Summer Times is the Journal of the Old Scarborians Association

sional route at the foot of the Duke of York
steps.
Two hours later I was pretty uncomfortable.
The uniform was like a portable Turkish bath
and I hadn’t had food or drink since the
night before. My two minders reassured me
that we would be sent for breakfast soon and
that would be OK because the Commissioner
of Police had issued his dispensation. I had
no idea what this meant but didn’t want to
appear ignorant in front of these two veter‐
ans who were about the same age as my
father and both sported two rows of medal
ribbons on their chests.
Shortly afterwards they were proved right
when a Chief Superintendent rode up to us
in all his finery and ordered us to breakfast
for 90 minutes. This seemed like a good start
because the normal mealtime in the Force
was 45 minutes. We were marched across St.
James Park to a huge marquee. I had visions
of eggs, bacon, tomatoes and coffee. We en‐
tered the marquee and were faced with a
long trestle table behind which were stew‐
ards serving mild ale and bitter from huge
barrels. There was a notice stating that each
officer was allowed only four pints. There
was also a copy of the Commissioners Dis‐
pensation for officers to drink on duty. I
voiced my opinion of the catering and said
that I would go in search of coffee but my
minders prevailed upon me to claim my four
pints first. They wanted to be helpful and to
relieve me of this burden. I found coffee and
toast courtesy of The Royal Military Police. It
was later explained to me that a cleverly
concealed pocket in the skirt of the frock coat
was intended for sandwiches if you didn’t
like beer for breakfast.
Needless to say by 1997 when I completed
my service things had changed. Proper cater‐
ing arrangements are initiated for such func‐
tions. They are commonly referred to as
‘Force Feeding’.
24
MEMORIES OF SBHS
By Dave Hepworth
(1951-58)
I was one of Stodd’s Bu‐
mogs ‐ a name he coined
for us maths no‐hopers in 4
Upper’s C set. We liked to
think it was affectionate
because, although we
struggled desperately to
sort out our co‐sines from
our hypotenuses, we had
great regard for this entertaining master
tasked with chipping away at our numerical
ignorance.
“Hepworth,” he was wont to say, “turn to
page five.”
“But Sir ,“ I would protest, “that’s the index.”
“Never mind boy, get on with your work.”
He would probably then go on to inquire of
George Wray: “Had any fags this morning
George?” knowing full well that his favourite
bad boy almost certainly had smoked a cou‐
ple before school...
But the nice thing about Stodd was ‐ unlike
Eddie Colenutt before him ‐ he didn’t EX‐
PECT you to learn! He put the facts before
you and left you to absorb them without a lot
of hassle. And, amazingly, despite all the
hilarity ‐ or maybe because of it ‐ we did take
in more than we expected. I also learned (in
addition to the famous spinning mouse) that:
Time flies ‐ but you can’t because they fly too
fast...
Anyway, I consoled myself with the fact that
I was usually among the top in English
(thank you Charlie Rice and Bob Watson)
and that you can’t have everything in this
life.
As it turned out I never needed to unravel
the mysteries of algebra or geometry because
my future lay in words, first as a reporter on
the Scarborough Evening News, the York‐