Rog T's Dyslexia Blog - Who says that your school years are the best years of your life - part 1

There is an old saying that your school years are the best years of your life. I often wonder if this was written by a dyslexic, because in my experience and that of many dyslexics the opposite is true. If I divide my life into three bits, before school years, during school years and after school years, I can safely say that during school years was truly horrible, whilst the other two bits have generally been pretty fine. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of great memories from school years, but absolutly none of them are to do with the educational aspects. The good bits generally came at evenings, weekends and holidays.

Now before I start to explain, let me first let you in on three things that conspired to make the challenge even tougher than it may already have been. The first one, you've probably guessed. I'm dyslexic. The second one is that my birthday is at the end of August so I was always the youngest (and often the smallest) boy in the year. The third one, only my close family know about (until now). I was what is called a "Blue Baby". That is totally unrelated to my lifelong support of Manchester City FC. It is related to Rhesus Disease, where there is a clash between your blood type and your mothers. Now whilst this really shouldn't have affected my education, it did in a big way as it meant I was six weeks premature and a rather unhealthy specimen to boot. So whereas I should have been born a Libra, in early October, I ended up on the cups of Leo and an August boy. This meant that I was effectively bumped up a year, with educational special needs.

So there I was. The smallest and stupidest boy in the class. I still have vivid memories of my first day at school. I walked into a huge classroom with hundreds (so it seemed) of kids in it. I was buddied up with Dale Malone, who was my age and lived up my road. He briefly gave me a run down. "He's **** *****, he's good at fighting, he's ****** ********, he's thick, she's **** *******, she smells, he's ***** ******** he's naughty, she's ***** *******, her brother is in Miss O'Donovans class". Whilst most of the class started in September, my mum thoughtfully held my start back until Easter. The good thing about this was I did two terms less schooling than everyone else. The bad thing was that when I joined, not only was I the smallest and the thickest, I also was an outsider as everyone else had their groups of friends. Whilst in theory the Easter start was a good thing, there I was, at school with no friends. This was back in 1967, so we didn't have pre-school. It was a whole new experience and I wasn't in the least bit socialised. Whilst I'm sure that none of my classmates were either, back in December, they had two terms of bonding. So what do you do, if you are the smallest, thickest member of the class and you have no friends. Well I had a simple strategy. I used to hide. I'd recce out the areas of the school, and work out where people wouldn't bother you. quite hard when you were in a large square playground, full of kids. I sort of figured out that the less interaction I had with anyone, teachers, other kids, playground assistants, the better. The rules are simple. Always make for the emptiest part of the playground, always ensure that there is an escape route (don't hide in corners), don't make eye contact with anyone. Don't put your hand up. Look like you are doing work, even if you haven't got a clue. Never ask for help. Never hand in your homework if you can possibly help it. Never say anything, because the less you say, the less chance that you can be ridiculed. That first term was the longest three months of my life. I have one fond memory of it. We made crocodiles out of cotton reels. I was proud of mine. I brought it home and it disappeared within a couple of days. Doubtless my mum threw the ugly object out. My friend Peter Conway, who was a friend until our late teens when we left school, took his home and it had pride of place on their Welsh Dresser until the day I last visited his house around 1981. Mine was simply chucked in the bin after a cursory "thats nice". It was simply a matter of seeing it through.

Our teacher was Sister Rosalie. She was the baby class teacher, a young nun who was nice. My sister warned me that they always have a nice teacher in the Baby Class (what we now call "reception"). But summer beckoned. The summer of 1967 was the longest summer in history, it lasted nearly 36 months and was bliss. My next door neighbours had two boys. One my age (Ricky) and one two years younger (Luke). Ricky had just turned up, Luke was Pre school age. Ricky, like me was an August baby and even smaller than me. We discussed Thunderbirds, we made dens from cardboard boxes. There was never a cloud in the sky. Maybe school had been a horrid nightmare? Then all of a sudden, my mum announced "It's September, you are back at school on Monday". The 947 days  of August 1967 had finished.

So I was back at school and it was grim. Gone was the relaxed ambience of Sister Rosalie. We now had Mrs Munich. With the coming of September, the skies turned grey, it started to rain and rained for all 3,741 days of September 1967. However long August had seemed, the bleakness greyness of September was so much longer and more awful. We had to drink milk every day. It was lukewarm and smelly. We ate lunch in the school dinner hall. There'd be some vile reprocessed meat, two balls of watery mash potatoe and a dollop of cabbage, that they could smell in Calais. Lunch was conducted in silence. Sounds bad? I used to quite enjoy lunch, we got to eat a pudding and when it wasn't tapioca or Semolina it was quite nice. Chocolate pudding, with chocolate sauce, arctic role and best of all Rice pud with Jam. As I didn't like talking to people, it was no hardship to be quiet.

What was bad was assembly. This was overseen by Gabsy. Sister Gabriel was the Headmistress. Terry Nation, inventor of the Daleks had modelled them on Sister Gabriel. If we were naughty, there were three options. If you were lucky, you got the bat. If you were unlucky you got to stand up in assembly, go up on the stage with Gabsy and stand their with your hands held high in the air. And if you were really unlucky, you got totally humiliated in front of the whole school. One unlucky pair, a boy and girl were caught playing kiss chase, so had to have akiss in front of the whole school. Just to give you a flavour of the menace of Gabsy, she told us that she'd used to make kids stand with their hands on their heads on the stage, but a visiting nun had pointed out it was far more painful to stand with them in the air.  There I was, five years old, being subjected to tortures that writers in the Gaurdian denounce the US government for doing to Gitmo detainees.

As for Mrs Munich. She soon cottoned onto the fact that I was dyslexic. I misspelt train in my Daily news as TRIAN. She called me to the blackboard and made me write it out. I spelled TRIAN. She said "No, the I and the A are the wrong way around. Now write it again", so I did, exactly as I had the first time. I got hit across the knuckles with a ruler. She called me an idiot and then wrote it correctly on the blackboard. They say that Corporal Punishment doesn't work. This is a lie, I never spelled Train wrong again.

Luckily for me, fate dealt me a fortunate hand. My sister had won the Finchley Carnival Queen competition and had secured a modelling contract on the back of it. She went for an audtion for a Tizer commercial. My mum hauled the whole family down. Unbeknown to her, the advert required a family and when they saw us, they just gave us the job on the spot. My career in show business had started. Maybe this saved me. When the advert came out, all of a sudden  people were more friendly. My schoolwork didn't pick up, but I had something I was good at.

