East Barnet Old Grammarians September 2013 Newsletter

East Barnet Old Grammarians
September 2013 Newsletter
The EBOG Class of ’65 40 Year Reunion
from Christopher Wheeler (1965-1972)
Seated: Richard Hurdman (Headmaster), Barbara Blount (Art) and Bill Hall (French and Spanish). Phil McGough is
standing behind Richard Hurdman.
that he would stand in for Angus Johnston.
Bill Hall (French and Spanish) was his usual
enthusiastic self and enjoyed meeting a large number of
his Under 15 football team from 1968/69. Barbara
Blount (Art) also made it along with Phil McGough
(English and Drama). Phil found us through the last
Newsletter and was a particularly popular guest. He
directed many of us in a workshop production of The
Peterloo Massacre which we performed in the round in
the Clayton Hall in 1969. He had just re-mastered some
wonderful black and white pictures of the production
which were also on display on the night (for the record
most of you would have recognised him as he became a
professional actor in the 1970s and has appeared in
many, many TV dramas from "Dixon of Dock Green" to
"The Monocled Mutineer" to "Only Fools and Horses").
After the familiarisation process as old friends
met once again, the Reverend Ian Brown (our star
sportsman) said grace and remembered two of our year
who had passed away since our 30 year reunion,
Jonathan Evershed and Colin Kirby. We then set about a
buffet before our Head Boy, Robert Hunt gave a speech.
The EBOG Class of 65 reunion took place at
Barnet FC’s Players Lounge on 13th April. It celebrated
the 40th anniversary of those who stayed on into the 6th
form, leaving East Barnet Senior High School (it was
actually closer to 41 years as the School’s 75th birthday
got in the way in 2012). Having held a 10, 20 and 30
year reunion, seeing each other again was not too much
of a shock, although some of those who came along had
not been to any of the previous gatherings.
So on the night, the lounge was decked out in
maroon and blue and the well stocked memorabilia
tables had plenty of photographs, school magazines,
items of school uniform and, thanks to Jocelyn Allen
(Kimber), every single school play programme from
1965 to 1972 (with the ticket stubs!). We also had one
of the big screens showing a slideshow of some very
embarrassing pictures from the sixties and seventies.
Around 50 former pupils came along, from as far
away as Queensland , Australia, New York and Norway.
We also sourced four former teachers. Richard
Hurdman was our Head Master only for one term, but
was true to his word when he replied to our invitation,
1
As always, Robert was very amusing. However, the
theme of this speech was that we were a fortunate
generation, attending a school that, while exercising
discipline, gave us the chance to experiment and
develop our personalities, something that clearly struck
a chord with the audience.
EBOGFC veterans: Robert Hunt, Ian Welch, Brian
Tilley, Laurie Goldhill, Chris Wheeler and Peter Hurt
We also had an “official photographer” in the
form of Amber Howson (Andy’s daughter) who took
some great shots, some of which Editor Brian has
managed to fit in with this article.
On a different topic, when the preparation was
going on for the 75th anniversary of East Barnet
Grammar School, there was an appeal for photographs
of the old school uniform. I sent in this picture which
found its way into the celebration brochure.
Chris Wheeler, Louise Power (Hoffman), Anne Mullice
(Webster), Gill Hollis (Macguire) and Robert Hunt.
So then it was on with the dancing, or in true
EBOG style, standing at the bar. Our DJ was David
Lauder who had a playlist rolling on another of the big
screens and played 1960s and 1970s favourites
requested in the previous weeks by those who were
attending the reunion.
Given our advancing years, it was amazing that
many were still going at 1am and emptying the room
was no easy task as the bar staff tried to lock-up. It has
been great to see so many people hooking-up on social
media or via email following the event and a unanimous
view was that we should not leave it ten years until the
next get together (as one cynic pointed out, in ten years
we will need a larger room to accommodate the “iron
lungs and our carers").
For those of you who are wondering if you
should put together a similar event, I would encourage
you to take the plunge. The age of technology means
that finding people is quite easy, great fun and
sometimes surprising. In addition, communicating with
those who do agree to come along, getting opinions on
how people would like the evening to go and collecting
cash has been made very easy by advances in
technology.
Finally, it was great fun to work with some old
friends to make sure the event went with a swing. I was
lucky enough to get the help of Caroline Howson
(Martin), Robert Howson, Lousie Power (Hoffman) and
Marion Woods (Anthistle), with support from Robert
Hunt who entertained us all at our organisation
meetings.
It features my brother, Derek Wheeler and David
Smith, outside our house in Mount Pleasant, Cockfosters on their first day at the school in September
1958.
So 55 years on I tagged the same duo standing
side by side in the Harris Gardens at Lord’s on the
Sunday of the Ashes Test, when England wrapped up
the second win of the series. They have changed sides,
but are still wearing matching ties; albeit MCC ones!
There was a discussion about going onto the pavilion
and getting some caps to round out the “uniform”, but it
was felt we should draw the line at the ties.
2
Pleasant and Hamilton Road and David and his family
lived three houses down Hamilton Road. My brother
still lives in North London while David has lived near
Stamford for a number of years. It was good to meet
David’s son John. It must be assumed he is named after
his grandfather, John/Jack “the Old Codger” Smith who
most EBOG FC players of the 1970s and 1980s will
remember keeping the Clubhouse organised on match
days and making sure “the oppo” were always fed and
watered.
I think I ought to use this letter to challenge
other EBOGs to find similar “then and now”
photographs.
Best regards,
Chris Wheeler (1965-1972)
Christopher.Wheeler@mediobanca.com
It was great catching up with David and his son
John at Lord’s. We lived on the corner of Mount
LETTERS
continental paradise somewhere?
The one whom I would like to meet is Rita
Watchorn (English). In the late 40's early 50's you
needed five passes at GCE O level, including English
Language, to get anywhere. Miss Watchorn was an
excellent and popular teacher but very sensitive - we
used to rag her unmercifully at least once reducing her
to tears. For all that, she ploughed into us, giving us
virtually individual tuition and a reading regime
customized to each of us. And it worked.
Then there was the queen of them all, Eirlys
Thomas (French, Girls Sports and our Form Teacher for
the first and fifth years). Five foot nothing of wildfire;
she taught us French with sporting overtones; who
remembers the pronoms relatifs based on the shape of
a football team? We had a house in Normandy for a
while and whenever I was speaking in French I could
hear a voice shouting " Pas ' veouw' - Vous! Arrondissez
les lèvres. Votre prononciation est mauvaise!"
