Yes I had a crazy teacher actually. When I was ten years old I attended Woodham Burn Junior School. In it there was a teacher called Mr Drake.
There were infamous rumours surrounding this teacher, the main one being that he broke a young boys arm against a classroom wall by using too much force.
The rumours were so horrible that one boy in my class was constantly crying about it. So much that the Mr Drake had a class discussion about it. Looking back I would say this is unprofessional in every sense, or was it? Maybe modern teaching is wrong and too P.C. now.
However I will list some of the slightly suspect behaviour of Mr Drake.
He seemed very edgy.
He singled out a girl in the class and would say things such as "If only I were a younger man" Which seems really creepy now. He could have been a Pedo, after all, he did wear glasses.
He seemed to get pleasure out of slapping peoples legs for punishment, not bums but legs. "roll your trouser leg up laddie" then he would slap you and say "next time it WILL be harder" I never knew if he was referring to his own anatomy.
Approved kids were occasionally introduced into normal school ALWAYS with bad results. and one time a young lad called James Frew came into class and showed relentless bad behaviour. Jumping out of windows, running away, disrupting the class, hitting people and so on. He was out of control. This was Mr Drakes worst nightmare. One time Mr Drake grabbed Frew and nearly lost his mind. It was one of those moments you see in films when a killer is just about to kill someone then realises he shouldn't....but he still looks guilty as hell, you know what I mean? Well that's what happened, Drake was about to unleash hell, then turned to the class and said "you see what happened? Do you see who is WRONG in this instance? Do you understand who is the bad person here?" and of course in complete FEAR we answered "yes Sir, Frew is the naughty one Sir, not you" and he smiled and gathered himself together again. It was a real dramatic moment and pretty scary for ten year olds. There was more action involved of course but I cannot remember that much, it was after all 1983.
There was a kid in our class who was a skinny little runt of a boy and a chav before he time of chavs I guess. He stunk of foisty urine ridden fabric. I always got the impression I was breathing in dust particles from him, particles full of grime, especially in spring and summer times. Anyway this kid had fights with me many times in the past and probably bullied everyone, we ALL knew who he was, he had a reputation at ten....which leads me off in a tangent now....I will call him Evil Stephen for artistic reasons, or claims reasons more like.
Evil Stephen also tried Mr Drakes patience, so much that Mr Drake put Stephen in the corner of the room (in front of my desk) right in front of a heater grill. Yes, behind this grill was a heater that spewed out hot air via a spinning fan. Mr Drake would then ask the boy to block himself in by pulling a small set of drawers, so he was sitting on his arse penned in the corner sweating like hell (and giving off a horrible odour, in front of me naturally) Although I hated Stephen, I thought this was cruel, and the kid wasn't learning much, but at the same time, if I was a teacher these days, I would send all the uninterested kids out of the class, but then again we get into another debate concerning the 'knock on' effects of neglect from parents / teachers and so on. End of the day, it's the parents fault, that's where the line begins, end of.
I mentioned James Frew earlier. I was to meet him once again when I attended my comprehensive school, and again he was a handful for everyone, still doing his running around the classroom, jumping out of first floor windows and so on. Look for my page on 'Freda Kosser' for more. I often wonder what happened to James and Freda, they were completely out of control and made every one's life a misery, but I do generally hope they somehow managed to get their lives on track, I sincerely hope their lives are better now, and without sounding patronising I wish them all the best.
So where was I..Mr Drake? Yes he taught me manners in a sadistic way. I have always thought I had good manners and I always pride myself in it, especially when meeting people for the first time or in early stages of meeting.
One day Mr Drake gave a girl in the class a job of handing sweets out to everyone. I was unaware of this as I was too busy writing in my book. After the sweets were handed out, Mr Drake asked 'the girl' if anyone failed to say 'thankyou'. The girl pointed to me and said 'Yes Sir, Thomas Tolson never said thankyou'. I thought 'you bitch' I was only ten. I tried to explain, but as you probably know grown ups never believe explanations even if they are valid reasons when you are a child. I told Mr Drake that I never saw the sweet being placed on my desk, to which he replied 'Liar'. He had it in for me because I lived in a street / area that HE deemed to be full of disrepute and neglect, he really felt repulsed that I came from this area of the town. (strangely enough, these days it is my old street that is quite a desirable place to live in the town mainly because the houses are old and well built as well as being nearer the shops) However in 1983, Mr Drake decided I lived in the ghetto, and in 'the ghetto' you lived like an animal hence me not saying 'thankyou' for a sweet that I never saw.He even mentioned my sisters too who he knew from previous years saying 'you're just like your two sisters, I remember them' What a bastard, how the fuck can you say that to a kid, and I just sat there and took it, with the room on tender hooks and complete silence. So I had to get up in the class, roll my trouser leg up, and got slapped of the calf by Mr Drake, really really hard, for no reason, other than his own pleasure which is what I think it must have been arguably. He must have known somebody would have not seen the sweet being placed, or would inevitably NOT said thank you, surely.