The downside? The nuns who ran St Vincents decided that I was a bighead, so I never got cast in any school play and every rebuke started with "You are not on telly now Mr Tichborne". The upside was that by now, I couldn't really give a monkeys about what the nuns said. I'd realised that the school was equally horrible to everyone, good, bad, clever and thick alike. So when it came down to it, we all suffered. Being good Catholics, we were all wracked with guilt. Except I wasn't. I sort of realised quite early on that spelling train wrong wasn't bad or evil. I didn't know why I was rubbish at everything (I only realised I was dyslexic in my 30's). I asked a visiting priest if it was possible to commit a sin if you didn't know what you were doing is wrong. This completely stumped him. He asked me to give an example. I said "well my dad says the Pope doesn't like the Dave Allen show. Suppose you put on the telly and it's on but you didn't know the Pope doesn't like Dave Allen?" (at the time I didn't know what the Dave Allen show was, but I'd heard my parents discussing it). The priest said "Does your Dad watch the Dave Allen show?" I replied that I didn't know, as I was always in bed when it was on. At which point he said "You should only watch programs your Mum and Dad say are decent". I realised he'd ducked the question.  That was pretty much what St Vincents was like in the 1960's. No matter what you did, you could never win.

To be continued......

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For those of you who haven't read my dyslexia blogs before, here is a little preamble and introduction, so you know who I am and what I do and why I write this stuff. For those of you who know the story, skip to the end of the paragraph for todays installment. Let me give you a bit of Background so you know who I am and what I do. I was born in 1962. I didn't start talking until I was 4 years old (at all, not a single word). My parents thought I was deaf. My reading age at eleven was 5. When I was fifteen I started a rock and roll band called the False Dots, the band is still going strong. When I was 16 I started a business called Mill Hill Music Complex (although then it was simply called the studio), a rehearsal studio, as we had nowhere to rehearse. The business has grown into a very successful enterprise, one of Londons biggest and most well respected independent studios. We now have 16 studios and a music shop and also have a photography/video studio and a dance studio. I also have done IT work, mostly on a freelance basis since 1983. In 2012 I also moved into film production, producing two highly acclaimed documentary films, both of which had screenings at the House of Commons. When I was 31, a friend suggested I had a dyslexia test. To my surprise I was told I was moderately dyslexic. This made me interested in the subject. To my amazement, what I have learned over the years is that my lack of educational aptitude, my feelings of anger and injustice and the core of my personality have been formed by the fact I cannot read words in a linear fashion. In 2013, I have set one of my objectives to use this blog to let dyslexics know they are not alone, to suggest that people who think they may be dyslexic to get an assessment and toget people who have dyslexic children or siblings to understand the issues that they face.

Guest Blog -Mill Hill memories - St Vincent’s Orphanage on the Ridgeway Mill Hill by Chris Fanning

By Chris Fanning,

In 1885 a French Order of Catholic Nuns known as the “Daughters of Charity of St Vincent de Paul”, purchased land and a large residential house up on the Ridgeway called “Littleberries” in order to found a convent, junior school and orphanage. The junior school built in 1896 was located just off the Ridgway as the primary school for local Catholic Children. Further down the steep cobbled lane running alongside the school and nestling at the bottom of the Totteridge Valley were built a larger imposing complex of Victorian buildings already operating from 1887 as an orphanage.

 This large white brick building complex with redbrick arches is set around a central tower surmounted by an iron Cross over low sloping roofs with deep overhanging eaves; designed by F.W. Tasker of Hampstead; who also designed the copper domed Church of St Joseph’s on Highgate Hill as well as many other notable Catholic churches and buildings for the Catholic community. The Orphanage was a residence for homeless and orphaned children for nearly a century. However, before the centenary of the orphanage was reached; it was closed by the late nineteen seventies due to a large reduction of needy infant babies and Local Authorities choosing to care for children in smaller communities. For a while these buildings were converted to a retreat centre until ultimately sold for redevelopment as private housing. I visited the premises during that time and took several pictures of it being partially dismantled and converted since I had many memories of that place.

The Orphanage block

 Many unfortunate children spent their childhood there and moved on in life but will never forget being raised for a while in this residential home and some former residents have written on line about their experiences of their time living there. I was able to have an insight into what life at St Vincent’s was like as my Brother George and I spent the cold and snowy winter of 1962 – 63 there from October to April during a period when our Mum was unwell and pregnant; so being from a large family we were sent there to reduce the numbers to care for at home.

 

The old St Vincents School and playgroung

We attended the Primary school as usual, but instead of going home after school, we walked down the lane to the Care Home. When the schoolkids were unable to access the school because of the deep snows of January 1963 prevented access to the day School, we had to join classes at the orphanage instead and also because the term times were slightly different. We felt very confined and trapped in this Victorian place especially when our parents were also unable to visit us when inaccessible. Life was pretty gloomy during those months of severe cold, with short dark days and very icy conditions. I recall gazing out of the front upper window at the life size statue of St Vincent which stood in front of the entrance with a thick snowy coat covering his frame for months on end and also recall seeing the icicles hanging down from the gutters until they extended right down to ground level.

 Dad collected us for home visits on both Christmas day and Boxing Day to celebrate the festivities at home. He decided to rush us back at around 4pm on Boxing day as the snow was falling hard. My cousins called in and we watched as they started to roll a huge snowball as the snow gathered quickly in the back garden. Dad, noticed how quickly it was laying with the ground surfaces being covered over with a deepening white blanket of snow. He said we must get you two back now or the car won’t get up Hammers Hill in this weather, so he hurriedly drove us up to the Ridgway in his Ford Consul car getting increasingly concerned as he was driving that he would not make it because a blizzard was now raging. He dropped us off in the late afternoon at the top of the cobbled lane then turned to get home without taking a chance driving down the steep lane and so we felt like artic explorers as we headed down to the front door in a blizzard as we reached the front door we were smothered in snow. We were unable to get a home visit after that for several weeks as the snow and ice made access impossible. So we had to make the most of our time there. We had days out trudging along the Ridgeway during drier periods walking on deep crispy and freezing icy snow covered pavements when the snowfall let up, but it always came back and topped up overlaying what was already frozen on the ground. Hands and feet went numb with the cold.