As somebody said in a previous letter "The
teachers make the school"
Do you remember the time the old man thrashed
almost every boy in the school for throwing snowballs
in the yard? It was quite surreal, must have been a
Tuesday because it was boys' assembly. He stood on the
stage and in his usual voice said "Er some misguided
individuals took it upon themselves to disobey the rule
on throwing snowballs in the playground." Then
followed a homily on obeying the school rules and only
throwing snowballs on the field.
He then told all those who had thrown snowballs
in the yard to step forward - still no sign of the drama
to come. The usual chronic volunteers shuffled forward
together with a couple of dozen owners-up. Then a few
dozen more who hadn't really been listening and thought
Hi Brian,
Sad to hear of the demise of Miss Stranz but
much of that sadness is due to the fact that nobody knew
she was still alive and all the opportunities to send
messages of greeting and appreciation over the years
have gone.
She cut an outstanding figure, sweeping into the
premises on her ex-services two stroke commando bike,
the famous "pop-pop". She organised several YHA
expeditions (You published a wonderfully nostalgic
photo from Peter Smee last time). After she left, a group
of us visited her and her brother in Rickmansworth and
were entertained royally for the afternoon.
I wonder if any of the other excellent teachers
are still alive. Perhaps some EBOG has news.
Jack Taylor (maths) has definitely died. I think
teaching was his life because he only lived about six
months after he retired. A great teacher, he taught maths
across the whole range of abilities and endeavoured to
expel the fear of the dreaded GCE showing us how to
deploy what knowledge we had and not panic. To this
day, faced with a knotty problem the question, "What
would Jack Taylor have done?", provides a fair stab at a
solution.
Mr Collins (woodwork - do you still have
woodwork?) is also dead but he died in a car crash soon
after he left. A most likeable and popular teacher. I
remember being given an SS dagger which my father
had liberated which had a broken point. I brought it into
school and Mr Collins ground a new point on it for me.
We'd probably both be locked up if that happened today.
One notable departure was Mr Sheldon
(geography) who eloped with the rather charming
French assistante in the summer holidays and was never
seen again. I wonder if they are still living in a
3
just joined our year, the son of a deceased German
soldier whose mother had married a British serviceman.
Because of his limited English, he had no idea why boys
were moving up to the stage and simply followed them.
As he stood in line outside AC's office he was greatly
alarmed to hear the swishing of the cane and to see boys
emerging in pain. Fortunately, after hearing his
explanation, Mr Clayton exonerated him!)
Norman Stidolph (1948-1953)
ned @retailefficiency.co.uk
that there was something on offer stepped up. Then
most of those left who had thrown snowballs thought,
"Well he isn't going to cane 100 boys", so they stepped
forward.
Hi Roy,
Many thanks for the latest newsletter which was
very interesting and I got a shock to see myself in the
picture with others on the YHA outing to Canterbury.
Fame at last !!
I was sorry to hear that Miss Stranz died
recently. She was a very dedicated teacher and we had a
good time on the holiday. I have just checked in my old
autograph book and the name with the ? is Michael
Childs.
I went on another YHA outing with the school
which was to the Isle of Wight but can't remember the
date. I am attaching a photo. (Ed. note: See photo on
page 10)
In a previous Newsletter Norman Simler was
mentioned and I would like to say that we were great
friends at school and even after school and I was invited
to his wedding. Unfortunately I lost contact with him
although I know he went to work in South Africa for a
while but believe he returned to England after a few
years. It would be nice to make contact with him again
if he is still around.
Thank you for a really interesting Newsletter I
always look forward to reading it.
Best wishes to you and your family
Terry Griffiths (1948-1953)
terrygrif4@aol.com
With Dawn, my wife of 54 years.
(Ed note: Don't be misled by the pious façade that
Norman is trying to present of himself in a church. Here
he is in a more characteristic setting just before falling
under the table)
Hello Brian
In my last two years I was involved with the
after school Printing Club. I was not a keen student and
actually disliked my schooling at EBGS until I joined
the club which ran out of a small room in a temporary
building in the playground.
One member of staff was technically in charge,
but with sixth former Christopher Rule we did what we
wanted, and actually received orders from staff and
parents for printing business cards, invitations and
letterheads etc.
That is where I found my vocation in life, I gave
up on studying and exams, as I knew I was capable of
taking the JIC (Joint Industrial Council) exams for entry
into the printing industry as the entry exam was quite
By this time it was getting lonely at the back but,
even from afar, you could see the rage mounting in his
face and demeanor but still they trickled forward.
Luckily for those still at the back he could contain
himself no longer and told those left out to get out.
Then he made what must have been over 200 boys line
up outside his door in ascending year groups and caned
the lot. It took him all morning. (Ed. note: I remember
the incident well. A German boy, Manfred Pape, had
4
In my case my father took advice from a
neighbour who was a head master and who thought the
Butler Act a splendid piece of legislation. I well
remember his comment that it did not matter if a boy
was the son of a duke or a dustman. Providing he had
the ability he could have a first class education and even
Oxford and Cambridge were open to him. He also went
on to say that in his opinion East Barnet GS was the
finest and had a most enlightened head master.
I was fortunate enough to pass the 11 plus and
duly went to the school. I enjoyed my time there and as
time progressed found I agreed with the comments
made by our neighbour.
After leaving school, I attended the Polytechnic
Regent St. for two years and then did my National
Service in the Royal Army Educational Corps as a
Sergeant Instructor. I kept up correspondence with Mr
Clayton and also kept in touch with our marvellous
English teacher, Mrs Gibson, and with our maths
teacher, that most patient of men, Mr Thurman.
There is speculation in the press today of the
potential benefits of reintroducing Grammar Schools. I
believe this would be a good thing but hope that the
mistakes of 1944 would not be repeated and adequate
provision made for those who narrowly fail selection or
who are late developers.
David Stott (1950-1955)
dmstott@tiscali.co.uk
easy compared with GCE's (very few grammar school
pupils entered "a trade").
The trade qualification was The City and Guilds
Trade Certificate which I passed with credit in 1966,
after a five year part time release course in printing at
Watford College of Technology.