On a positive note, that experience and many others from the warped mind of Drake, helped me become very well mannered. He even told us to go home and say thank you for everything our parents gave us ,cooked us etc. I remember telling my mam 'thank you' as she handed me some burnt chips one night, and her looking at me like I was mad...or ....'Brainwashed' more like.
I wanted to play football, I wanted to play in the school team like my friends. We were ALL Liverpool fans, Liverpool were the glory team of the 70's and 80's, everybody had their 'Crown Paint' or 'Hitachi' sponsored Liverpool tops. I had red shorts from 'Fine Fare' (shop)
I was not as good as the other boys but I could run like the wind at that age, I was ideal as a winger I thought, but Mr Drake wouldn't let me into the team no matter how hard I tried. I remember clearly on two occasions playing a game where Mr Drake was 'scouting' for the school team. I received the ball and ran as fast as I could, and scored a goal in true 'Roy of the Rovers' style, but he never put me on the team. He said I should have passed to someone.
I personally think he thought I was scruffy, and scummy because of where I lived. The Woodham burn football field is situated on the back of my old house in Stead Close. The football field is raised and has banks on three sides, one of which dips down into Stead close, or the gardens of Stead close. Every time a ball strayed down these banks, Drake would say to me in disgust 'Tolson, you get the ball, you live in THIS part of town don't you, you get it'.
I got off lightly with snide remarks about my family, the street I lived in and my sisters, as well as not being put on the football team.
The bastard also cast me in sleeping beauty as a 'shrub' in the 'bramble thicket' that the prince must HACK DOWN with a sword. I clearly remember my lines 'We are the bramble thicket!!!' WOW. Looking around, I noticed everyone in the 'bramble thicket' was either wearing national health specs, looked scruffy or came from a poor family, that was the category I was in. Thanks Mr Drake, you satanic Fuck.
At least I wasn't thrown into a corner and made to sweat for eight hours, normal practice of teaching in 1983.
Some years later, I was getting my hair cut in the world famous 'Dimitri & Sylvia's' in the town. Sitting in the waiting room, I heard someone mumbling away next to me, someone talking to himself quietly and fidgeting his hands and arms, clearly having some serious nervous tick problems. I looked to my left to see Mr Drake there, Older but still recognisable, he had that madness in his eye (as before) only this time more pronounced, the old glazed look that you see on some people (usually religious people) I thought to myself, what goes around comes around MR Drake, you creepy, sadistic cruel bastard.
I say this in all fairness, I am so pleased you're DEAD Mr Drake, you ruined so many kids lives at that time, I was a lucky one.
FUCK YOU WHEREEVER YOU ENDED UP, I HATED YOU, GOOD RIDDENCE.
Tuesday 17 April 2012
Our Dog MAX
Our dog Max.
He changed from cute & cuddly to psychotic maniac within 7 years or so, nothing to do with having an untreated hernia for 5 of those seven years.
We bought him from the greenways estate in Spennymoor which is a nearby town which also has as much going for it as Newton Aycliffe.
He was a pedigree Dobermann, docked tail (it was legal then) black and tan, he was a lovely dog. We named him after his father Max snr.
We should have learned our lesson about Dobermans, we had previously owned a Doberman called 'Jett' who was 7 months old when we got him and very boisterous. He ended up being smashed to pieces on a main road after only owning him for less than 3 months I think. I won't name WHO, but someone in the family had a habit of letting him off the lead until he was just a pinprick in the distance before calling him back. Now if you do that with any dog you are asking for trouble, but doing it with a Doberman, in a street with people next to a main road, you better expect trouble.