 

The Old St Vincents School hall

We mixed and befriended the other kids, but knew little of their backgrounds and discovered that they were there for different reasons and were not all orphans. There were some high points like being asked to learn and sing the words of the song “gilly gilly” by Max Bygraves who possibly used the chorus we sung in his song at the time. He made a visit to meet the children and presents were offered to the sisters to distribute. There were several outings for Christmas and I recall seeing Peter Pan on ice at Wembley, Bertram Mills Circus and a shows about Noddy in Toyland and Humpty Dumpty. Most of the kids seemed happy enough and some; like me, had siblings with them for company, but for us; we just wanted to get back home and when we finally did the memories of our stay, both good and not so good remained with us for a long time. I can’t help wondering how those others fared as they grew up. What was strange is that the kids from the orphanage and Primary school never mixed so we had a foot in both camps but they were quite different and mostly isolated worlds. Student Priests from Mill Hill college would visit and took charge of the scout group and entertained the children.

 Occasionally we visited the nursery where the tiny Babies were separately cared for by nuns and lay staff who wore white nursing tunics, the sound of babies crying could sometimes be heard across the building divide to the junior’s block. The nearby laundry was a hot steaming place dripping in condensation, it was run by a strong sturdy Irish Sister dressed in a full white habit with her Cornet clipped back on her head, labouring strenuously in that hot humid environment with a big red face and dripping in sweat; in the summer it must have been awful for her. There was also the infirmary building managed by a very kind and friendly Sister who was most dedicated, it was like a small hospital ward. All these separate buildings are now demolished.

Demolition works at the Orphanage

 Life has moved on but most of the buildings; whilst altered and adapted still stand. The screams and cries of children playing outside which could be heard across the site in the primary school are no longer heard any more neither at the primary school or the residential home.  The original primary school was closed when the new school was built in the cows’ field opposite. The larger classroom block is now converted as a dwelling place but several of the independent buildings were demolished. When the school relocated over the road, the stone statue of St Vincent, which stood outside the residential home, was relocated in the new school grounds. I witnessed the demolition of the orphanage and approached the Sisters at that time to inform them that a parish were building a new Church to St Vincent in Osterley and would like to place the Cross from the orphanage tower on top of the new Church tower; the request was graciously granted and the cross handed over. This restored iron cross now stands resplendent and gilded on the top of that new church tower. A stone statue of Our lady with the infant Child was taken from the front of the former infant care building, from above the place where babies were rested on the open veranda in the summer. The statue is now sitting above the front entrance doors of the Catholic Church in Whetstone.

 In one part of the Orphanage there was a long communicating corridor and as you entered from the outside you could look up and see a small statue of Our Lady of Lourdes resting in a brick niche. I asked what had become of it; as I recalled looking up at it when residing there and of course the same can be said of the many children who entered that building throughout the decades. The Nuns had placed it in storage area inside the convent chapel. I asked if I could take it home and place it in my garden as a memento of my time spent there; the Sisters kindly agreed. It now has pride of place in brick niche built to enclose it as you can see in the attached picture. Also attached are pictures of the school and old orphanage buildings before all was changed. 

 The Orphanage was once a renowned part of Mill Hill and like Inglis Barracks and the medical Institute further along, it is no longer there. I am able to share a few memories of the few months spent there in the coldest winter in my memory - now a full sixty years ago.  Many former residents will have now passed away so I take this opportunity to record what I remember, but I am sure that there are many with quite different memories as I was the lucky one who was able to return to my home and re-join my family after our short time residing there. 

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Chris Fanning has a long standing family association with Mill Hill.  Theresa Musgrove has also written about the orphanage on her blog. 

Guest blogs are always welcome at The Barnet Eye. 

Finally vindicated after 50 years - I demand a full apology from St Vincents School

I joined St Vincents Primary school aged four and three quarters after the Easter holidays in Easter 1967. Nothing in my life up until then had truly prepared me for the experience. My elder brothers and sisters had warned me about the legendary Miss O'Donovan, who famously gave both of my brothers the cane on their first day of school, aged four. No conversation about St Vincents in the 1960's and 70's is complete without a mention of Miss O'Donovan. When my own daughter Maddie went to the school in 1999, I asked the then head, Anne O'Leary about her. Anne had been a junior teacher at the school during the time of Miss O'Donovan. She made a startlingly frank confession "I was terrified of her". Fortunately for me, by the time I joined, Miss O'Donovan no longer taught the "Baby class" as the reception class was then known. My fellow Barnet blogger has written some interesting blogs on the subject of this lady.

Strangely though, I only have positive memories of Miss O'Donovan. whilst everything Mrs Angry says is true, as a dyslexic and a thicko, Miss O'Donovan saw no purpose in beating, taunting and humiliating me, beyond the absolute bare minimum required to ensure that I was scared to death of her. I almost immediately realised that she really enjoyed taunting those who were clever, articulate and diligent. She would seek out the most minor pretext to sort them out. This invariably involved humiliation and pain. As a troublesome thicko, I had already realised that humiliation and pain were part of the experience of going to school, so it was no shock to me. Sitting in Miss O'Donovan's class, I'd sit and watch and think "welcome to my world" as the class swots, teachers pets and goodie two shoes were ritually ground into the dust.

Arriving in 1967, it was not like that. The teacher for the baby class was Sister Rosalie, a young nun with the order of the daughters of charity. My memories of this year was happy. Sister Rosalie was famously nice for a nun. We made crocodiles out of old cotton reels, sang the alphabet song and did rather bad paintings that she would say were marvellous. I thought that the scare stories had been simply one of a number of myths that my siblings perpetrated on me to scare me. My memory of the time (bearing in mind I arrived in late spring) was one of never ending sunshine, happy hours and playground frolics.

As I was born in August, six weeks premature, I was the smallest boy in the class. Biologically, I should have been in the year below, but I'd had to be popped out early. This was an enormous disadvantage until I was 14 and started to grow. I was always the smallest, weakest, worst at football. To counter this I used to revel in causing trouble. The one saving grace of the time was I was nationally famous. I used to star in TV commercials, such as Heinz Beans, Cadburys chocolate, Lucozade and Tizer. These were screened every day on national TV. It meant that generally I was given a slightly easier time. The fact I was very good at it confused everyone, not least because I was so bad at everything else. The school banned me from taking part in school plays and nativity services, on the grounds that I was "big headed enough already".

