Greenhill - Cultural Centre of the
North
As we journey over the picturesque Pont de la Rue Gaz, and descend the magnificent Greengate Autobahn, we sense an atmosphere, an invisible force tapping something latent within us, something older than rock'n' roll, more potent than the fragrance of chipped potatoes dispersed on an air of delicate putrefaction, and more enticing than a handful of soap coupons. Something is stirred within us, primitive, unsullied by civilisation, and compelling in the rippling sensation that thrills through our blood capillaries. Robed in a time-honoured shroud of grime stands Greenhill Grammar School, stately, honourable, and victorious over time. Even the plaster falling from the ceiling leaves it only under the irresistible force of the mighty vibrations from the scratch of pens. This is the pulsing heart of culture in a world of industrial filth, political cataclysms and I.T.V. Let us journey in at the main entrance on our magic carpet of fancy and weave the colourful tapestry of a typical day in Greenhill.
A masculine figure bars our way with a cheerful scowl and addresses us in a tiny howl:
| It is an ancient professeur, And our way he now doth block, "By thy gaudy shirt, and entrance mode - See me at four o'clock ! |
He hastens on his happy way, a goblet brimming with ambrosial liquids a la main. We drift along past the Biology Laboratoryto the Lower Hall. The clock on the wall reads twenty to eight, which means it is ten past twelve. A man in a white coat follows us to look at the venerable timepiece, but we journey on our way. On the left are the classrooms of the first form, where the pupils are engaged in various attitudes of study - sleeping, consuming Mars bars, and playing poker. We pause a while amongst the jungle of tables as a bell resounds within the hallowed walls. Within seconds the lucky ones are hurrying home, the more unfortunate seating themselves at the tables with perforated beakers and hand-twisted spoons. Let us float amongst these tables, and listen to the comments of the students as they consume their victuals-
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"Is this a dinner which I see before me,
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During this time of refreshment, one person is particularly in evidence. It is our old friend with his goblet of tea (same goblet, same tea). He is standing at the foot of the boys' staircase, and is endeavouring to paper the library wall with "misguided individuals." Let us steal up behind him, and peer over his shoulders as unsuspecting boys descend the stairs. He chuckles inwardly. We hear him speak.
| "If you have caps prepare to don them now. You all do know this strap. I remember The first fathead I ever did strap, He was walking up Park Road without a cap. I caught him. Hah ! Hah !" |
We leave the lower storey of the school building, and ascend the stairs to the second storey. Prefects try to send us down, but we ignore them; after all who doesn't?
We stop outside the fourth form French set. A man with a goblet of tea, and a familiar face is teaching French. We take our magic carpet right into his mind where we can read every thought, and look through his eyes. Let us listen for a moment to his thoughts.
"Fatheads - ils sont.' You can pass your exams on your verbs alone. I'm always telling them that. Oh ! why do I bother? They'll be crying a year next August. They did it last year - Fatheads. We are gathered here for a religious service - oh, no! that's reserved for tomorrow's assembly. I'll terrify them tomorrow. Whoever stands third along on the second row - I'll have him. And then there's 3B boys - misguided individuals - wish I could think of something to nail them for. Is that boy chewing there? No? - Pity! Still, I'll ask him an impossible question, while I try to get this piece of chalk on that ledge. Missed again. I'll teach you to laugh - Fatheads!"
With reluctance we leave the French lesson. Our time is running out. It is the last lesson. We fly along the upper corridor to the music room, where we can hear a cultural sound. " One, two, three o'clock, four o'clock rock." A manly voice suddenly blasts through the walls,
| "It's now or never, and volume tells, "I'll bet you sixpence, I'll vex Mr. Wells, My great voice will fill the school " I'll kill concentration, man, I'm real cool." |
We drift along down the stairs. As we pass the cloak room, someone with an armful of scarves stands in the doorway. We move on. A bell rings throughout the building. Our time is up.
As we emerge again into a world of ignorance, savagery, and Elvis Presley, we pause for a moment in a last tribute to this fine, ancient, venerable school of culture. As the setting sun fails to bathe it in a rosy hue of beauty, owing to the eddies of industrial smog, we perceive a light burning in the classroom of 4G. We glide up to the window sill on our magic carpet of fantasy. A man stands within, with a purple countenance, who but for this exaggerated facial pigmentation is vaguely familiar. We place our noses against the dirty panes, and lean our elbows on the sill. Half of it collapses and clatters down to the Trou du binge. We strain our ears to catch his words, but we need not bother. His voice all but shatters the glass.
| It is a livid professeur And he detaineth poor 4G "By this almighty, three foot strap Admit who pinched my tea !" |
Another Bird of "Pray"
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She sharp surveys the female lines, A.C. |