Going to Sea in a Sieve: The Autobiography by Danny Baker Page A

position whereby his demo could begin anew for the next class. The next class would be 3K.
    The way West Greenwich worked was the first three years were divided into four large classes, each identified by the initial letter of the form teacher’s surname. My class began as 1B – under Mr Bullock – and had progressed through 2B to our current third-term status. The classes were streamed according to pupils’ assessed ability. We were the top tier; next came 3S, 3R and lastly the absolute dregs of 3K. It was the members of the latter, notoriously wayward group that, later on the day described, I saw giggling and agitated in the corridor at dinner (lunch). I was no sensitive plant, but what they were celebrating made me feel thoroughly ashamed.
    Apparently Mr Thorpe had gone through exactly the same lecture with them as he had with us and then asked them to gather round for the headphones test. During this, and for whatever reason, he said he had to leave the room for a moment and that they should form an orderly line so that everyone could get a listen. Above all he had told them to be careful with it.
    As soon as he had left the room some of the Neanderthals of 3K had thrown the set to the floor. They then began jumping on it until it was a mass of small pieces. Upon his return, the class was still gathered around his desk. One of them, a huge thick-necked animal called Lee, held out two shattered fragments of the radio’s innards and said with a smirk, ‘Here’s your mum’s radio, Thorpy – sorry, we dropped it.’
    It was what happened next that seemed to cause most joy among the celebrating mob in the dinner queue. Stunned and disbelieving, Mr Thorpe had looked at the scattered smithereens of his set all across the floor and wordlessly slumped into his chair. Putting his face into his hands, he started to cry. As his shoulders heaved with deep sobbing, the boys had noisily whooped in triumphal delight. Their presumed victory over an old school force was complete. The whole of 3K received a week’s detention. Mr Thorpe never returned to West Greenwich again.
    An awful story, and yet one that pales significantly when set against what happened to Mr Dingley, another veteran, and one who had a reputation for mild eccentricity rather than discipline. On the last day of term, at our sports day in Crystal Palace, a pupil killed him. Having brooded over a perceived slight from the old boy, the kid heaved a shot put at his head, putting him into a coma from which he never recovered. I had completed all my events for that day and was sitting in the stands when we noticed a small knot of masters chasing somebody down the tunnel on the far side of the playing area. Another group of teachers huddled around somebody on the floor. All games were halted as the feverish word spread: Somebody has ‘done’ Mr Dingley. Shortly afterwards an ambulance made its way on to the competitors area and we were told school was over for the term and could everyone make their way back to the coaches. I sincerely don’t recall there being too much sensation on the ride back to Deptford. It was the last day before the six-week holiday and by the time we all reconvened again the story was stale. It was only when, shortly before Christmas, the headmaster told us in assembly that this stalwart of the staffroom had finally passed away that it became the buzz of the playground once more. His killer was never seen again – he had been due to leave that day anyway – and whenever I tell this story people always ask what happened to him. I have no idea. Today the media would be all over a tale like this, but in 1970 it seemed of little interest beyond those directly involved.
    However one story from West Greenwich that did go national was when an outbreak of food poisoning at the school killed one boy and hospitalized over a hundred others. I appreciate these bombshells may be striking you like the Python sketch in which four Yorkshiremen attempt to