But when the term finished in July, and I'd emerged unscathed, I was blissfully deluded as to what was lurking on the horizon. Like the phoney war of 1939, I was deluded that it was all going to be fine. When I returned to the Infant 1 class, our teacher was Miss Munich. Whilst most of my classmates have fond memories, I don't. We started learning to read and write, a task I found almost impossible. We would be given lists of words to learn. We would get these on a Friday and have a spelling test on a Monday. If you got one wrong you were called to front of the class and have to repeat it after the teacher. You would then sit down and the teacher would ask you to spell it again. For me, the word was "Train". I spelt it T-R-I-A-N". I was called to the front of the class, made to repeat it word for word. I then sat down. I was asked to spell it again. I said T-R-I-A-N. Miss Munich called me up to the front of the class and wrote it on the board. By now I was in a state of mild panic. My classmates were sniggering. She asked me to write it on the board, under where she'd written it. Have you ever been so overwhelmed by panic, that you can't focus. So there I was and wrote T-R-I-A-N under the letters she'd written. At this, a ruler was produced and I was rapped across the knuckles. Welcome to St Vincents. Miss Munich informed me that is I was going to be stupid I'd be getting the ruler quite a lot. The one lesson I did learn was that I've never spelled train wrong since.

You may think that I would be bitter and twisted about this. I am not. It was the way that children were taught at St Vincents. Was the education bad? Well I have a brother who is a retired rocket scientist, and sisters who are a teacher,  a nurse and a barrister respectively, with all the qualifications etc to boot. I was the only one of my five siblings not to have further education after school. I actually think St Vincents was far more liberal in my day that when Laurie and Frank had walked in to get the cane.

But today, I was shocked to see a tweet that enraged me. I saw this and I was transported back to my five year old self, in Mrs Munichs class. The highlight of the day was playtime. The day in question was in late March (I think). It was one of those days when the sky was dank and threatening, but with the odd crack in the clouds. You know the sort of day when you get spectacular shards of light beaming down. The sort of day that things look rather strange. I was in the infants playground (this was the other side of the big brick wall that runs down the Ridgeway in Mill Hill).

The sky was so spectacular that I was transfixed. I was with my two best friends at the time, John McGeough and Peter Conway. We were admiring this celestial light show when and amazing thing happend. The sun literally split in two. As we were all raised Roman Catholics and alter servers, and had been told of the book of revelations, we speculated that this might be the start of the end of the world. St Vincents taught us about the book of revelations from an early age. There was a reason for this. The Jehovahs witnesses were down the road and the school was worried that we would be enticed away by them. As the book of revelations is a key part of the JW's belief system, the school felt that we needed special preparation aged 5-6.

Peter, John and myself were transfixed and amazed. We pointed it out to several of our other classmates, so much so that we all started staring at it. A playground superviser saw us looking at the sky and came over. She said "What are you doing?" We replied "Look at the Sun miss". She went mad "Don't look at the Sun, you will go blind. Who told you to look at the Sun?". The unanimous answer came out "Roger Tichborne".  I protested "look miss, there are two of them". She replied "Don't be so stupid". I was sent to sister Gabrielle, the headmistress. She was informed that I had made my classmates stare at the Sun. She demanded to know why. I explained. At this she called me evil. I was informed that there is only one Sun and I was beaten with a table tennis bat to make sure I knew. I insisted that she should ask John and Peter, but she was having none of it. When I came out, i returned to my class. Miss Munich was in full flow, telling everyone that staring at the sun would make them go blind. I was made to sit in the corner on my own for a week. I did however ask John and Peter whether I'd imagined it. They, rather shamefaced said no, the Sun had split in two. I expected this to be on the front page of the Daily Express the next day. It wasn't. If I hadn't got a bruised bum, I would have thought I imagined the whole thing.

As with many things, I simply forgot about it and locked it away in that box of memories called "difficult". If you know something happened, have witnesses, but everyone tells you that you are lying, it is almost impossible. But today I feel vindicated. Today I feel that an apology from the school is warranted. For I now have found out that what I saw was real and that, whilst staring at the sun is not advised, we had been treated to a celestial spectacle beyond parallel in Mill Hill.

This morning, I awoke to see this tweet on my timeline.

Stunning Sun Dog in Sweden pic.twitter.com/ROU1ARL3y0

— Beauty Nature (@itsbeautynature) December 24, 2018

What we had seen was what is known as a Sun Dog. You can read about it here https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sun_dog. I feel privileged to have witnessed this in Mill Hill. It made a lasting impression. I am extremely happy that my initial explanation, the Apocalypse, was not the cause.

The sad thing is that I was so scarred by what happened, I have never sought an explanation for this before. I never discussed it with my Dad, who as an RAF pilot would have studied meteorology, who would doubtless have provided a proper scientific answer. I have also had the burden of being made to feel like an evil psychopath aged five. I am glad that there is a rational explanation. I hope I see one again. Today has taught me a lesson, one which sadly was beaten out of me at St Vincents. If you search long and hard enough you will find a solid rational explanation for even the strangest things.

I think St Vincents owe me an apology for not teaching me that. I feel vindicated, but sad. How many people never raise their eyes to the heavens and never see the glory of such things.

The Saturday List #51 - Sibling rivalry gone mad - Tales of woe from my youth & adult life

Sharp eyed readers of this blog will know I am the youngest of six siblings. I was born in 1962, at the time my eldest twin brothers Laurie and Frank were 16, Cath was 14, Valerie was 9 and Caroline was 4. From the very beginning, I was at a disadvantage. All of my brothers and sisters had been whopping great babies weighing several stone at birth (well not quite, but you know what I mean). I was a skinny little runt, born six weeks premature and weighing in at a tad over 5lbs. As soon as I appeared, I was deemed to be  "Blue Baby" (the reason I support Manchester City) suffering from the Rhesus factor (something to do with monkeys I believe). I was whisked away from my mother, given three blood transfusions and stuck in an incubator for three days. My mother told me that she thought I'd died and they were simply not telling her. Back then, hospitals kept mums away from babies whilst they did their business. Welcome to Edgware General Rog. I suspect that this rather rude awakening to the real world set me in good stead.