So, 53 years after joining the printing club, I am
still fully employed, and have been self employed since
1979 with my own print management company here in
Wiltshire, with no immediate plans to retire.
The words I have on my office wall are as
follows: "WHEN YOU FIND A JOB YOU LOVE,
YOU WILL NEVER NEED TO WORK AGAIN"
Does anyone have any record of the club
continuing after '61?
Mike Prior (1956-1961)
St. Marks Close New Barnet Resident until
1967.
Tel: 01225 777767
Mob: 07860 265555
bmlprintmanagement@btconnect.com
Dear Brian
I was very interested to find on the Internet the
June 2011 issue of the East Barnet Old Grammarians
Newsletter, and in particular the article entitled 'Marco
Polo's Hong Kong Blues' by James Gilman.
Recently, quite by chance and totally unexpectedly, I have discovered that, like your author, the
Richard James Gilman he writes about is also my Great
Great Great Uncle. In fact, I have been somewhat
stunned to uncover much more of my family history including that of the Gilmans of Hong Kong - as up
until now no-one in my own family knew of anything at
all past my Great Grandfather! Now, it seems that we
also have a millionaire of the East India Company (Ellis
James Gilman, Richard James's father and my Great
Great Great Grandfather); an equally prosperous
grocery magnate (Anthony Gilman, another son of Ellis
James); and an influential artist said to be the 'English
Van Gogh and one of the most significant figures in
British art history' (Harold Gilman of the Camden Town
school of painters). These are in addition to the other
notable Gilmans mentioned in James's article!
Best wishes,
Nick Gilman
(Ed. note: Nick is not an EBOG. I gave him and James
each other's addresses and they are now corresponding.
Mike Prior is in the middle of the front row.
Brian,
Congratulations on another interesting Newsletter.
I read your own piece on life in the 40's and 50’s
and would comment on your observations of the 11 plus
exam. The 1944 Butler Education Act was in fact a
three tier system and not, as is commonly, believed two
tier. The tiers were 1. Grammar School; 2. Technical
School; 3. Secondary Modern School. However, as with
many government schemes over the years, funding was
inadequate and few Technical Schools appeared. Thus
anyone who narrowly failed the 11 plus or who was a
late developer should have been offered a place at a
Technical School but if they lived in an area which did
not have such a facility their only option, apart from
private education, was the Secondary Modern.
5
thinking it was no longer in use.
You could call this the "downside" of things but
the "upside" had not been forgotten. The envelope was
not thrown away but delivered with an apology. Care
had been taken to open the envelope showing that they
were concerned about the contents. Earlier this year the
street post-box was replaced - not by a new one but by a
better and repainted old one. I realised I should be
grateful for this as Italians are not great letter-writers,
especially in this electronic age, so maybe I was the
only one using it. Returning to the
envelope, great pains had been taken
to decipher my name and address on
the discoloured label. As my mother
used to say, "It's no use crying over
spilt milk" and "Every cloud has a
silver lining.
Ciao!
Sheila Warren (1948-1955)
sheilawarren@libero.it
Six degrees of separation!)
Hi Brian,
I've just had a book published in Beijing -- in
Chinese! The book is about my parents' life & work in
North China in the 1920s & 1930s, and was
commissioned by the local government of the small
town where they began their married life together, the
first Europeans ever seen in that town. The town's name
is SHENG FANG (pronounced SHUNG FUNG) which
translates as 'The place of victory', presumably after a
famous victory centuries ago in that region. and this is
the title of the book: SHENG FANG:
The Place Of Victory which contains
some 70 photos taken by my parents
during their time in China (where as
you will recall, I was born). The town of Sheng Fang are
so proud to have a book published in
their name that they paid for 3,000
copies of the book to be printed,
which are now being sold to local people. I've received
20 free copies, but had to pay the postage costs to have
them sent to me -- a very Chinese arrangement!
Best wishes
James Gilman (1944-1947)
james.gilman@btinternet.com
Dear Brian,
I write concerning the article in the last
Newsletter, written by James Gilman in which he
referred to Derek Mahoney and the Arthur Cross.
Geoffrey Gilliam, Chairman of the Enfield
Architectural Society for twenty nine years, made a
similar cross. Derek Mahoney was known to have been
able to do the same. There is more to the case than
related by James but it was a very tragic event best left
to rest.
Yours sincerely,
Brian Warren (1951-1953)
Dear Brian,
Many thanks for sending the recent EBOG
Newsletter. At first I thought I wouldn't tell you what
had happened to it but on afterthought I felt I should.
On arrival the envelope was a very strange
colour and on the outside was written GIUNTA
ROVINATA (ARRIVED RUINED), signed by a local
Postal Official. It had obviously been opened by them
and resealed. A reopening of the envelope revealed a set
of pages which were completely illegible. The envelope
had clearly got wet and the coloured ink from the photos
had run all over the printed pages.
I paused and took stock of the situation. I could
imagine the local Post Office workers quaking at the
knees. And why? Firstly the Golden Rule for postal
workers is, "Never get the letters wet! I learnt this when
working as a Christmas postwoman in Barnet many,
many years ago. Secondly the postmark on the envelope
showed it was from the "mighty" United States. Horror
of horrors! perhaps they were pages of an important
document! Thirdly, it was addressed to me, known
locally as la professoressa, which added to the
importance of the contents. Fourthly I'd already clashed
with them over a street post-box that was already there
when I arrived in 1986; it was dented and quite rusty,
what was left of the original paint had rusted and a
foreign guest had hesitated to put her postcards inside
(Ed note: Brian is Sheila Warren's brother and has
dedicated many hours to transcribing the Clayton
Diaries. This is him, left, and me at the 2012 Reunion.)
Dear Brian,
I was amazed to read the article from Janice
(Trowbridge) titled “Odd Bods”. I was at East Barnet
from 1952 to 1959 and had no idea these people
6
“disappeared” after school each day. Maybe because I
was from Borehamwood and had to catch the bus home
each day that I did not realize others were also doing a
similar journey.
However, from about 1954 I
would run the cross country route
after school most days and shower
before going home (no such luxury
as showers in my home!) so it is still
surprising that I did know about the
“odd bods”!
A great article and I wonder
if any of the other “odd bods” read the newsletter? It
would be interesting to hear their stories too.
