I watched The History Boys on TV last evening, and found myself musing about my time at Forest Hill School. I was born in 1945, so joined the school in its first year. I left in 1959, I think.

I’m afraid my memories of FHS are decidedly mixed. On the positive side I remember school plays: Julius Cesar, and Henry lV Part one; school holidays to Sayers Croft, Skokholm, Ve-Ve in Switzerland, sailing the Norfolk Broads and the Bristol Avon. I remember, too, a boy playing Beethoven on a piano in the practice rooms under the state – which stopped me in my aimless tracks then; and brings a tear to my eyes now as I hear that tune in my head. Those are memories for which I must be grateful.

But if there is one abiding and overwhelming impression those years imposed upon me, it is fear. I was frightened by many of the masters; I was frightened at being caned for things I did, and didn’t do; and I was frightened by the many bullies, who reined unchallenged. When I left the school it was because it allowed me to wake in the morning without fear. I realise all of that is as much about me as it is about the school, but boys such as me were as much in need as those who were detached in their world of academic brilliance, and those who were practicing to become full time professional thugs. I could have been optimized if the teachers (and indeed my parents) had spotted me, and seen something worthwhile. Neither did. Thank God, late in the day I blagged and educated myself beyond the clutches of State education in ‘sarf Lunden, ‘ and visit those memories only as spurs to drive my family as far from its limitations as I possibly can (and you would not believe how far that has taken us all). That understanding meant I did not make the same mistake with my own children, who were all educated privately, with the constant monitoring and customized adjustments that investment provides. That financial investment is not possible for most people, but investment in one’s offspring - in time, and ambition, is free to all.

Before the school was rebuilt and re-designated, I thought I might offer to give a talk about ambitions, and how to realise them. That extraordinary and wonderful teacher, Mr Stanbury, remembered me after forty years, and would have liked the idea. It’s too late now, I fear; and I would be considered far too politically incorrect in today’s left-wing education soup.

Hummmm – this has been quite cathartic, for me.

I’d add a few names, in the hope of jogging a memory or two.

Headmaster – Mr Howard
Deputy head – Mr Hooton (was it?) (who I best remember for giving six ferocious slashes of the cane to six boys who had messed about in a school play evening. Three of them had been sitting in front of me in the audience, and had done nothing wrong.)

Browning B3 tutor group – Tutor master Mr Large
Browning B3 tutor group (later) Mr Clarke (young but quite wearied. A decent chap)
Browning housemaster Mr Thresher (A kind and gentle man)
Mr Stanbury biology – the best of the best
Mr Boon arrived a year or two later (had a posh car)
Ashby
Flemming - horrible bullying man
Harveson - music. (Had BIG hair). His deputy played the trombone
Harris - art (stole my stuffed owl)

Bennett was the head boy – followed later by Colin Ancliffe

Boys I remember:

Hooten
Alan Green
David Stein
Sean Scully
Adrian Mendoza, who once had a tremendous fight with Scully – a points draw.
John Griffin
Richard Peyman
Collins

Isn’t it interesting that there are so few following Forest Hill School, despite tens-of-thousands having passed through it.

Enough!