Anyway, I arrived home to find an environment governed by what we call "sibling rivalry". One where the best thing in the world was to put one over on your nearest and dearest. It wasn't long before I found out what a harsh world I'd entered. This list contains some of the finest examples of Sibling rivalry from our home. Here is this weeks Saturday list, the ten greatest sibling wind ups from our family archives. 

1 - Flushed down the toilet. I'd been home a week or two. I was frail and weak. My mum was also frail and weak. She was resting when she heard a pitiful scream. She rushed out to find my four year old sister Caro dragging me up the stairs. She quizzed "What are you doing?" Caro replied "I don't like this baby, I'm going to flush it down the toilet". Needless to say, my mum explained the error of her ways.

2. Wee Wee. I learned revenge is a dish best served cold. I didn't however learn that you need to cover your tracks. My sister Caro became a successful child model. My parents had a professional portrait photo of her blown up to a 4' poster size. I cunningly added a voice bubble saying "Wee Wee" on it. Despite my protestations of innocence, no one believed me, to this day I've never figured out why!

3. "Laurie". Of course girls are far cleverer than boys. My sister Cath, when she was 2 was fed up with my Brother Laurie, who is the worlds biggest wind up merchant. She plotted a cunning plan (unlike mine) to ensure he got a good clobbering. My Dad had just painted a wall and was highly pleased with it. Cath watched Laurie writing his name and hatched a scheme. She practiced and practiced writing "LAURIE" and when it was perfect, waited until no one was looking and wrote it in big letters on the wall. It had the desired effect. Dad was livid and Laurie was suitably chastised. His protestations of innocence were met with inceredulity "Who else would write it". Cath only recently owned up !

4. The Wall. As I mentioned, Laurie was the worlds biggest wind up merchant. My Dad built a wall at the end of the Garden. He announced to us all that it would survive a nuclear bomb blast. Laurie decided to put the theory to the test. He got a huge rock and tied it to an overhanging tree branch. He rigged it up so that when it was released, it would swing down and smash into the wall. He then told me to pull the rope when he called my name. He then ran up and told Dad to come down the garden. As we approached, he shouted my name, I released the rock and the wall was smashed into a thousand pieces. I got a good hiding and Laurie got a good laugh. 

5 Vomit. Perhaps my brother Lauries greatest ever wind-up on Frank was initially accidental. The ensuing years of sniggering hasn't been. When my brothers were teenagers, they shared a room with bunk beds in. Laurie took the top bunk as he is the elder twin by ten minutes. One evening he went out for a few beers with friends. The evening developed into a little bit of a session. Laurie eventually made it home to find Frank tucked up in the lower bunk. Laurie quietly climbed the ladder and lay down for some much needed rest. As soon as his head hit the pillow, the whole world started to spin. Laurie was overcome by an overwhelming sudden sense of nausea. Unable to control it, he thought he'd better alert his sleeping brother to the imminent danger. He yelled "look out Frank". At which Frank awoke and did just that, to receive a multi coloured shower. My Dad was awoken to the sound of the two fighting. He came in to intervene. Frank immediately explained the appalling behaviour of his brother, but sadly my Dad just found it hilarious and the incident entered into family legend.

6. Wet Knickers. Perhaps one of the more alarming traits of our family was the way we'd take a few blows if it resulted in our siblings getting a greater humiliation. We all attended St Vincents Roman Catholic Primary School. At the time it was run by merciless nuns and an even more merciless teacher called Miss O'Donovan. Anyone who attended St Vincents would attest to the fact that Miss O'Donovan was the scariest person ever to live. If I ever get the time I will write a film script called "Nightmare on the Ridgeway". I suspect that it will be the most terrifying horror film ever. Miss O'Donovan used the a mixture of every type of torture ever devised by mankind, to keep 30 odd 4-5 year olds in line. Violence, paranoia and fear were used, along with personal discomfort. One of the worst things you could do in Miss O'Donovans class was ask to go to the toilet. You were expected to go before the start of the lesson or at the end, no matter how discomforting that was. Should you crack, you would suffer a terror and humiliation beyond the imagination of anyone who didn't experience it. Lessons usually ended with a mad dash to the loo. Sadly for my sister Val, one day she got caught out and wet herself. She was in what was called the "Baby class" (Now called reception) under Miss O'Donovan and her reign of terror. She could no longer hold on, but was too terrified to ask to be excused. Needless to say, she had a small accident. She was subject to a complete humiliation, but as they say, every cloud has a silver lining. What happened next would be unimaginable in todays educational system. Her big sister Catherine was summoned to clean up the mess. Catherine was not only humiliated in front of the baby class but also in front of her own classmates. In the strange logic of St Vincents at the time, it was all her fault. The lesson wasn't wasted on Val. She now had a surefire way of winding Cath up, that was well worth the personal hit.

7. Petrol. Having a brother 16 years older, who is a serial wind up merchant is a bit of a problem. Anyone who has met my brother Laurie, will attest to his intelligence and wit. He left home when he was 24 for good, so I only was on the receiving end for a while, but it proved to be a challenge. Getting one over on Laurie has never been easy, especially when I was young. Whenever it happened, it was always met with a foul retribution, often months in the planning. So the secret was to find a wind up that he wouldn't suspect the perpetrator of. One day when I was about six, Laurie announced that he'd spent all day running around in his van for his mates, because a garage was opening at 6am the next day and they were giving the first ten customers a free tank of petrol. He wanted as empty a tank as possible, to get the full value. Laurie had a cunning plan to get up at 5am and be first in the queue. He had an even more cunning plan to go to the pub with his mates, the preceding evening. Realising that he may forget to set the alarm clock on his return, he carefully set it before he left, explaining the whole cunning plan. Of course, this presented a once in a lifetime opportunity. I switched the alarm off. Laurie got back at midnight and had a very pleasant nights slumber, helped by the seven pints of Guinness consumed. I got up for school in the morning to see him still snoring away. I spent the whole day sniggering. When I got home, he was skulking around. "How much petrol did you get?" I innocently asked. Laurie sullenly replied "I must have switched the alarm clock off".

