1966 and all that

Early in 1966 I sat the eleven plus, and failed, as did most of my 4/2 classmates. Soon after, we were sent on a coach trip to have a look at a prospective secondary school.

‘What’s it called?’

‘Upbury Manor.’

‘Never heard of it.’

The purpose of the trip wasn’t clear, but an outing is an outing and though I had no thoughts of becoming a pupil there, I was struck by the enormity of Upbury Manor. Strangely, there were no visits to other schools in the area.
in 1966 I sat the eleven plus. I failed, as did most of my 4/2 classmates. Soon after, we were sent on a coach trip to have a look at a prospective secondary school.

‘What’s it called?’

‘Upbury Manor.’

‘Never heard of it.’

The purpose of the trip wasn’t clear at the time, but an outing is an outing and though I had no thoughts of becoming a pupil there, I was struck by the enormity of Upbury Manor. Strangely, there were no visits to other schools in the area.

Of greater concern was the bombshell Dad dropped when he announced that my brothers and I would be attending confirmation classes at the Catholic Church on Beeching’s Way, on Saturday mornings.

What a choker. A Catholic identity was something I’d left behind at school in Bolton, where I got caned by a nun, had my fringe tugged as an aid to counting, and suffered the threat of being turned to stone by Or Lady’s statue if I opened my eyes during prayer.

At a time when Twydall lacked a Catholic school, these classes provided a fast track to a first Holy Communion. Dad was hardly religious, but being Catholic born and raised himself, an obligation to get us confirmed must have weighed on his mind. Whatever, to protest was futile. Fearful of angering the Almighty and suffering a crack round the lughole, we were in church the following Saturday.

Father Naylon, a good natured Irishman, guided a dozen or so kids through the commandments, led us in prayer and ignored our dismayed faces when he explained the concept of receiving the body and blood of Christ in Holy Communion. Then he smiled cheerily, handed us a catechism and sent us on our way with a reminder that they cost sixpence each. Inevitably, we were conscripted into going to Mass on Sundays too, a requirement every bit as boring as having to read the catechism at home. My brothers and I could just about decipher thees, thous and thys but wombs and virgins were way beyond us.

At a time when I’d just got interested in football, having to attend mass when football matches were kicking off on the playing field across the road was murder. 

I gave little thought to which secondary school I might attend until Mam handed me a brown envelope. Inside was a booklet containing details of various secondary schools in the area, with an application form that invited first, second and third choices of school. With no leanings towards any of them, I was open minded. Anywhere but Woodlands was fine by me; Woodlands didn’t play football and I had bad memories of a skirmish with the natives in that area. In the end my choice was influenced by my friends. The popular choices of Upbury Manor, followed by Rainham, became my choices. Mam left the third choice blank.

In May, I watched and enjoyed my first cup final on the telly. Everton beat Sheffield Wednesday 3-2, and how I laughed at the supporter who ran on the pitch and gave the police the run around before being brought down with a rugby tackle.

~

Paul Parker, John Greenland, Clive Ward, Kevin Garlick and I were informed of our acceptance to Upbury Manor. Hooray! But then, with awful timing, Kevin and I fell out over something trivial. We were the closest of friends, blood brothers even, but that counted for nothing when, through mediators, we agreed to a fight after school. None of that push and shove stuff either. In a fight that was swift and brutal, Kevin clobbered me. 

Along with the John and Paul Angell, and other Twydall kids, my brothers and I took our first holy communion at Saint Thomas’s Church Rainham in June. At a post Mass celebration feast we ate heartily, though it stuck in our throats when John Angell said something about it being a reward for fasting. My brothers and I frowned.

‘What’s fasting?’

‘Not eating anything this morning… until now.’

My brothers and I remained silent. Silky tassels attached to the sleeves of their blazers gave the Angell boys a greater holiness. Now it seemed they were better informed.

‘You have fasted today, haven’t you?’ John asked, clearly suspicious.

Three shamed faces revealed the truth. After a few murmurings and a collective wish for the Lord to overlook our Weetabix lined stomachs, we tucked in again.

All good things come to an end. I’d grown to love Twydall Junior School but it was time to move on. After singing Lord Dismiss us with Thy Blessing for the last time, form 4/2 fractured and splintered forever. Goodbye Miss Rusted. Goodbye friends.

Six weeks holiday beckoned. Much of it was spent playing football with Paul Parker but the main focus now was on England winning the World Cup. I expected nothing less.

The rest of that glorious summer was spent basking in the glow of England’s triumph. The whole country was euphoric the papers said. Bobby Moore’s lifting of the trophy, Geoff Hurst’s hat trick, Nobby Stiles’ victory jig and the sight of some miserable looking Germans were fresh in the memory and things to cherish. In this wonderful, joyous climate, England’s glory was relived daily on every inch of green and pleasant land from Land’s End to Beeching’s  playing fields, as boys like me played football until the sun went down.

 You can read more Twydall Tales here.