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 explained, 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. Until then a Catholic identity was something I’d left behind at my Catholic school in Bolton. 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. Which led to us getting roped into Mass on Sunday.

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. 

June: My brothers and I took our first holy communion at Saint Thomas’s Church Rainham. 

Late July: I left Twydall Juniors.

July 30th We won the World Cup.

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.