master that there was disgusting behaviour on the cricket pitch. You both acted in a very unsporting manner and because of this you will take no further part in any cricket for the rest of the season.' And that was it, all for showing some excitement at what we had done. It's one of those enduring memories of my school days that always remind me of how much times have changed.
For the other half of the year we played football and as far as that was concerned there was only one problem – the ball; worst of all heading it on wet, muddy days. Back then they were all made of leather and would get heavier as the game went along. If you were unlucky and the ball connected with your forehead where the lace was located you would walk around for several days with a pattern on your head. But however much it hurt you dared not show that it did; if you did you were a wimp and in real trouble with your mates. There was never any grovelling around on the pitch in bloody agony like you were a big wuss.
One day Pete Dawson and I were having lunch in the school canteen. Although we weren't in the same class we were practically inseparable.
'Len, how do you fancy missing class this afternoon? I've got Rees for science and I hate it.'
'You're lucky,' I said. 'I've got Bishner for history. How about I say that I've got the dentist and my mum forgot to write a note.'
'I could say that my mum's taking me to see my granny who's in hospital,' said Pete.
Despite him being my best mate I was always slightly envious of Pete because he had a bicycle – I didn't. My mum thought they were too dangerous. I had to walk to school because Mum wouldn't let me have one in case I got knocked off it. Having gone to my class and told the teacher about my dental appointment all was fine and he let me go.
'Will you be back afterwards, Goodman?' he said.
'I'll try, sir.' Not likely was what I thought.
With that I was off and heading out of the school grounds when I spotted Pete's bicycle in the bike sheds. No one ever bothered padlocking their bicycle so I thought I'd just take Pete's and wait outside the back gates for him to turn up. He didn't come right away and so I started riding up and down on the pavement. Dawson, unbeknown to me, was not coming because when he had asked the teacher about going to see his poor sick nan, Rees had told him that he wasn't going without a letter from his mother. After about ten minutes, along came a policeman on his bike.
'What are you doing riding up and down on the pavement?' he said.
'I'm just on my way to the dentist.'
'Then why are you riding up and down the pavement?' which with hindsight was not an unreasonable question.
'I was just warming my legs up.' I could feel myself beginning to get nervous, but when he asked his next question I was petrified.
'Is this your bike, lad?'
'Err...no.'
'Then whose is it?' asked the policeman who had by this time propped his own bike up against the school fence.
'My mate's from school. His name's Peter Dawson.'
'I think we had better go back into school and see the headmaster.'
Part of me wanted to make a dash for it but I knew it was pointless. So the two of us started walking back towards the school building with me pushing the bike. Standing outside the headmaster's room with the policeman made me feel queasy. As we walked into his study, he looked at me and said, 'What have you been doing, Goodman?'
Instead of coming clean I kept up the pretence. 'I was going to the dentist.'
As I said it he looked at me and I looked at him – I knew that he knew. The policeman explained what had happened.
'Why have you got Dawson's bike?' asked the headmaster. 'Actually, don't bother answering, Goodman, I'll just send for Dawson.'
Five minutes later in walks Pete, not knowing any of what had gone on.
'Where's your bicycle, Dawson?' asks the headmaster.
'It's in the bike rack, sir.'
'So, Goodman, not only have you lied about going to the dentist – which you do know is playing truant – you've also stolen another boy's bicycle.'
At this point I tried to protest at least partial innocence. 'But sir, you don't understand, I was going to put it back.'
'I understand perfectly well, Goodman. So well, that I'm going to give you 12 strokes of the cane, something I've never ever done before. There's six for the truancy and six for stealing.'
God, did it hurt. Afterwards he sent me back to my history class.
'You're back quickly, Goodman, well done.'
'Well, sir, I told a bit of a lie.'
After telling him what had gone on he decided to punish me too. 'Goodman, stand outside the door for the rest of the afternoon.'
I'm sure everyone has someone from their school days that they remember looking up to. Someone who achieved things that mere school kids could not; boys or girls who were just a cut above the rest of you; kids who are forever etched on your mind for what they achieved – your hero or heroine. Well, mine was Ben Catlow who possessed three exceptional talents. For one he could yodel, and if that wasn't enough he was also able to curly whistle – the technique that makes your whistle warble.
We had a music teacher named Mr Perrin; he was one of the few teachers that you were able to get away with things. In our music room was an upright piano that Mr Perrin would play while we sang along; songs like 'Cherry Ripe' or 'Nymphs and Shepherds'. One day we were all waiting for him to arrive in the classroom when I had an idea. I went over to a cupboard in the corner of the classroom where all the lost property was kept. I picked up every old jumper, coat, old pairs of plimsolls, some football boots, and even a few bags, and loaded them into the top of the piano. Having done so I sat back down with the rest of the class. When Perrin walked into the class, all of us, well most of us, attempted to hold back our sniggers.