Frank Brown (1952-1959)
frankbrown30@gmail.com
(Ed. note: Frank, another member of our far-flung
EBOG diaspora, lives in Foster City, about 20 miles
south of San Francisco, on the so-called "Peninsula" at
the northern end of Silicon Valley)
Fred Ruddle at the 2012 Reunion. Fred, who resides in
Florida, is yet another of us hapless EBOG's languishing
in the Colonies.
Roni Hermony's Israel Diaries 7
Although I have called this series of articles
"diaries" I think they can be more literally construed as
an "autobiography" of sorts but today I wish to change
the venue because lately life has been a little different
and I will share.
I mentioned in my last article that we were
planning a trip to Greece. We took the trip. It had been
planned for over two years but the basic idea was
(because neither of us have the patience for the long
stopovers between International and internal flights in
Athens airport) to hire our car in Athens and take it all
the way to our destination – Zakynthos – an island off
the western coast of the Greek Western Peninsular.
We travelled overnight, cab and train to Ben
Gurion Airport having booked an early morning flight
which brought us to our destination at 09.00, a perfect
time to start the days travel. We collected the car and
left Athens by 10.30 enjoying a late breakfast on the
road at one of the many pleasant stopping areas. Mostly
we drove on the new (toll) road alternating drivers till
we got to the Rio AnteRio Bridge.
"Your dream, you drive". The road was not part of our
route but the women in the toll booth sold us a one way
pass so that we could turn around just off the bridge and
come back without paying again.
After that we got onto the old, beach road and
started looking for a hotel to overnight. We found a
sweet place in a tiny village outside Plata, on the beach
and slept like babies while very stormy weather raged
outside.
On the morrow, by lunchtime, the storm having
moved on, we reached Kyllini and bought tickets for the
ferry for the three of us: him, me and Merry our
Mercedes. Sweet car but built for big people. I stand
1.50m and a dot and Yigal is not much taller than I am
but we managed. From Zante/Zakynthos after a fairly
smooth crossing I navigated Yigal right to the door of
the apartment hotel we had booked.
Here we are, sailing around the Blue Caves.
Yigal had been talking about crossing this bridge
ever since we planned the trip and although when we
reached the bridge I was driving, I stopped and said:
7
We stayed in a comfortable room with
comprehensive kitchen facilities, veranda and
bathroom/shower for 12 days. It was 50m from the
beach, tiny pebbles along the brink but sand from waters
edge, shallow smooth water, easy for safe swimming or
floating, as is my wont. We "ploughed" the island from
end to end, taking every opportunity to sail along and
around the island. We found a "favorite" restaurant and
ate there almost every day – one meal in the room and
one meal out! The tiny village around the bay has every
thing: a souvenir gift shop, half a dozen restaurants –
only one fast food bar (not for us) – but lots of
minimarkets. It is surprising how comprehensive the
stock is there. Everything from fresh bread and
vegetables to shampoo, mini bottles of dish soap and
Scotchbrite cushions, in short all you need to make your
stay a comfortable convenient one.
I write for reviews for the website TripAdvisor.
My reviewer name is RYHermony and you are all
invited to partake of my various experiences in and out
of Israel.
and reaches Jerusalem after slow hour and a half (from
Tel Aviv, also by train) but it is really beautiful. After
the movie (documentary), during which we laughed and
cried in part, all members of the family were asked to
stand – we were half the audience!
Back to my group: I was at home doing home
things when I got a call from the kibbutz techsec. "You
have guests." Then she handed the phone to my guests –
talk about a blast from the past!
A member of my group was here with his wife.
He was notable for the fact that he did not finish the
year, but went home early to marry the boss's daughter.
He did know I stayed and wanted to see me. He and his
lady wife (the boss's daughter – his wife of 46 years)
were waiting for me at the office and I collected them
and took them home.
Do you remember I wrote the most of my group
got drunk (on the boat) and stayed that way till we
reached Israel? Well he was one of them; it was a case
of mob mentality. He made me laugh when he said he
did not remember much of the trip over. He was actually
one of the good guys and eventually he taught me to
swim in the kibbutz pool, or more correctly he showed
me that I knew how to swim but helped me to reach the
extra confidence I needed to trust the water. I nearly
drowned at the age of 3 and to this day I do not swim
out of my depth in the sea.
Please send letters and other Newsletter contributions to
Editor, Brian Pritchard brianfpr@roadrunner.com or
snail-mail to 1626 Wellington Place, Westlake Village
CA 91361, USA
In the spirit with which I started this episode –
diary style – I had a very interesting week last week. As
I wrote when I introduced myself I came to Israel on a
boat with a group of young people mostly from
England, one from Denmark. More soon….
Last week at the beginning of the week Yigal
celebrated his 73rd birthday. We had a really superb
meal at a local restaurant and went home feeling good.
Then a pile of mail arrived which included a book that
Yigal has been searching for over 2 years and which I
found online – As a Driven Leaf – Milton Steinberg.
Timing is everything.
There are stories online and through National
Geographic about groups of people who lived in caves
during WWII – one of them "The story of the Priest's
Grotto" is about the Stermer family and other families
who hid together for 511 days underground. Chris
Nicola – a well known caver and historian was the
person who made the discovery of all the artifacts of a
sustained stay underground in the cave in the Ukraine.
http://www.nationalgeographic.com/adventure/0406/q_
n_a.html
These people are our relatives and the History
Channel movie that was shown in the Israeli Film
Festival in the Cinemateque was an occasion and for
this we went to Jerusalem. This time we did not drive –
we decided to take the scenic route and go by train. The
track – single line – wends and winds through the hills
Yigal and me in 1970
8
each time he would say to me if you want something
and to save on shipping send it to my friend (Shelagh) in
New York and she will send it on much cheaper (UPS is
like buying twice). Sounds good – I have wanted
sheepskin moccasins for the winter for a long time. So
last winter at long last I ordered them and received
delivery confirmation after a few days. They were in
New York! Along came Sandy!! Our Ari's friend lives
on the waterfront….She has bunk beds so she put as
much as she could on the top bunk (including my
parcel) and left the apartment when her feet started to
get wet. That was the last time she entered the apartment
for about a month. When she went back the fridge –
which had floated – was still closed and still worked.
The water had been 120 cm deep. She took all her dry
stuff (including my parcel) and put it in the loft. Then
she got temporary accommodation. I met her in Israel
when she came to visit Ari, who was in mourning and I
heard first hand about her experiences and how she had
been living in her car for a while. So we left it on a
"when you move back in and when you can" basis.
