Football Poets

(Notes added during Covid-19 Lockdown (easing?!) in July 2020.)
In ’59, having miraculously passed my Eleven Plus exam, I entered the ominous world of Billy Bunter-esque black-gowned teachers and canings at Sloane Grammar School.

A fine old red and yellow-bricked building built in 1908, it housed 500 boys and stood on the corner of Hortensia Road and Fulham Road. Overlooking Stamford Bridge, home of Chelsea FC, (don’t get me started!) it was also situated opposite the beautiful and haunting Brompton Cemetery, where I spent many a silent and thoughtful lunch-hour pondering the meaning of life and girls.

Amazingly the Rolling Stones, still barely known, lived at the bottom of the street on Edith Grove, and there were regular playground tales of strange behaviour and early morning ‘nicked’ milk bottles. Possibly inspired by Mick and Keef, I too was pretty wild as a teen, always up for a laugh in class and a total maverick. This, when even throwing a beautifully hand-crafted paper aeroplane to your best mate during the horrors of Latin, afforded three of the best and instant detention from the notorious serial-disciplinarian headmaster and Hitler-lookalike Doctor Henry. Undeterred, I developed a bizarre penchant back then for irritating a certain hard of hearing Chemistry teacher, which involved precariously hiding behind the ancient wooden blackboard and knocking discreetly during the class, as you do.

Playing for the school team however, if achieved, offered a viable lifeline to profile-raising and better still : recognition in assembly when school results were read out. Once attained, given my off-field behaviour, it doubtless accounted for my not getting expelled!

Football aside, I battled on with my studies, but in ’63, having just experienced my first ever live gig with the Beatles at the Albert Hall, Rock ’n Roll, Hush Puppies, Motown, R&B and the opposite sex took over my life. As a result, many a Maths class was spent longing dreamily for weekends that promised Saturdays searching for parties and Sundays with Downliners Sect at Studio 51 in Leicester Square… or The Yardbirds at The Crawdaddy in Richmond.

Nevertheless, despite the musical distractions that were to become my life and eventual career, I somehow defied logic and ended up with 5 GCE’s : Art, English , English Lit, French and History. The practical and financial chances, (in pre-grant days) of going on to college/university however were to prove sadly dashed as full-time work at fifteen beckoned.