'Okay boys, today it's "Nymphs and Shepherds" for our first song. You all remember how it goes, don't you?' At that point he started to sing.
'Nymphs and shepherds, come away.
In the groves let's sport and play,
For this is Flora's holiday.'
He then added. 'You should all put the emphasis on the last part of each line. It's on page 11 of your songbook.'
With that he sat down at the piano and went to play the first chord; nothing happened. He stood up, lifted the lid to see why there was nothing coming from his piano. Nobody could hold back any longer and we all started laughing. This sent Perrin into a rage, like none of us had ever seen before. 'Who did this?' he screamed.
Now I said Catlow was a hero and he was, but he was also something of a timid lad. We all liked him but there was no getting away from the fact that he was a wimp. Perrin, possibly instinctively, went straight over to Catlow's desk where he towered over him.
'Who put the slippers in the piano?' he asked him.
'Go, Go, Good, Good, Goodman, sir,' said Catlow.
'Goodman, come out here.'
As I got up from my desk to walk to the front of the class Perrin began pulling all the things out of the top of the piano that we'd put in there – including a very large white plimsoll.
'Goodman, I rarely give any boy a thrashing but I'm afraid in your case I shall make an exception. I'm absolutely appalled by what you did so I'm going to give you the slipper. Bend over.'
Part of me was thinking, bloody Nora this is going to hurt, but being 13, the other part was thinking I've got to maintain my image. Instead of bending over so he could whack me I bent over with my arse pressed hard against the wall. This was a big mistake.
&
nbsp; As I'm bent over, the rest of the class start laughing, but stopped abruptly as the headmaster, who had been standing outside watching the whole episode, burst into the classroom. He was bright red in the face, and came in more like a storm trooper than a teacher.
'What's been going on here?' asked the headmaster.
After Perrin finished explaining, Mr Daniels looked at me and said, 'Goodman, you're pathetic. Go and stand outside my door.'
As I stood waiting for the head to come back to his study I wasn't feeling queasy: I was actually quaking. When he did he just waved me in through the door and made me stand in front of his desk. Having been here before I knew that I was about to get a lecture. And true to form he laid into me, telling me how rude I was, how inconsiderate, finishing with a short synopsis of my future.
'Of course, it's obvious you're never going to amount to anything, Goodman. You're a failure at school. You'll be a failure in life. Your attitude is totally wrong; you have no aptitude for anything. If you think you're only in this world to have a laugh and enjoy yourself you will be in for a big shock when you have to get a job.'
As he finished, silence filled the room. I stood there thinking Blimey is that it, maybe I've got away with it. Then he uttered the immortal words, 'Fetch me my wand.'
I went over to the corner of his study where he kept his cane propped against the wall; it was like Charlie Chaplin's little walking stick although it was a lot less funny in the hands of the headmaster. This time it was only six but his timing was perfect and it hurt like hell. When I got home I looked at my bum in the mirror; it was covered in wheals. There was no way I was going to say anything about it to my mum. She wouldn't have been up the school complaining about why they had caned her poor little Lenny; she would have been so angry at what I'd done that she would have given me another good hiding.
It was like the time my friend and I had decided we would see who could say 'bugger' the loudest during a French lesson. We'd been experimenting for about 15 minutes with the master walking up and down the class reading from his text book. We'd tried it once too often and he just hit us both around the head with his book. As far as I know it did neither one of us permanent damage. When I stupidly told Mum about it she cuffed me round the ear with her hand.
Ben Catlow's third amazing talent? He was the weeing-up-the- wall king! He could pee higher up a wall than anyone in our year and maybe every other year too. The reason for this skill was not just pressure: it was because God had blessed Catlow with an extremely long foreskin. He would pull on it and hold it and then proceed to let fly with a huge jet that could shoot 20 feet or more.
When I was 14 some of my schoolfriends started going to the Court School of Dancing in Welling. I never fancied it much, being more interested in playing football and running. Pete Dawson was always on my case about it. 'Len, you'll love it, you really will. You'll learn how to dance.'
'Well, I suppose so,' was how I reluctantly agreed to go the next week.
Having plucked up the courage it was the start of a ritual. Close to where I lived was a hairdresser's called Maison Maurice, the place where all the lads went for a cut, friction and blow-dry, and even my dad went; not quite Mr Teazie Weazie but close enough for us. I would go on a Wednesday night for mine, having walked straight there from school. Barry was the man to have cut your hair as he did the best 'Boston', the straight across cut at the back. Once Barry had finished the cut he would massage this stuff into your hair – the friction bit – and then he would blow it into shape. It cost two bob, or maybe two and sixpence, but it was money well spent because you looked the bee's knees.