On Friday to complete a strangely satisfying
week Ari knocked on the door with the moccasins and a
gift of two melons. Shelagh – our mutual lady friend
had made a lightning visit and brought them with her.
She lives next door to her previous place which
apparently is still unlivable. What a week!
That's all for now. Enjoy.
Lehitraot , à tout à l'heure, auf weidersehen,
Roni Hermony
ryhermony@gmail.com
And here we are today still cuddling!
They have a grandson playing rugby in the
Maccabia – the "Israeli Olympics". Their visit was short
but very pleasant looking at old black and white
photographs from my Brownie 127. I have invited them
to stay when they come in the spring for a holiday.
The last anecdote is sweet. One of my eldest
son's friends, Ari has become a very familiar face in my
house too. When he lived for a few years in the States
Luxembourg the Secret Heart of Europe
by Janice Baldwin (Trowbridge)
was a prize worth fighting for by the BIG powers of the
time and thus little Luxembourg was governed by Spain,
the Hapsburgs and France among others. Eventually, in
1867, the Treaty of London was signed ensuring
Luxembourg's independence and much of the fortress
was then dismantled. However, enough remains to cause
visitors to gasp in amazement. The city is truly one of
Europe's best kept secrets. Mind you Easyjet now flies
in from London. Is the secret out?
“Which language is spoken here?", is another
question frequently asked and visitors are often
surprised to be told that Luxembourg has its own
language, Luxembourgish. This is essentially a very old
Franco-Mosellian dialect once widely spoken in the
parts of France, Belgium and Germany adjoining the
Luxembourg border. It is now an officially recognized
language and, I have been told, is the only one
Charlemagne would understand should he return!
Although it is the language of hearth, heart and home
“We had no idea that Luxembourg was so
beautiful” is a comment we have heard
countless times from
our visitors, followed
by, “and it is so
clean!” Both comments are absolutely
true. The capital city,
also called Luxembourg, of this small
country (998.6 sq.
miles or 51 miles x 35
miles), once known as
the Gibraltar of the
North, was founded in 936 AD. Luxembourg's key
strategic position in Europe during the middle ages and
later, resulted in the building of immense fortifications.
This meant that the domination and control of the city
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The two world wars were not a happy
experience for this small country and when peace
eventually returned Luxembourg became a founder
member of both NATO and the European Union. Thus
many European Institutions are based here in the city
pulling in people of all nationalities.
Nevertheless, Luxembourg remains staunchly
true to itself as its proud motto states, “Mir bleiwen mat
mir sin” We remain as we are.
Janice Baldwin (Trowbridge) 1953-59
jbaldwin@email.lu
Luxembourg children are schooled in German and
French.
The modernity, sophistication and tranquility
here are also a surprise for our visitors. Having just
returned (August 22nd) from the hurly-burly of London,
we fully appreciated the latter as we tootled homeward
through the cool, extensive beech forests. Of course
there are traffic jams, notably at the beginning and end
of working days, as the frontaliers from France,
Belgium and Germany flood across the border enticed
in by the banking and financial institutions here.
Luxembourg is the workers' “honey pot” for this region.
YHA excursion to the Isle Of Wight circa 1952 from Terry Griffiths.
Back row: Walter Stranz (Miss Stranz's younger brother), Miss Stranz , ?, ?
Middle row: Claire Palmer, ?, Alan Stevenson.
Front row: Peter Smee, Ray Malpas, Terry Griffiths, Norman Stidolph, ?
(Ed. note: Walter Stranz, who passed away in 2005, was for more than 40 years, a councillor and several times
Mayor of Redditch where he has a square named after him. When he first ran for office in 1952, an opponent told
electors not to vote for Walter because he was a "German Communist"! He was also leader of the local Labour
Party group in both government and opposition. More details of Walter's life can be obtained on the Internet. Also,
the EBOG March Newsletter gives an account of "Gertie's" and his childhood in pre-war Germany and their
subsequent move to England)
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Photo from Pauline Jarman (1951-1956). She writes:
Here are a few of our group of EBOGS: Left to right, Ann Bate (née Groves), Pauline Jarman (née Biddle),
Gill Vivian (née Adams), Julia Nash (née Meadows), Sheila Bell (née Brand). Sheila lives in Hampshire and the
rest of us went down for the day to meet her. We regularly meet for lunch and games evenings and usually go on
holiday together once a year - cruising in the Baltic this year.
DON’T' YOU KNOW THERE'S A WAR ON? (A popular wartime catch phrase)
from James Gilman
An Englishman's religious observances, today, centre
upon cleaning his car, which he
does on Sunday mornings in the
front of his house, either on the
drive or in the roadway. Back in
1939, however, few people had
cars. Instead, Sunday mornings
were devoted to mowing the
lawn, which devotion was
carried out religiously by every
red-blooded Englishman (and, for all I know, every Scot
and Welshman too).
On Sunday September 3rd 1939 this devotion
was being observed as usual all over the country -- until
11.00 am. At the stroke of 11, as though a switch had
been thrown in Downing Street in London, 15 million
lawn mowers instantaneously fell silent as their
operators went indoors, washed their hands, settled in
their armchairs while their wives brought them a cup of
tea, told their children to be quiet, and switched on the
radio. A deathly hush fell over the whole country. At
11.15 the voice of Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain
announced, in sombre tones, that we were at war with
Germany. That announcement changed the lives of
every British man, woman and child, from baby to
pensioner, for ever.
Young men of military age climbed into their
uniforms, went abroad, killed people, and after 5 years
returned home -- changed. Some suffered from post
traumatic distress syndrome, only, as it hadn't yet been
diagnosed, there was no treatment for them. Others
returned home to wives and families to whom they were
unable to relate after sharing their lives with men under
fire ready to lay down their own life for a comrade -how could domestic life compete with such life-anddeath experiences? Those in employment were no
longer afraid of foremen or office managers after facing
and dealing with a machine-gun nest or tank advance -and so the word 'bolshie' was born.
Women, driven by the need to help out on the
home front, entered factories and farms by the thousand
thus acquiring an independence -- and money -- they'd
never known before, and had no wish to relinquish
either of these and return to the domesticity of life as a
housewife when peace arrived. Wives woke every
morning terrified that the day would bring news of their
husband's death, while many of those whose husbands
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thereby bringing disgrace upon the whole family.