8. Smelly feet. Of course that was a rare victory. If you ask Laurie his favourite wind up, he'd probably mention the one perpetrated on Frank for his smelly feet. Frank has always been most festidious over his personal hygiene. Fresh socks and undies every day. The only time he ever had a fight with my Dad was triggered by him staying in the bath too long! Laurie on the other hand, was not quite so bothered. Frank would regularly berate Laurie for his smelly feet and bad hygene. In the end, Laurie decided to sort Frank out. He wore the same socks for a week, then put them inside Franks pillow case. Laurie made a big point of having a bath, using all of the hot water, so Frank couldn't. As they settled down to go to sleep, Laurie said "Frank, your feet smell". Frank immediately agreed and went and washed them. On his return, Laurie repeated the accusation. This went on for some time. After that Laurie would regularly remind Frank of his foot odour problem.

9. Bindweed. Now you may think the wind ups would stop when we all grew up. Not a bit of it. Happily the violence has gone from the wind ups. One of the best of recent years was when Laurie gave Frank a plant for his birthday. It was in a nice pot and a bag from the Garden centre. Laurie explained that this was an exceptionally rare and unusual variety, which needed tender TLC. After several months of such love, Frank realised he was probably the only person in the UK to nurture a bindweed plant!

10. Lancia Drivers. As I said, getting one over on Laurie as a kid was difficult. It isn't that easy as an adult, but occasionally such an opportunity presents itself. Laurie runs a very fine car welding business and is a master craftsman. If you have anything you want welding, call 020 8959 8046 and he can fix it. Pots, pans, alloy wheels, subframes. He also gives a lifetime guarantee. When I was in my early twenties, one of his customers brought a Lancia in to be fixed. On the passengers seat was a magazine from the Lancia Owners club. I was reading this as Laurie came in for tea break. He said "Are you interested in Lancia's?" I said "Yeah, they are great cars". Laurie sneered "They are complete rustbuckets. Every time I mend one, it ends up costing me money. There is always five times more work than you realise and they are horrible to work on. Not only that but the people who drive them are all W4NKERS !!!! They are the most horrible bunch of car owners of all. They are always trouble". I was shocked by this vehemence. However I realised that it offorded a one off opportunity for some fun. As he was saying this, my eyes affixed on the classified ads page in the Lancia Owners magazine. It said "want to advertise in the Lancia owners magazine. Call us for special rates." So first thing monday I rang. "How much for an advert in your magazine?" There was a bit of haggling and they agreed that I could put an advert in for £20. So in the next issue, purely to help my brother, as one does, the magazine had the following advert "Bunns Lane Welding Lancia Welding Specialist. Call 01 959 8046 for free advice". In the bad old, pre computer days, such adverts came out about three months later. I'd almost forgotten about the advert when I noticed that Laurie had three Lancia's in for repairs. I commented "You seem to have a lot of Lancia's in at the moment?" Laurie replied "For some reason they seem to think I like working on them and they keep sending their mates down". I replied "You should stick an ad in the Lancia Owners mag saying you are a specialist." This was meant with a stream of expletives and disparaging comments about Lancia Owners. To the best of my knowledge, Laurie never twigged the cause of the upsurge. Best £20 I ever spent. Doubtless Laurie will read this and at some point in the next 18 months will enact a suitably subtle revenge. I will keep you posted.

Of course, we all love each other dearly, despite the decades of wind ups. 

Dyslexia Blog - Nothing beats a bit of equal opportunities mistreatment of children

For those of you who haven't read my dyslexia blogs before, here is a little preamble and introduction, so you know who I am and what I do and why I write this stuff. For those of you who know the story, skip to the end of the paragraph for todays installment. Let me give you a bit of Background so you know who I am and what I do. I was born in 1962. I didn't start talking until I was 4 years old (at all, not a single word). My parents thought I was deaf. My reading age at eleven was 5. When I was fifteen I started a rock and roll band called the False Dots, the band is still going strong. When I was 16 I started a business called Mill Hill Music Complex (although then it was simply called the studio), a rehearsal studio, as we had nowhere to rehearse. The business has grown into a very successful enterprise, one of Londons biggest and most well respected independent studios. We now have 16 studios and a music shop and also have a photography/video studio and a dance studio. I also have done IT work, mostly on a freelance basis since 1983. In 2012 I also moved into film production, producing two highly acclaimed documentary films, both of which had screenings at the House of Commons. When I was 31, a friend suggested I had a dyslexia test. To my surprise I was told I was moderately dyslexic. This made me interested in the subject. To my amazement, what I have learned over the years is that my lack of educational aptitude, my feelings of anger and injustice and the core of my personality have been formed by the fact I cannot read words in a linear fashion. In 2013, I have set one of my objectives to use this blog to let dyslexics know they are not alone, to suggest that people who think they may be dyslexic to get an assessment and toget people who have dyslexic children or siblings to understand the issues that they face.

This second installment of the dyslexia blog today, highlights one of the few upsides of dyslexia in my formative years at school. Hopefully all will become clear near the end of it, if you can stay with it that long. 

How weird is this. There are a group of five bloggers in Barnet who have achieved a degree of national fame for our tireless work exposing wrongdoing in Barnet Council. I am one of these five (for those who have only found the blog though the dyslexia links etc). Another one of the bloggers is Theresa Musgrove AKA Mrs Angry. Rather oddly (or perhaps not) we both attended the same school, although she was four years above me. Strangely  we both, wrote blogs earlier today which mentioned our experiences at school. My blog, briefly described the experience in relation to my dyslexia. Mrs Angry went into much more detail about one teacher in particular, Miss O'Donovan in her blog - http://wwwbrokenbarnet.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/growing-up-in-broken-barnet-making-of.html - Mrs Angry feels deeply damaged by the experience. Having read the blog and the details of her treatment, I can confirm that this is a pretty accurate account of the way things were in Miss O'Donovans class.

What is interesting though, is the fact I have very different memories of the school. I am the youngest of six. All of my brothers and sisters also went through Miss O'Donovans class. They all talked of her in hushed tones, fear in their voice. Like Mrs Angry, they were all on the top table. My eldest twin brothers were caned by Miss O'Donovan withing half an hour of arriving in the reception class. When I was at the school, Miss O'Donovan taught the "infant 2" class. What is now called reception was called the baby class. The teacher of this year was Sister Rosalie. She was nice. We made crocodiles out of cotton reels and didn't do any work. I enjoyed the baby class. I was only there for one term having joined the school in the April. As I wasn't talking when I was four, my mum was worried about sending me, so held me back.

