- Contributed by
- People in story:
- Raymond John Lawrence
- Location of story:
- Neasden, North London
- Background to story:
- Article ID:
- Contributed on:
- 20 October 2005
When I ranged my talents against the brains and brawn of my world, I realised my expectations were likely to be limited but I was none the less ecstatic when the door of Kilburn Grammar finally closed behind me and I cannot describe to you the orgasmic relief of my escape.
In passing, when Gerry and I made our 'sixty years on' visit to our old haunts, we looked in on the hallowed structure that was Kilburn Grammar School. Picture it, if you can, as it was: Formidable Masters in black flowing gowns. Everyone called by their surnames, “Brown, do this!” “Henderson, do that!” and the like. When I first arrived, ‘fagging’ was still practised but soon discontinued. In those days it was beyond belief, that years later but still within living memory, pupils would call Masters by their Christian names.
Let us mention the ‘School Song’, sung every morning after prayers and before the public beating of the odd outrageous offender. The tune I can't convey but listen to the words of yesteryear -
“Kilburn Grammarians, muster your forces
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