My own personal war started with the great
excitement of seeing my dad standing on the runningboard of a strange car hurtling backwards at a fantastic
speed -- at least 15 miles an hour -- down the road in
which my Grandma's house stood. It was the afternoon
of the first day of the War, and the car belonged to my
Uncle Alf, who'd driven up from Bournemouth to take
my sister and me back with him for the duration of a
War confidently expected, as with every war, to be over
by Christmas. We were about to become evacuees, and
he was driving backwards because he'd gone past
Grandma's house by mistake.
At the outbreak of the War thousands of children
were evacuated from the London area, expected to be
the target of ferocious air raids from Day One, to safer
destinations out in the countryside. Some went to
relatives, as we did; others were lodged with complete
strangers, often with traumatic consequences to both
parties. It could have been worse for Joan and me:
plans had apparently been hatched to send us to Canada
to live with an old girl-friend of our father (now that
was a surprise to us!), but instead we went to
Bournemouth to join Uncle Alf, Auntie Hilda (my
mother's older sister) and their 16 year-old son Douglas,
none of whom we'd ever met before. The year that we
spent with them was a curious mix of trauma and
enjoyment, ending up as one of the most memorable
years of my life.
The trauma was the result of no-one telling me
what this relocation away from my parents was all
about. I was convinced that I'd never see my mum &
dad again, a terrifying thought for a 7 year-old to have
to grapple with, the consequence of no-one realising that
I didn't understand the situation. The latter was made
more tolerable by the fact that not only did Joan
accompany me in this exile, but for a short while
Grandma together with our cousin Muriel (from
Coventry days, and the same age as Joan) joined us in
Bournemouth. The enjoyment came from the fact that
my aunt & uncle had a very different lifestyle from that
which we'd grown used to in Middlesbrough staying at
this house as it looks today on Google Earth.
returned home were unable to cope with a changed man
and their own changed domestic circumstances -- and
the word 'divorce' stalked the land as never before.
Some women went into the Armed Forces where
there were endless men ready to tempt them, just as the
Forces themselves -- American as well as British -provided endless temptation for stay-at-home women -and the word 'illegitimate' became commonplace.
Babies brought up on rationed food became healthier
than those in earlier generations, but grew into toddlers
without knowing their father, generating problems when
Dad arrived back on the scene.
Grandparent pensioners found themselves
looking after young grandchildren whose parents were
otherwise occupied with the war effort, then went to bed
each night fearful of bombs obliterating their houses and
themselves. And countless thousands of families lost
their homes and all their possessions, a disaster beyond
the financial and emotional means of many to cope
with.
Only the children thrived, for war brought a
relaxation of rules in a world so differently exciting as
to have become an adventure playground for an entire
generation. There was the thrill of walking in the
blackout where every step took you deeper into
unknown territory pursued by the occasional prowling
car, eyes blinded by blackout shutters and sporting a
grey plastic sandwich on its roof containing gas, having
been converted to run on this because of petrol
rationing. There were the sudden shouts of "Put out that
chink!" from Air Raid Wardens passing houses where
lights still shone from the windows, leaving us
wondering just who the 'chink' in question was and what
he was doing there in the first place.
There were huge grey sausages flying high up,
tethered to cables like fatty kites, in the hope of catching
Jerry planes in their cables -- fat chance. There were
bombed-out sites where buildings once stood, where
you could climb over rubble and jump in and out of
smashed houses and shops. There was the hope of
finding and 'arresting' a German paratrooper, together
with the fun of collecting newspapers for scrap and
metal saucepans to be melted down to build more of the
Spitfires whose pilots were the pop stars of the day.
There was shrapnel to be collected and put into a war
museum that soon filled your mother's old biscuit tin.
There was a life free from father, and the normal
household rules and -- if you were very lucky -- the
chance that your school might be bombed so that
holidays became months long instead of just days. And
American soldiers who could be persuaded to give you
Camel cigarettes in return for the name of your older
sister. The war was a dream come true -- unless it was
your house that got bombed, your dad who was killed,
or your sister who'd run off with a black American GI,
My aunt and uncle's house at 10 Glenmoor
Avenue was a detached 4-bedroom property with a
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come off at bed-time. Nor the next day (when Uncle, of
course, had to depart for work in other parts of the
county). Nor the following day, nor the one after, that
during all of which time I was kept off school lest the
fashion spread to my class-mates. On day two the
'school man' called to find out why I wasn't at school,
only to be told I'd been kept at home because of my
moustache. School man didn't believe this story, so was
shown my face with its fungal growth, at least twice as
thick as his own. He went off down the road, baffled as
to how to record my truancy on his 'reason for school
absence' form, which had no section headed
'moustache'. We never saw him again, not even on my
8th birthday when Auntie Hilda, on her own authority,
gave me the day off school and took me to see 'Snow
White & The Seven Dwarfs'.
A couple of days after the school man's visit,
getting tired of having me around the house, Auntie
took me to a barber's shop whose manager shaved off
the surface fluff, after first taking my photo to display in
his window under the caption FOR ALL YOUR
SHAVING PROBLEMS, FROM 7 TO 77! and
passed me on to the chemist, who eventually found
some substance that removed the rest without taking my
upper lip with it. For the only time in my life, I was the
envy of my school-mates as well as a source of much
amusement in the school's staff room. Upon reflection,
it had all been worthwhile.
garage, located in Winton, a very pleasant suburb on the
outskirts of Bournemouth. Here's a recent picture of it
from Google Earth.
Uncle Alf was a commercial traveller for
Horlicks and, as a consequence, was given petrol
coupons with which to run his car, given that it was
essential to his work. This took him away from home on
4 days a week, with Fridays being devoted to his 'paper
work' carried out in the 4th bedroom, converted into an
office. A car plus petrol coupons meant he was able to
take us on outings at weekends, while free Horlicks in
the house ensured we children were all sent to bed with
a malted milk nightcap.
Uncle Alf was a prankster, who decided one
Sunday that as a 7 year-old it was high time I sported a
moustache. So he glued one on to my upper lip,
generating hilarity all round. Unfortunately, it wouldn't
PAM COXEN'S SPANISH DIARY
August is here and I
am always so happy to read
about heat waves in
Britain, it allows me to feel
a little less guilty when I
grumble about the temperatures, around one hundred
degrees, that we have been
'enjoying' here. We usually
take our annual holiday at
this time, but this year we
decided to wait until next
theme from Punch and Judy, magicians, conjurers,
Flamenco dancers and musicians.
