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