I remember hearing my (family members tears) as they came through the side door of our house, I was sitting on our beloved brown couch. The driver that had hit 'Jett' brought him in in a bin liner very non chalontaley. All he said to me was "Where is the shed?" I think the bastard even smiled, and I was so taken back by the whole thing, I just got the keys to the shed and let him in, as if this was a normal occurrence.....(dog number three, "yes just pile him on top with the rest mate!")
Then the guy left and said goodbye, it was really bizarre.
I remember seeing the stream rise off of the bin liner he was wrapped in.
Later my dad warned me not to look underneath the bin liner or I wold never sleep again, I dont think the poor guy had much of a head left. "He's stiff as a board" my dad said.
It was a horrible time.....so that lead us to MAX in Spennymoor.
He was our rebound dog, and as it turned out 'Jett' was Max's UNCLE....yes, we checked the pedigree certificates together. I was dying to say to the Breeders (sellers) "Oh isn't it a coincidence, wev'e just killed his Uncle Jett" but I thought better of it.
So...MAX.
He was a cute puppy and he turned out to be a bit of a handful a few times.
He never liked policemen at all or very tall people, he would go for them from time to time and you had to make sure the bloody lead was wrapped around your hand a few times. He had about an inch left to pull on and the whole family had right arms like Mike Tyson's, but ONLY the right arm.
He was a lovely dog at first, he was really affectionate and always wanted cuddles. He eventually had his own seat on 'The brown couch' he usually had the corner piece of the couch but that soon changed to whatever seat he wanted, and I still recall his stale farts with affection.
He used to howl at the 'Eastenders' theme tune for reasons I'm still not sure about. As soon as we heard te tune kick in, it was a race for the remote control to mute / change channels or turn the TV off, in some cases I flew in the air slow mo with both feet off the ground twisting and turning my body as I used the remote to change the channel saying "NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"
He, like every dog, loved food. He would scratch the oven door when there was a chicken inside and he loved Sunday dinners. He would stick his huge head under your arm pit as you ate hoping to grab anything you gave him. My dad would feed him little morsels as he went, it was hard to push the bastards head away. Yes, maybe we were too soft with him at times, but he did become part of the family rather than the pet.
He even stole a whole chicken from the oven one time. My mother had opened the oven and turned briefly around. When she looked again, Max was already in the garden with a whole chicken in his mouth. My mam went crazy but by that time he was halfway through the carcass, and he buried the rest, so the whole garden was a mess with the mud from his digging, and here we were, starving waiting for dinner. God love him, he was crazy.
It was always a concern for me whenever I let Max off the lead. We always did it in open areas after the death of our previous dog 'Jett' I think we learned our lesson. Max would always start good when you let him off, but as soon as he heard of smelt something or indeed saw something of interest or threat he would run after it / him /her. Whoever was walking Max was then sent into a frenzy of panic, with constant running / sprinting /shouting /screaming / crying and calling the bastards name. It was always the family who came back exhausted, never the dog.
TYKE was the name of the food we gave him,as well as canned dog food too. The name TYKE just came to me, it was one of those 'add-water and stir' numbers, horrible cardboard food. No wonder he stole chicken.
I even made Max a winter coat for the snow. I mde it from my old housecoat I had from when I was a boy but unfortunately the whole thing changed into a cape when the string broke around his belly area. It looked good when he ran, super Max, no chance of catching the fucker then, naturally he chewed the fucking cape into shreds.
He bit me once actually, normally you would put the dog down I think if that happens. He was barking and going crazy at a policeman who ws talking to my neighbour. Remember, Max doesn't like policemen or tall people, so he went nuts. As I dragged him in the living room by his collar, he bit all along my forearm like he was chewing a corn on the cob. I think I handled him too roughly actually when I was dragging him inside and I must have hurt him so he bit back and my god, I was scared.
But not for long, soon he was back to his cute ways of running away and stealing chicken.
He changed from cute & cuddly to psychotic maniac within 7 years or so, nothing to do with having an untreated hernia for 5 of those seven years.
We bought him from the greenways estate in Spennymoor which is a nearby town which also has as much going for it as Newton Aycliffe.
He was a pedigree Dobermann, docked tail (it was legal then) black and tan, he was a lovely dog. We named him after his father Max snr.