All the shops stay open until the last bus has
disappeared down the hill, the church bell strikes 12 and
like Cinderella all starts to return to normal. Within an
hour the only lights still shining are from a few bars and
eateries that remain open until breakfast and beyond.
January.
For the last couple of weeks I have felt like a
stranger in my own home town, as the tourists flood
down to the coast. The place I like best to be at the
weekends is our sparkling white, ancient hilltop village
with all its colourful flowerpots and atmospheric
history. Bus services have been extended to midnight
for the summer season, and in the little town square a
stage has been erected for nightly entertainment, any
s
We stay over in a little flat near the church, on
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everyone boarding was aboard, all doors closed and off
went the bus towards Almeria, some 1.5 hours away. I
just hope puppy managed to free himself from his bag to
play havoc in his baggage playground. Could this have
happened in the UK, I doubt it.
We have just got over the shock of the
newspaper and TV reports on the Gibraltar activity.
Another reminder appeared that perhaps Spain is not the
place to be just now. It referred to the huge debt that the
Spanish government is said to have with the national
energy companies. A proposed new energy bill plans to
tax home owners who have, or plan to install solar
energy systems, (windmills or panels) generating 'free'
electricity. Fines for not registering such installations
could amount to up to 3 million euros. A meter would
have to be installed to measure how much of this free
electricity was being produced at each house, and this
could cost more that the panel itself, and so it goes on.
Yes I do have a solar panel, it was installed 8 years ago
when the house was built, I thought to save the world,
not money.
I wonder what the European Parliament will
have to say about this, if the bill is passed.
Pam Coxen
catherine.capper@gmail.com
(Ed. note: Pam Coxen was the writer's name when she
was at EBGS. She is now Catherine "Kate" Capper)
the steps of which a gypsy couple with talent sufficient
for 'Britain's Got It', have sung and strummed for hours
on end to entertain people eating on pavement tables
belonging to one of the many restaurants.
Eight o'clock Sunday morning sees us trudging
down the hill, short cutting across the campo to breakfast near the beach.
Whilst waiting for the bus the previous evening,
which had arrived 40 minutes late due to traffic jams
along the beachside road, a long queue formed. A very
wide, very short, dark skinned lady sat herself down on
the pavement against the wall, she was wearing a long
black skirt, woolly cardigan and a headscarf. She was
carrying several bags, a shopping trolley and at the end
of a long lead, a boisterous but tiny puppy. The long
distance bus to Almeria pulled in to our stop, and our
lady struggled up with her baggage and the puppy, and
stepped forward to mount the bus, the driver however,
had disembarked to oversee the luggage being placed in
the 'under-boot'. All eyes from the queue of waiting
passengers were fixed on what was to happen
next. Driver pointed his finger straight at the wobbly
figure saying perritos NO (no dogs) and some indistinguishable words were exchanged. The driver turned
away to look in the opposite direction while the lady
squashed the perrito into a plastic carrier, tying the
strings together before throwing the bag into the midst
of the luggage compartment. The crowd gasped,
Letter from Connecticut
from Valerie Kent née Dodd (1949-1955)
eat all the jelly I wanted.
This time I experienced that awful feeling of
suffocation and panic when I started to go through the
MRI machine prior to the diagnosis. I was told to try
again after taking a tranquilizer and to bring a friend
with me to hold my hand. This time I passed with
flying colors.
But the operation itself was a piece of cake. I
was assured I would be awake for the entire procedure,
since it is arthroscopic surgery, but I would not
experience pain because I would be in “la-la” land. Ha!
That was just to get me to relax. After an IV fed me
some kind of tranquilizing medicine, a tube was put
down my throat and they proceeded with the hour and a
half surgery while I breathed through an oxygen tube.
Anyway, apart from a little soreness in the throat
afterwards, and a night or two of extreme pain, I am
proceeding through six weeks of summer with my right
arm in a sling, relying on others for rides, and sleeping
in a recliner.
The U.S. health care system in my part of the
world is pretty good, if you have insurance. I was
fortunate to work for 26 years for a university and
This has been the “Summer of my Discontent.”
In a flurry of ambition I raked
my entire back garden this
Spring, and in so doing I tore
my rotator cuff, which is the
piece that attaches one’s
tendons to one’s shoulder
bone. This means I cannot lift
my right arm much more than
elbow height. It is a very
common problem for baseball
pitchers who abuse their arm
with that repetitive motion again and again as they seek
to strike hitters out. Mine was a less glamorous motion
but it did the same thing.
So I have been pondering how hospitalization
has changed since the last time I was opened up for
surgery at the age of seven in the Victoria Hospital in
Barnet. My only memory of that time was that I felt
tremendous fear as they put a thing over my nose and I
felt as if I was suffocating. Then followed a long period
with a drumming noise in my ears and the next thing I
knew I was in a bed with a sore throat and told I could
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larger groups. They are linked in many ways to other
health care providers like physical therapists,
laboratories, pharmacies, passing the consumer from
one to another in a smooth chain and if you want to go
outside this arrangement, you have to say so. Every
detail of your life is on computers, of course, and a visit
to a doctor, or a surgeon, involves listening while he
converses with you and checks his computer at the same
time. It is like talking to one’s son while he checks the
box scores on his I-phone. You have to keep up with
what’s going on or you may find you are undergoing
surgery labeled as a Catholic when you are Jewish, and
if all hell breaks out you may receive the last rites.
So, all I can say is ‘Good Luck’ when you enter
the health care system here. It is a far cry from the
Victoria Hospital days, where nurses in white starched
uniforms calmed down frightened children having what
today is considered an unnecessary operation. But you
have to have faith in your doctors or you might as well
give up. My surgeon is a very business-like man with
cold hands and no ”bedside” manner to speak of. But
he seems to know what he is doing. I’m told he has a
sense of humor, but I’ve yet to see it. I was going to
wear my “Stop Violence Against Women” t-shirt to our
post-op conference, but decided against it. No sense in
tempting fate. kents-at-home@att.net
health insurance was part of the package. At retirement
I continued with the same insurance, plus Medicare, for
all those over 65, and practically everything is covered.
