Grange Hill Rules O.K? by Robert Leeson (Fontana Lions 1980)

’Ah, well,’ said Miss Peterson, 'perhaps we can talk his old man round - hello. June.'

Miss Summers, the art teacher arrived, breathless. Baxter jerked his head up.

’Ah, June. Just in time to put the kettle on.'

‘Am I now?' came the answer. 'If you weren't such a male chauvinist pig, Baxter my boy, you'd see from the rota that . . .’

'The kettle's on.’ interrupted Miss Peterson.

’Good-oh.’ Baxter launched himself from the chair and began assembling mugs on the tea-stained table next to a small sink by the staffroom window.

The door opened and the Deputy Head looked in. ’Ah - the Head would like a few minutes with you people before . . .'

‘Good lord, man,’ said Baxter, ’this place gets more like a madhouse every day. Doesn’t the boss know we have Year Assembly this morning — and we're supposed to teach the troops as well ?’

’I know, he wants to talk to you about the assembly, and the new parents’ advisory committee.’

The door dosed. Everyone began to drink their tea more hastily. Baxter went on grumbling . . .

‘I don't know, new form structure, new timetable, Christmas reports, school and community lark, parents' advisory committees, year assemblies . . . Democracy run riot, if you ask me.'

‘Come on.' said Miss Summers, ‘we’ve always had our year assemblies.'

’Ah that's different. In the old days we used to tell them. Now we're supposed to listen while they discuss. There’ll be no end to it. Before the Welsh Wizard has finished with us. we’ll have the blooming school run by parents and pupils .. .'

He looked round, cup in hand ...

'Think of it, all of you. If that happened, what sort of TAM rating would we get, eh ? Young Graham here will be OK. he'll get the female vote. But what about the likes of me?’

'But Baxter,' said Miss Summers, sweetly. ‘I thought you were appreciated in the school.'

'Me, June, I’m a minority taste - BBC-2, me. But definitely not loved by the rabble. Can you imagine young Jenkins filling in my end of term report ? Think what he’d say. . .'

Miss Peterson looked up seriously. 'I don't think we shall hear very much of young P.J. till term end . . .’

‘What’s this?’ Baxter’s eyes rounded. 'Has the galloping lurgy struck him down at last?'

Miss Peterson shook her head. The boss had him in yesterday and gave him the last warning. Any more malarkey and he's for the high jump.'

'Well that'll be the first sports event he’s ever entered.’ said Baxter. He slammed down his cup. 'Look at the time! Forward men - and persons too,’ he smirked at Miss Summers as he flung open the staffroom door. As he stood in the corridor he bellowed :

’What are you doing there. Doyle? On your way, lad.'

But Doyle had heard all he wanted through his ventilator listening post and was already on his way down the corridor.

Any more trouble and Jenkins was for the chop, eh?

All that was needed was a little bit of trouble then wasn’t it?

Catching Up - Part 3

Nothing to add.  

Okay, that's already getting old. What can I add? 

• That's 5 180s in one day. My record is 7 180s in one day, which I have achieved twice.
• I didn't hit my 31st 180 last year until September 17th. 
• In 2020 — my best year for 180s — I hit my 31st 180 on the 3rd February. So, theoretically, I'm just lagging behind 2020 but two important points: 1) I was throwing more darts in 2020. A lot more. 2) The dreaded Dartitis had yet to kick in.
• Turns out that back in February 2020, I was binge watching Detectorists in the background whlist throwing darts. I just finished binge watching Detectorists a few days ago. I'm nothing if not predictable.
• I was half-watching the first season of Grange Hill season whilst throwing. Michael Doyle was a great villain. Up there with J. R. Ewing and Joffrey.

31/50

Great Days at Grange Hill by Jan Needle (Fontana Lions 1984)

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Fighting Dirty

You lose one. you win one - that seemed to be the rule for One Alpha, even if it did not apply to Tucker and Benny. They lost one - and gained four each, across the hand, hard. Like the man said, they didn’t forget it in a hurry.

One Alpha lost Justin Bennett, for a time at least, and possibly for good depending on how his father felt when it came to it. But the class gained a replacement called Michael Doyle. He was about the same size and shape as Justin, although he was fair instead of dark. But there all similarities ended. Completely.

Tucker and Benny first saw Michael Doyle after a bit of horseplay on the stairs. They’d been discussing the school elections, for which Tucker was hoping to get a nomination, when Trisha Yates, another candidate, came clattering down. As she passed. Tucker knocked her exercise books flying. Without a word, but with enormous force, she swung her briefcase at his head, almost braining him. She was a hard one, Trisha. He almost saw stars.

‘Jenkins!’ It was Mr Mitchell, at the bottom. And with him was Michael Doyle, smiling strangely. ‘Jenkins,’ repeated Mr Mitchell wearily. ‘Can't you go anywhere without making a nuisance of yourself?’

Inside the art room. Trisha sat next to Judy Preston, and nudged her.

‘Watch Old Mitch,’ she whispered. ‘That’s his girlfriend, that Miss Mather. Bet you.’

The girls watched like hawks. Mr Mitchell certainly smiled in a friendly-friendly way at the art teacher, and she was quite good looking for her age. He introduced her to the new boy.

‘Miss Mather,’ said Old Mitch. ‘This is Michael Doyle.’

‘Oh yes, Michael. Weren't you recently in Mr Malcolm's class?’

Judy and Trisha exchanged grins. She had a dead peculiar voice. Miss Mather. She was from Belfast.

‘Yes, Miss,’ said Michael Doyle.

‘Right,’ said the art teacher. ‘Well, go and find yourself a place. I’ll see you later.’

She faced the class. Mr Mitchell was still beside her. ‘Quiet, please.' she said. ‘Today I want you to continue with the props for the school festival. Everybody collect your equipment and make a start, OK? I’ll be around to see you shortly.’

As the children sorted themselves out, Mr Mitchell asked her how the festival arrangements were coming on. Miss Mather flashed him a warm smile.

‘Oh very well,’ she said. ‘Far better than 1 expected. Oh, I’ve got one problem, the props for the school play. I need a pair of flintlocks. You know, antique pistols for the kids to use as models.’

‘Tricky.’

‘It is, yes. Anyway—what about Doyle?’

Mr Mitchell’s face got serious.

‘Not much to tell,’ he said. ‘He could be a bit of a problem I’m afraid. He and a couple of his friends were caught bullying, so Mrs Munroe decided to split them up.’ 

Miss Mather gave a rich laugh.

‘And put them under your firm hand of authority!’ she said.

‘It’s my fiendish neckhold!’

Michael Doyle, although he had not been assigned any work yet. decided to collect a paintbrush from the pots. On his way back to his table, he noticed Benny’s — unattended. Michael’s brush was tatty. Benny's was new. So he did a swap. Benny, as it happened, was returning to his table, and saw it.

‘Oy,’ he said. ‘That’s my brush! Give it back!’

Doyle sized him up. Tiny. He gave a supercilious smile and turned away. When Benny grabbed at him, he swung round and pushed him hard. Benny careered four feet into Tucker’s painting arm.