We should have learned our lesson about Dobermans, we had previously owned a Doberman called 'Jett' who was 7 months old when we got him and very boisterous. He ended up being smashed to pieces on a main road after only owning him for less than 3 months I think. I won't name WHO, but someone in the family had a habit of letting him off the lead until he was just a pinprick in the distance before calling him back. Now if you do that with any dog you are asking for trouble, but doing it with a Doberman, in a street with people next to a main road, you better expect trouble.
I remember hearing my (family members tears) as they came through the side door of our house, I was sitting on our beloved brown couch. The driver that had hit 'Jett' brought him in in a bin liner very non chalontaley. All he said to me was "Where is the shed?" I think the bastard even smiled, and I was so taken back by the whole thing, I just got the keys to the shed and let him in, as if this was a normal occurrence.....(dog number three, "yes just pile him on top with the rest mate!")
Then the guy left and said goodbye, it was really bizarre.
I remember seeing the stream rise off of the bin liner he was wrapped in.
Later my dad warned me not to look underneath the bin liner or I wold never sleep again, I dont think the poor guy had much of a head left. "He's stiff as a board" my dad said.
It was a horrible time.....so that lead us to MAX in Spennymoor.
He was our rebound dog, and as it turned out 'Jett' was Max's UNCLE....yes, we checked the pedigree certificates together. I was dying to say to the Breeders (sellers) "Oh isn't it a coincidence, wev'e just killed his Uncle Jett" but I thought better of it.
So...MAX.
He was a cute puppy and he turned out to be a bit of a handful a few times.
He never liked policemen at all or very tall people, he would go for them from time to time and you had to make sure the bloody lead was wrapped around your hand a few times. He had about an inch left to pull on and the whole family had right arms like Mike Tyson's, but ONLY the right arm.
He was a lovely dog at first, he was really affectionate and always wanted cuddles. He eventually had his own seat on 'The brown couch' he usually had the corner piece of the couch but that soon changed to whatever seat he wanted, and I still recall his stale farts with affection.
He used to howl at the 'Eastenders' theme tune for reasons I'm still not sure about. As soon as we heard te tune kick in, it was a race for the remote control to mute / change channels or turn the TV off, in some cases I flew in the air slow mo with both feet off the ground twisting and turning my body as I used the remote to change the channel saying "NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"
He, like every dog, loved food. He would scratch the oven door when there was a chicken inside and he loved Sunday dinners. He would stick his huge head under your arm pit as you ate hoping to grab anything you gave him. My dad would feed him little morsels as he went, it was hard to push the bastards head away. Yes, maybe we were too soft with him at times, but he did become part of the family rather than the pet.
He even stole a whole chicken from the oven one time. My mother had opened the oven and turned briefly around. When she looked again, Max was already in the garden with a whole chicken in his mouth. My mam went crazy but by that time he was halfway through the carcass, and he buried the rest, so the whole garden was a mess with the mud from his digging, and here we were, starving waiting for dinner. God love him, he was crazy.
It was always a concern for me whenever I let Max off the lead. We always did it in open areas after the death of our previous dog 'Jett' I think we learned our lesson. Max would always start good when you let him off, but as soon as he heard of smelt something or indeed saw something of interest or threat he would run after it / him /her. Whoever was walking Max was then sent into a frenzy of panic, with constant running / sprinting /shouting /screaming / crying and calling the bastards name. It was always the family who came back exhausted, never the dog.
TYKE was the name of the food we gave him,as well as canned dog food too. The name TYKE just came to me, it was one of those 'add-water and stir' numbers, horrible cardboard food. No wonder he stole chicken.
I even made Max a winter coat for the snow. I mde it from my old housecoat I had from when I was a boy but unfortunately the whole thing changed into a cape when the string broke around his belly area. It looked good when he ran, super Max, no chance of catching the fucker then, naturally he chewed the fucking cape into shreds.
He bit me once actually, normally you would put the dog down I think if that happens. He was barking and going crazy at a policeman who ws talking to my neighbour. Remember, Max doesn't like policemen or tall people, so he went nuts. As I dragged him in the living room by his collar, he bit all along my forearm like he was chewing a corn on the cob. I think I handled him too roughly actually when I was dragging him inside and I must have hurt him so he bit back and my god, I was scared.
But not for long, soon he was back to his cute ways of running away and stealing chicken.
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