Then it was home for a bath. We didn't have a shower – that was far too fancy. I'd get myself dressed up in my best bib and tucker and meet up with Pete and some of the other lads before heading off to the Court School of Dancing, which was next to the Granada cinema in the High Street, Welling. Being mid-week and as we were still young teenagers it wasn't a late night: we started at seven o'clock and it finished at nine. It was called a 'teen and 20 single mingle', but there was no one as old as 20. It was all school kids from about 13 to maybe 16 years old.
On the first week I made my way gingerly up the stairs into the room. It didn't attract huge numbers but it was a good mix of boys and girls. It wasn't like nowadays with 50 girls and three blokes. That evening we started off with a bit of instruction for about half an hour in which we learned to do the quickstep. All the boys were one side of the room and all the girls over the other side learning their own steps. Next week it might be a waltz that you learnt after which you'd have to partner up, which was the worst bit for me. I found the whole thing very nerve-racking. When I was with my mates I was a bit of a lad but this was not my cup of tea at all. The problem was I was very shy and I had not really been in contact with girls, apart for my cousin Marilyn who I'd seen naked, but that was in 1950 when I was six.
Learning the quickstep with the instructor going, 'Forward on your right foot, side close side, back on your right foot, side close side, forward on your right foot, side close side, back on your right foot, side close side,' was a lot to take in.
'Okay, now find yourself a partner.' Having not been before I hung back which meant the choice wasn't that great. When you're 14 going on 15, who you're dancing with matters to you. Everyone had paired up and there were a few more girls than boys, and before I could get my act together a girl came over and got hold of me. Next thing I knew we were dancing around doing the quickstep – well, after a fashion we did. For the rest of the evening it was more of a free dance but to begin with I was a bit stuck, as I had to wait until a quickstep came on, as it was the only dance I vaguely knew.
As the weeks went by and I got to grips with more of the dances things improved. I sort of learned the basics of the waltz, the foxtrot, the cha-cha-cha and the jive. But even so I was still slow to ask girls to dance on account of being very shy. Eventually my confidence grew and I plucked up the courage to start asking different girls to dance. I went from being a shy little boy to a confident, cocky little bugger. I even started to invent dances to amuse my mates. My best one was the Douglas Bader quickstep. I made my mates all dance with two stiff legs; they all enjoyed that one. I discovered a substitute for conkers, Dinky toys and marbles – it was girls.
One of the highlights of the night was an 'excuse-me' dance. This was when your partner and you danced together and a boy could come over and tap you on the shoulder and say 'excuse me' and take over your girl. It also worked where the girl could be tapped on the shoulder and you got a new partner. If you were left partner-less you had to go and excuse someone else. Every couple or three weeks they would have an excuse-me where you had to kiss your partner goodbye. Naturally this was called a 'kiss-me excuse-me'. The girl we all wanted to kiss was called Sally, but if you went and asked her for a dance on a kiss-me excuse-me she would hardly ever say yes. She'd just sit it out.
Who could blame her; the class cracker didn't want a load of young blokes kissing her. The fact that she said no virtually every time meant that people gradually stopped asking her. Our little gang from my school, there were six or eight of us usually, were always larking about, having bets on whose turn it was to ask Sally to dance. Our master plan was simple: if she said yes to anyone in our gang then every one of us would take it in turns to 'excuse me', and claim their kiss. For reasons I've long since forgotten I was the first one to go over and ask her to dance; I think I probably lost a bet.
'Hello, would you like to dance?' I could feel their eyes burning into the back of my head.
'Yes,' she said; no one was more surprised than I was.
We began our dance together and as we were gliding around the floor I was all eager anticipation. I think they even dimmed the lights a little, which had the effect of making my hormone count rise. The plan was for Pete Dawson to come over and tap me on the shoulder, whereupon I would claim my kiss from Sally. Now there's one thing you should know about the Court School of Dancing.
It had quite a low ceiling which meant, with all these teenage bodies dancing around in close proximity to members of the opposite sex, it tended to make you hot. Trying to remain cool was a challenge. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pete approaching. I felt the tap on my shoulder and I was about to kiss the girl of my, and everyone else's, dreams. Then Pete utters the immortal words, 'Excuse me.' As I'm about to kiss Sally, by some as yet unknown law of physics, my shirt collar turns upwards and comes between our lips. Instead of kissing each other's lips we both kiss my shirt collar. I was totally humiliated. This was my first ever real kiss with the gorgeous Sally; why hadn't I worn a button-down shirt? Fifty years later and I still feel myself beginning to pink up as I write this. The shame, the embarrassment, the ignominy. There was me, thinking that I was about to have a full, what we called a film-star kiss, heads moving in unison, and she and I kiss my bloody collar. Naturally I didn't go to the Court School of Dancing, Welling High Street, for quite a few weeks after that. I was sure people there were talking about little else than how Len Goodman had kissed his own shirt.
