The School Play of 1983

Do you remember that one teacher from your primary school who you were terrified of? There were two in my school, and prior to 1986 corporal punishment was still a thing in schools in England. The safe spaces and timeouts of the present era didn’t really exist in the late 70s and early 80s, but slippers, canes and hands did.

I was a relatively well-behaved kid in primary school, but even I found myself of the end of a hiding from teachers a couple of times each year. It sometimes seemed like a lottery, like they were sending out a message that no one was exempt from discipline irrespective of how well they behaved.

My first beating happened in 1983. It was for rocking a pew back and forth in church during our weekly indoctrination hour (I hypnotised myself looking at the parquet floor in the church and fell forward into the pew), and the next was for looking up momentarily from my book whilst we were in a reading circle. The teacher in question was short, stout and rotund. Her face reminded me of Evil Edna from Willo the Wisp and her approach to classroom management was entirely Carrot and Stick. If you did as you were told, she would spray you with perfume, sometimes in the face which made it a somewhat bittersweet reward; but if you didn't do as you were told, she would basically beat you up, usually by putting you over her knee and slapping your behind in front of the whole class. That was it. There was no middle ground.

Evil Edna from Willo the Wisp

Her authoritarian approach also extended to casting parts in school plays and homework projects, which usually involved building something which you had to bring to school the next day. In the case of the the school play of 1983, her opening salvo went something along the lines of: "You're going to play the Woodcutter", to which I replied, "I don’t want to play the Woodcutter because you said he has to wear green tights. Can I play the part of a rock or a tree?" She then beat me up a bit whilst screaming something or other about insolence, until I gratefully accepted the role and asked her whether the tights were in my size and that I’d try my best not to ladder them. Dame Slap from Enid Blyton's Faraway Tree had nothing on this kraken.

I'm happy (well, disappointed) to report that it wasn’t just me on the receiving end. She seemed to make her way around the whole class and could find almost any reason to lay on hands. Lovely woman! Anyway, one dark Winter morning following registration, the instruction was given that we had two homework assignments. The first was to construct a sword and a shield because we were going to re-enact some sort of Roman invasion in the playground later on in the week, and the second was to construct the props we’d need for the Woodcutter Became a King play. As one of the main characters, that meant me needing to build an axe, a sword and a shield, all within two days. Terrified of the repercussions of not delivering on the arms deal, when I got home I was very upset and my mum and dad asked me what was wrong. I explained the whole situation to them and my mum said that she’d just bought a new roll of baking foil and still had the tube from the last one.

"I'll build a sword and an axe with you," she said somewhat hesitantly.

"And I'll build you a shield," my dad interjected sternly before strutting off to his shed with a somewhat military air of confidence.

Now I think I’m safe in saying that in general, men and women take different approaches when it comes to construction. Men tend to revel in the heavy-duty stuff and stick their chest out upon completion of a project, even if their sturdy creation looks as rough as hell; whereas women are infinitely superior when it comes to aesthetics and making the rough, heavy-duty stuff look pleasing to the eye. They know how to dress a room, whereas such things often pass beneath the radar for a lot of men. One approach is steeped in logic (this needs to withstand a drunken 15-stone bloke falling into it); and the other is bathed in emotion and aesthetics (We need to avoid this looking like the aftermath of an earthquake).

Well, my mum helped me carefully fashion a beautiful cardboard-tube axe with a baking foil head, and a decent sized sword with a baking foil hilt. Things were looking up, but throughout the delicate construction, strange sawing, whistling and banging noises emanated from dad's shed. He was gone for a good two hours before he returned and announced that the shield would be ready first thing in the morning once the paint had dried.

"Paint?" I thought. “Wow. It seems like he’s gone above and beyond on this one.”

Happy with my axe and sword, I went to bed pretty much stress-free.

The next morning, I bobbed down stairs with confidence knowing that at least two of the homework projects were complete. If the paint hadn’t dried on the shield, then I knew I could quickly fashion one out of a cereal box or something like that.

As I opened the living room door, the silver foil of the axe head and sword immediately caught my eye. “At least the dog hasn’t savaged them”, I thought. Then, I looked over towards the other corner of the room, and there, standing proudly against the wall, was the biggest, heaviest-looking behemoth of a shield you could possibly imagine. It wasn’t a homework project, it was a genuine, full-on shield made of hardwood and steel rivets, with a silver spray-paint finish. Had I paraded this beast in public in the present day, I would probably be immediately arrested.

I walked slowly towards the obelisk. It was almost as tall as me. I gripped the stocky handle on its back and quickly discovered I could barely lift the damn thing. Come to think of it, a Roman soldier would have had difficulty lifting it.

“How am I going to get this into school?” I said out loud.

“That’s a proper shield,” replied my dad who’d just come down stairs.

If you’ve ever had that feeling of both pleasure and pain simultaneously, then you’ll understand how I felt. It was a genuine shield, but overkill was an understatement. “At least I’d be able to use it to parry Evil Edna's slaps if she didn’t like it,” I thought. Come to think of it, if I just let go of it whilst stood next to her and let it fall in her direction, it would at the very least hospitalise her.

After stopping for breath about five times on the way to school, I dragged my shield into the classroom and clunked it proudly against my chair which immediately toppled over beneath the weight. When the time for the Roman re-enactment finally arrived, the battle started off as expected, until one of my classmates suggested that everyone should see if they could break my shield. The entire class then broke rank and attacked me. Blow after blow smashed down on my defences. Cardboard, foil and crepe paper splattered everywhere, and yet my trusty shield didn’t even suffer a scratch.

Suitably impressed and brimming with confidence, when the afternoon arrived and the school play was due to get underway, I happily donned my green tights and took centre stage in the Woodcutter Became a King play. As the play reached its climax, I took my place on the throne (canteen chair) centre stage, and just as the crown was being placed on my head, the throne slid off the back of the stage and into the storage area behind it where the music stands were kept.

The area was usually hidden by large, red curtains, and as my crowned body disappeared gracefully through them to the crashing sound of king on music stands, the only thing I could think of was the look on Evil Edna’s face.

But my mum was in the audience, so I knew I was safe this time.

Did your parents ever help you with any heavy-duty homework projects?