The next class was Mrs Munich. I felt she was aptly named. It was a trial for me. All of the ex St Vincents friends I know have fond memories of Mrs Munich. I don't. Mrs Angry talks about the baby table/lazy table. That was me. The one memory I had of Mrs Munich was being asked to spell TRAIN. I said T - R - I - A - N. She called me to the front of the class and said "No it is spelt T - R- A- I - N" and as she read each letter, she wrote it on the blackboard. I wrote T - R- I -A - N under it. All of the class laughed. She called me an idiot and hit be across the palm of the hand with a ruler. I cried and everyone laughed. She made me write out 10 times. "I am an idiot". She gave me a verbal instruction. I wrote out ten times "I am an idoit". For that I had to write out twenty times "I am a an idiot and I can spell idiot". For people who say corporal punishment doesn't work, I would say "I've always spelt train and idiot" correctly since that day. Mrs Munichs class for me was horrible. My sisters teased me that things would be so much worse in Miss O'Donovans class.

For the first two weeks if Miss O'Donovans class, I managed to keep a low profile. I didn't have a bad time, although she systematically started to destroy the self esteem of all and sundry. I noticed that the Top Table got special treatment in the first two weeks. I think this was deliberate. Mrs Munich had been nice to them. They needed a good kicking and Miss O'Dononvan was more than happy. She new that our lot would present many natural opportunities, the top table, she had to set traps for. I noticed that they were given seemingly impossible tasks. The prettiest girls were usually the ones she targetted for "special treatment". Then we had a lucky break. Miss O'Donovan got ill. She was off school until Christmas and had to have an operation. We hoped she wouldn't come back. That was an early christmas present. I hadn't been on the receiving end of anything. Just before Christmas, Sister Gabriel (Gabsy), the headmistress arrived to give us some good news. Miss O'Donovan was getting better and would be back in January. She informed us with a straight face (did she ever have anything else), that our prayers had been answered. So far I hadn't really minded Miss O'Donovan. She'd dished it out to lots of people who had up until then got off lightly. I thought this was more than fair.

Just before I was due to return to school in January, I noticed I had a nasty rash. I had Chicken Pox. I was overjoyed. This meant a few weeks off school. Back in the 1960's when you got chicken pox, all of your family who hadn't had it were brought around to see you. The idea was that they too would get it and be done with it. One of them gave me whooping cough. All in all I managed five weeks off school. It was great. I got to watch the telly. Sadly as this was the 1960's this meant Play School at 11am and a few trade test transmissions (remember them). It was great.

So I went back in February. I had managed to avoid Miss O'Donovan for nearly half of the term. I came back in and what I hadn't counted on was that the Lazy Table had come in for the treatment. I had been back in class 30 minutes when Miss O'Donovan announced a desk inspection. In her class if you broke a ruler or pencil or compass, you got a whack on the knuckles with a ruler. These were found by random desk inspections. I got asked to open my desk up. It had six broken rulers and five broken pencils in. The other kids had dumped their broken bits and pieces in my desk and got their folks to buy them new ones. Miss O'Donovan snarled "Roger Tichborne are you collecting broken rulers and pencils" Totally taken aback by this development I meekly said "No Miss O'Donovan". I got eleven whacks with a ruler on the knuckles. It hurt. Strangely though, I wasn't angry at Miss O'Donovan. I was angry at the toads who'd set me up. Over the next few months, I along with the rest of the class endured the Miss O'Donovan treatment. It wasn't pleasant, but we all got a bit of it. For that I quite liked Miss O'Donovan. Mrs Angry recollects her saying "empty vessels make the most noise". I was intrigued by this saying. I always thought "If something is empty, there is nothing in it to make any noise". I never sought clarification.

I think the reason Mrs Angry and my siblings had such a reaction to Mrs O'Donovan was because they felt her terrors were unjustified and unreasonable. As a member of the lazy table, I was used to it. I had it bashed into me that all punishments were justified and reasonable. I was dyslexic, I couldn't do simple things which everyone else could. Often I was told that this was because the devil was in me. I took reassurance from this. If the devil was making me spell words wrong and read badly, then I'm not really to blame. I thought maybe when I made my first holy communion, the devil would go and I'd be OK. This didn't work. In the final year of St Vincents, we received the sacrament of confirmation. We were told how this meant the Holy Spirit would come down on us. We were told how the apostles could talk in foreign languages after they recieved the Holy Spirit. I genuinely felt that this would be a massive turning point for me. I would see the back of the devil and be OK. Bishop Mahon came to the Sacred Heart church and confirmed me. I felt nothing (apart from cheated). It was a massive disappointment.

After that, I realised I'd just have to get used to the idea I was a bit thick. I didn't know I was dyslexic until I was in my 30's. By the time I left St Vincents, I'd become immune to the barbs from the teachers. I'd become immune to the corporal punishment. I realised that however hard they hit you, it was only transient pain. My view of teachers was that they were people who existed solely to be horrible to children. The only children who escaped were the teachers pets. I viewed these as collaborators (although I didn't know the word), beneath contempt. In Junior 3 we had a nice teacher. Her name was Miss MacDonald. She was young and pretty, she didn't hit us.  She would read us books she thought may interest us. I probably had a massive crush on her. The sad thing was, I didn't consider her to be a proper teacher because she was nice.

During her lessons, I used to continually act up. She would send me out of the class, which I considered a result. I used to keep a couple of crusts in my pocket and feed sparrows as I stood outside the classroom. Miss MacDonald saw this one day. At playtime she kept me back and sat me down. She said "what were you doing to the sparrows. I saw you throwing things at them?" I replied "I had a couple of crusts of bread in my pocket, I was feeding them". She said "Oh" sent me on my way. The next day, I was sent out again. I did the same thing. Again she called me in "I saw you feeding the sparrows again" I replied "yes, I had a few crusts again". She then said "do you bring crusts in every day". I  replied "yes". She then said "Do you get send out to feed the sparrows the crusts?". One of my failings is I hate lying "Yes Miss". She then said "What about the lessons, you are at the bottom of the class?" I said "I don't think lessons are doing much good, I prefer feeding sparrows". She said "Why don't you like lessons?" I said "I am no good at them". She said "well you never will be unless you try". She asked me what books I'd read. I replied "none Miss". She then asked if I read anything at all. I said "I like Comics". After that she sent me out to break. I didn't get sent out again. After the parents evening, my mum said "Miss MacDonald says we should buy you as many comics as we can, to help you with your reading". In hindsight that was a blessing. Until then, my parents had discouraged me from reading comics, as they weren't proper books. I think for many dyslexics, comics are a blessing as the pictures help make sense of the words.

