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We had an ex-army music teacher who obviously learned how to teach from drill sergeants. We'd all sit in rows in a 20-year-old 'temporary' hut with guitars whilst he strode up and down bellowing "strum, 2, 3, 4, and G, 2, 3, 4" . I still think that his dearest wish was to form an acoustic guitar marching band.
All the usual stories of teachers who couldn't cope with smart-arsed kids correcting them ("Now, boys, these are electrons, the smallest things in the universe". "What about quarks?" "No, they don't exist at GCSE") and board-rubber throwing loons. The one that stands out in my mind was our rugby coanch. He was an ex-International whose only qualification seemed to be that he no longer ran his finger under the words when he read although his lips still moved. He supposedly taught Biology and whenever we would ask a question in class he would stall, pick up the textbook, walk out of the lab, walk back in and recite whatever the book had said. We didn't get on for a number of reasons and one day in training he took exception to a tackle I had made on a team-mate. He picked me up off the floor by the shirt and punched me in the face. Rather shakily I got to my feet and slugged him back. I doubt he even noticed. We stared at each other for a while, neither of us sure what to do next. I was mad as hell but could see that I was going to get my head kicked in if this went any further and I think he was beginning to realise that perhaps he wasn't in the best of positions himself. Eventually, he just turned around and continued the training session as if nothing had happened. |
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