A few months ago I was at a large country house hotel for a conference on creativity in schools, organised by a local Education Authority, my sort of gig, really. I find myself being engaged more and more in this sort of crusade, firing up those who work in education about the importance and power of poetry. Of course, most of the delegates are well aware of the message, but so much of their time is spent on administration and finance that it easily gets lost: ‘We’d do a lot more poetry if it weren’t for the league tables, or the curriculum, or Ofsted, or the weather.’ I read poems and usually include a prose piece based on my experiences of visiting schools as a keen young poet. It was in May 1978 when I was invited to spend a week visiting schools in the Doncaster and Scunthorpe area, ten schools in five days. It sounded like a tough assignment but I was game. The Monday morning couldn’t have been easier, a warm welcome from the Head of English, who took me along to the library and introduced me to the sixth form, all of whom, he explained, were eager to explore the jewel-encrusted caverns of my soul. They were shy and unforthcoming at first, but after I’d read a few poems and we’d talked, they opened up and the morning flew by. My initial misgivings about the project began to ebb away and I looked forward to the afternoon session at another school.
The ebb tide began to turn as I walked up the driveway to witness all the staff leaving. Perhaps I’ve come on the wrong day, I thought. Wrongly, as it happened. The teaching staff had indeed been given the afternoon off, because some poet or other had volunteered to look after all the kids for the rest of the day. Even the soporific English teacher nipped off to the staffroom after introducing me to the baying mob (‘Got a pile of books to mark,’ he yawned. ‘I’ll pop back at at four o’clock.’).
I was in the school hall faced with 600 kids of mixed age and ability, holding my little green folder containing poems for a performance that would last roughly thirty minutes. I had to think on my feet, so I stood up. I suppose I could read every poem twice; they were making so much noise they wouldn’t notice anyway. Or I could take out my trusty Faber-Castell HB, or, better still, I could make a run for it. What I did, in fact, was open the book and read to them and, to be fair, once I’d started they listened. Not all the kids, of course, but you know what it’s like, when there are ones who want to listen they will make the others keep the noise down. After half an hour, I said, ‘Any questions?’
‘Sir, where do you get your ideas from?’
‘Sir, why do poems always stop just as they’re getting interesting?’
‘Sir, where did you get your shoes from?’
‘Sir, how much money do you get?’
‘Sir, what’s the longest/shortest/funniest/best poem you’ve ever written?’
Having given them my all, or at least, bits of it, I said, ‘Thank you for all those interesting questions, and now we’ll take a short break during which time I want you to write a poem called “Skiving off” and give it to your English teacher when he wakes up.’ I left the stage, picked up my coat from outside the staffroom and got the hell out of it.
Whenever I walk into a classroom for the first time, there will always be two girls sitting on the right-hand side who will stop chewing, turn to each other and look up at the ceiling with a ‘God, the state of him’ kind of expression. One gets used to it and my mission is always to try to win them over. Headmasters don’t help, sometimes, and I’m thinking of the one on the following Thursday morning who introduced me to the class by misquoting a poem I wish I’d never written followed by one of Mike Rosen’s, then placing his chair behind me so that he could keep a beady eye on the class.
Nowadays schools are normally pleased to welcome poets, artists and musicians into their midst, but in those days there was often resentment: ‘The Upper Sixth are great fans of your work, but they’re far too busy studying English Literature to see you, but rather than waste your time I’ve arranged a visit to 4n, just follow the noise and the bloodstains along the corridor and you can’t miss them.’
After my session in the hotel conference room, I was approached by a well-turned-out lady in her middle years who asked me if I remembered her. It was a rhetorical question from this former schools inspector, and Gillian Roxburgh reminded me of our last meeting. It was Christmas Eve 1968 and this is what happened. ‘Thank U Very Much’ had reached number four in the charts and the Scaffold were busy rushing around doing radio and television. One of the most popular shows on ITV at the time was the Eamon Andrews Show and we’d driven down from Liverpool to the studios in London. The show was pre-recorded at five o’clock and was to be screened at eleven, so as soon as we had the OK, we leaped into the car and Mike drove us back, hoping to be in time to see the show at home. However, as we arrived at the outskirts of Birmingham it became obvious that we weren’t going to make it. There were no video recorders in those days, or pubs with TV sets still open at 10.45 at night. So when we reached Sutton Coldfield we decided to put ourselves at the mercy of the locals, stop at the nearest house and ask if we could watch ourselves on the set in their living room. Unfortunately the old Punjabi gentleman, getting ready for bed at the first house we called at, didn’t recognise us, nor did he own a TV set. But the second house … Bingo!
‘Luddy ’ell,’ said the young man as he opened the door. ‘It’s the Scaffold, I’m just watching you on telly, come in, come in.’ We barged past him in time to see the three of us wearing white suits run on to the set and burst into song. ‘Gillian,’ the young man was shouting upstairs. ‘It’s my wife, she’s in the bath and she’s one of your biggest fans, Gillian!’ As soon as the Scaffold had finished we joined in the audience applause and made our way to the door. ‘You can’t go yet, Gillian’s just taking her curlers out, she’ll never believe you were here.’ So we stayed for a swift Scotch, said hello to the newly-wed as she swept into the lounge all coiffed and lovely, and disappeared into the night. Mrs Roxburgh told me how she and her husband had dined out on that story for years, but never really knew if anybody believed them.