Of course, I now have to pay about one-tenth of my
pension income towards this coverage, but I feel that it
is cheap at the price. For people who are not working
and who cannot afford the very expensive payments for
those outside the employer-based system, the
emergency room of the local hospital becomes their
source of doctor and medical care, a very expensive
proposition for the hospital.
Medicare is really very basic, and there are many
things it does not cover, so one really does need
something extra. There is a program called Medicaid
for the truly poor and this is a godsend for those
eligible.
The great debate here (besides immigration) in
this vast country of so many different opinions, is
Obamacare. While it is not like the National Health
Service in any shape or form, it does require everyone to
have insurance, based on the idea that the healthy folks
will help pay for those who are unhealthy. I believe the
costs of paying for health care here far exceed many
other countries with universal coverage, and that makes
it all the more difficult to make the new system work.
Doctors who once were in small partnerships are now in
IN MEMORIAM
GEOFF SARGEANT (1950 TO 1957)
from his brother, Ray Sargeant
Batteries where he worked for many years until the firm
was taken over by the avaricious Hanson Trust. Factory
closures and job losses followed, including Geoff’s
when he declined the offer of relocation to County
Durham. Later in life he worked as a science technician
at Brampton College for Further Education, the highly
regarded sixth form college in Hendon.
Despite his scientific training Geoff’s main
interests were geography and travel. He was a keen
walker and joined Railway Ramblers in 1980, less than
two years after the club was founded, becoming Area
Organiser for the Chilterns Group soon after. He was
driven by a great curiosity and never stopped learning.
In recent years he had taken up the accordion
successfully and attended French and German classes in
order to enhance his enjoyment of further intended visits
to Europe.
Sadly all these plans were cut short by illness
and Geoff died in Barnet Hospital on Easter Sunday,
31st March 2013, two days after his 74th birthday. He
will be sorely missed by wife Rosemary, whom he
married in 1972, sister Anne and brother Ray.
Geoff was born in East
Barnet in March 1939 a few
months before the outbreak of
war. His father, a Royal
Marine, was called away
almost
immediately
for
service in Wales and the
family spent two periods of
exile in South Wales - the first
to avoid the Blitz, and the
second to avoid Hitler’s V2
rockets. As a result Geoff’s schooling began far from
home on Barry Island and then in Milford Haven.
Back in Barnet Geoff continued his schooling at
Churchill School and then East Barnet Grammar School
which he joined in 1950. He was not really into sport
but did enjoy the annual cross country run in which he
regularly achieved a high place.
Geoff flourished in education and won a place at
London University where he obtained a BSc in
Chemistry and an MSC in Biochemistry. After
graduation he took up a career with Ever Ready
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EDITOR BRIAN'S RANDOM RAVINGS, RANTINGS AND RAMBLINGS
EBGS ATHLETICS
I was too uncoordinated to participate with any
success in football and cricket so athletics is the only
school sport about which I can write with any degree of
authority or recollection.
For the entire time that I was at the school, girls
had high jump and long jump competitions but were not
allowed to run more than 100 yards or to participate in
any throwing events. However, this restriction merely
reflected the conventional wisdom of the time as even
the Olympic Games did not have events beyond 100
meters for women until 200 meters was added in 1956.
We first year boys were limited to 100 yards
with the 220, 440, 880 and Mile being added in
subsequent years. After school we were permitted to
check out javelins, shots and discuses (or, for pedantic
Latin scholars disci) and practise with them totally
unsupervised. Fortunately, as far as I know, nobody was
every impaled, crushed or decapitated!
The inaugural Inter-House 3.75 Mile Cross
Country Run took place in late 1947, started outside the
small gate on Daneland and finished just inside the large
gate at the south end of the School. It was held some
time in late 1947 and limited to fourth form boys
upwards. The late Peter Stokes, older brother of
EBOGFC member, Mickey Stokes, finished first. For
the first year or two it was an annual event but then a
second race in the spring was added. Peter may have
repeated his win the following year and then Dave
Holbrook won once or twice followed by perennial
winner, Dave Shott, who triumphed in every subsequent
race up until the time I left at the end of 1952.
Cat Hill, one of East Barnet's main thoroughfares,
creating a potentially dangerous, even lethal, situation
yet the task of stopping traffic was left to a couple of
pupils! By 1952 the course was totally redesigned to go
through Oak Hill Park which eliminated this hazard.
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO "HONOURS"?
For my first year at EBGS in 1947/1948 if a
teacher considered one of our homework assignments to
be particularly meritorious, he/she would write
"recommended for honours" under the piece which we
would then take to Mr. Clayton who would attach a red
paper disc under it and append his signature. However,
to the best of my recollection, this policy quietly died on
the vine as I don't recall anyone receiving one of these
after about 1949.
HOUSES
For those who attended the School in later years,
an explanation is in order. In my era, when we enrolled
we were arbitrarily assigned to one of three houses
named after School Governors, Vialou, Hadley and
Juniper. We scored points for our houses, among other
ways, by academic and sporting achievements including
"honours" as described above. Points were deducted for
detentions. Then at the end of the year, the winning
House had its name engraved on a perpetual trophy. To
put it mildly I don't recall any of us losing sleep
worrying about which House would win.
Does anybody know when Houses were discontinued?
I would welcome comments, opinions, corrections etc. on any of the above topics and, in fact, on any
of the other items in the Newsletter.
AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY
DIFFERENT
Whilst working for Air France in London in
1961 I visited their Barcelona Office. One of the ticket
agents told me that Graham Greene was among his
favourite British authors and that he was currently
reading a book of Greene's called what sounded to me
like "The Sh-----g Pot".
"Are you sure that's the correct title?" I asked.
"Yes", he replied. "In fact I have the book here".
He reached under the counter, took out the book
and showed it to me. It was "The Potting Shed"!
Geoff Phillips and Neil Rowland at the 2012 Reunion
Photo: Brian Stanley
Later, a lap of the school field was added at the
end to make it about 4 miles. Around 1950, the first year
that I did it, a field that we crossed in a park was
ploughed up requiring us to run around it increasing the
course length by a few hundred yards.
Shortly after the start of the race we crossed over
Thanks to all those who contribute to the
Newsletter. It's good to see that, in addition to us fossils
from the 40's and 50's, more younger EBOG's are
sending material.
Brian Pritchard brianfpr@roadrunner.com
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