Consider this fact. Upwards of 40% of the prison population are dyslexic, many are completely illiterate. Many have a feeling of burning injustice about the system. It is easy enough to identify a dyslexic at six years old. It is easy enough to follow the best practice so the disadvantages of the condition are mitigated. All it needs is for the educational establishment to admit that it has been failing us since its inception. Mrs Angry writes about Miss O'Donovan in eloquent tones, but to be quite honest, for me she was just one of a whole bunch who let me down. In some ways she was better for me personally because she was an equal opportunities mistreater. We all got it, not just the lazy/thick idoits like me who can't spell trian! Why should it only ever be the thickies who are clobbered, it's not as if beating anyone makes them any more intelligent. I didn't ever feel singled out by her. She was one of the few I can say that of. For us dyslexic children of the 1960's that was actually a little bit of a result.

Xmas Special : A Christmas nightmare - The one thing that really scares Mrs Angry

I read with sadness that Mrs Angry, the famous Barnet blogger has flu. Here's a specail blog to cheer her up - she may be a famous Barnet blogger and scourge of MetPro group of companies, and has been a fearless campaigner for decency, honesty and common sense in Barnet. You may think that nothing at all scares Mrs Angry. You would be wrong. There are two (and a half) words that can reduce this otherwise fearless champion of the Barnet underclass (ie everyone who isn't a Tory Councillor) to a gibbering wreck. How do I know this? Because those words will have a similar effect on me. Not just me, but a whole generation of Roman Catholics raised in Mill Hill. The words - "Miss O'Donovan".

If ever two people who attended St Vincents School in the 1940's through to the 1970's meet for a drink, at some point this name will come up. A few years ago, their was an advertising campaign where celebrities recalled their favourite teacher and how they influenced them. Is it any coincidence that two out of the famous five bloggers in Barnet studied at the feet of Miss O'Donovan? I was once discussing Dr Who with an ex classmate, who happened to be a Dr Who nut. I jokingly said that Terry Nation was an ex St Vincents pupil and he based the Daleks on Miss O'Donovan. He went strangely quiet and just said "Oh, I should have realised". Throughout all of my schooling I was naughty and constantly in trouble. Except for one year. I would have been six when I was in Miss O'Donovans class. Nobody was ever naughty in Miss O'Donovans class, because retribution was instant and painful. It was also often deeply psychological. There were many teachers during my schooling who were liberal with the cane. It really didn't bother me. With Miss O'Donovan it was always different, if it had just been being hit on the knuckles with the thin edge of the ruler, I could have taken that. It was the psychological build up which really hurt. It was the fact that you'd be called to the front of the class and all your classmates would look on, thankful that it was you not them. Miss O'Donovan believed in equality. Boys and Girls were equally treated. I had a massive disadvantage over most of my classmates, as I was dyslexic. I'd be called to the front of the class to read out words on the blackboard. I'd get them wrong. I'd get the ruler and a ritual humiliation.

But the good news was, like a blast furnace, once you'd been taught as a child by Miss O'Donovan, nothing could scare you. I am sure that at the time, persecution was part of the Catholic education ethos. Prepare the kids for pain, humiliation and martyrdom. I had often thought it strange that both Mrs Angry and myself learned our craft in the class of Miss O'Donovan. As I read her descriptions of the shenanigans of our council, I realise our education was all part of Gods plan. Little did I know that all those years ago, he was steeling us for a challenge that only someone taught through hardship and persecution could maintain. I have this message to Coleman et all. You really haven't got a clue who or what you are dealing with.

I hope Mrs Angry feels better soon and I hope whereever Miss O'Donovan is now, she has a great Xmas.

Mill Hill Music festival day 6 - The Wizard of Oz & Shir

Is it day six of the festival already? My how time flies. Today I had to assist with 2 PA systems at 2 locations.

St Vincents School staged a production of the Wizard of Oz. It was a full house, the kids were superb and the audience went wild. Of course I'm biased, because my son played the wizard, but it was a great show with excellent singing, quality acting and some superb dancing. The sets were terrific and the use of the multi media setup with scenes from the original film as well as interactive use of recorded clips in the play was imaganitive and well executed. The event was sold out. For many of the year 6 kids, it is the last school play and at the end they let their hair down. I'd love to see more schools participate in the Festival. It gives the kids a sense that they are not "just doing another play for mums and dads" and gives the wider community a chance to get to know about their local schools. It also gives ex-pupils and parents a chance to revisit somewhere which played a massive role in their lives.


Having finished clearing up, I hot footed it down to Mill Hill East Free Church for the scond half of the show by Shir, who play Klezmer (traditional Jewish) music. The bad are front by two old friends of mine. Ivor Goldberg, who plays guitar and sings is a long time business associate, running the Rock United music course at our studios. Ivor is an absolute diamond, great with the kids, bring out all sorts of hidden musical talents and inspiring the young people to take music seriously as well as have fun. Maurice, who plays clarinet has been a studio customer for years and his sons visit us most weeks for a jam. He's also a really nice guy and a superb musician. He's also a damn fine sound engineer and was our first paying customer when we set up the recording operation many moons ago. As for the band Shir. They were superb. I will post some clips up, but they had fun, the audience lapped it up and as a sound guy, it was great to work with them. They also appreciated playing to the festival audience, which is a markedly different audience to the one they usually attract. Again we had a great turnout. Perhaps the most satisfying thing (especially for the band) was the number of people who bought CD's of the band. This showed that people loved the music.

With three days to go, the festival has now attracted well over 1,000 people to the various events. I was asked tonight if I was starting to feel tired or jaded by it. Nope, I love it. I'd do it every night of my life if I possibly could, that's why it's midnight and I'm writing this blog, rather than getting tucked up in bed.