Drop ten, turn and Face.’ Quilty’s Football Yarns 30 Study and travel.

‘Drop ten, turn and Face.’ 

Quilty’s Football Yarns 30

Study and travel.

Returning home to London after six months on Kibbutz in 1977 was difficult. Not least because I realised it would be tough to become what I had set my heart on. Becoming a teacher. Walking out of Parmiter’s in early in 71’ with Billy Lee had meant I had booked a future price to pay. I had to take a few steps backwards to go forward to finish my education. My cousin Kim had done teacher training up at Tottenham Teaching College, so she arranged an interview for me with the Dean. I reasoned that my seven years of work experience might get me some consideration. I was bitterly disappointed. The best they could say was,

 “Get one A Level and we will make you an offer”

My response was to say “If I study, I won’t get one, I’ll actually get three A Level’s and won’t be training here!” And so it was. I left Tottenham Teaching College that afternoon with the fire of intention burning fiercely in my heart.

Immediately I went to enrol at Hackney College, Stoke Newington Campus. At school I’d actually started A Levels with English being my favourite. However, at 23 my interests had shifted and I went with Economics, History and Political Science. 

Sometimes in life you tell a little white lie to make things a bit more straightforward. This was the case when I told mum I was going to train for teaching. It was complicated. I needed two years for A Levels, three years for an Honours Degree and a year Post Graduate study. Six years all up. In the event I was training to be a teacher for six years. Simple. I just said it was a six year course. Not everyone has such supportive parents. Whether going away to travel or stopping work to study, at that time, you were doing a less than typical thing. I always said the fact that 95% were content to do the regular thing allowed a few to be irresponsible and swim against the tide. After my Tottenham Teaching College experience, Hackney College provided me with a great platform for my re-entry into education. Della Bishop for Politics, Lawrie Patterson for History and Frank Moore for Economics all challenged me in different ways. Della through discussion, Lawrie through story-telling and Frank through analysis. Between them they awoke me to ideas, helped build a framework for understanding and most importantly gave me my passport to eventually head up to Leeds University for four years in the cold harsh north.

Early in the summer of 78’, after my first years study I set off again back to Israel with three mates. Gary Collins, Johnny Colbert and Steve Pearce. We going back to Tel Katzir for four months. To say that I had missed the Kibbutz was an understatement. To me the Israeli Kibbutzniks came across as abrupt group. They were very straight and told things with no frills. We worked and played hard. That said it was probably the life experience that taught us all how to stand still and reflect. Being out of our normal societal loop we rarely carried or needed money. Food was literally a smorgasbord every day exposing us to tastes and combinations we’d rarely seen previously. Because our months often raced by the good and bad were usually accentuated. Almost to a person there, we realised how lucky and privileged we were to experience Kibbutz life. Taking three other boys from East London was a bit of a risk. Settling into the communal way of life it entailed, wasn’t easy but Gary and Johnny got stuck into the physical banana work immediately. Unfortunately, young Stevie Pearce found things a lot harder. He was probably homesick, struggling with a new culture and became mentally very defensive, being surrounded by so many foreigners. At the time there a large group of American students on Tel Katzir doing ‘Ulpan’ a mixture of cultural exchange and study. Gary did what he always did. He found ways to entertain himself often at the expense of the American students we were working with, tormenting them non-stop. Johnny just went with the flow and I think he had a good time. One night the other three had gone to prank the Americans who were sleeping in the bomb shelter. Storming in with flour and stuff they were out to wake them up making a mess. Not the best thing to be doing in the middle of the night on a border Kibbutz! They were followed down the stairs by armed security guards who must have close to doing something serious hearing the commotion. A close call.

The way things worked on Kibbutz was that you worked for six days a week and accumulated an extra day off which could be used for a week’s travel. Israel is a small but very diverse country. We were in Galilee near the Golan Heights. Just an hour’s drive north, was the Lebanese border.  Just five kilometres north east was the triple border between Syria, Jordan and Israel. The capital Jerusalem was two hours due south through the Jordan Valley, Nazareth due west and Bethlehem and the Dead Sea just a bit on from Jerusalem. 

The Old City of Jerusalem is a wonderful place. It is a walled city steeped in history and when you enter it, it is like going back in time. Safe to say it is my favourite City in the world. The ‘Via Dolorosa’ is a route famous for its 14 ‘stations’ but many would not realise how steep the incline is up to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The name ‘Via Dolorosa’ means ‘Way of Sorrow’ and it is a street believed to be the path walked by Jesus on his way to the cross. The city is so mesmerising that on one occasion I wandered alone for a few days on my own. The next morning I awoke to see massed crowds on the streets. Puzzled I asked someone what was going on. “It’s Easter” they replied. I’d been away from London a while and completely lost track of time and dates. That year was the one where a new Pope had been elected but had quickly died. I was in Jerusalem while the Catholic’s were choosing a replacement in Rome and the faithful were abuzz.  We often stayed in the old city and my favourite place was the Lutheran Hostel in a building probably over a thousand years old. The hostel itself had men’s and women’s quarters. One night while sleeping in one of the top bunks I had a nightmare and jumped across toward an alcove window in the wall. My neighbour sleeping in the bed below shone his light on me as I squatted in the alcove. When he asked what happened I just said, “The bed was chasing me”.

This wasn’t the only animated dream I had in Israel. On Tel Katzir I always worried about the way people drove the tractors at speed around Kibbutz. Crazy Israeli drivers! I worried that the young kids would get hurt. On this night I was sharing a room with two other volunteers. In my dream some young children were in the way of a vehicle that was backing up toward them. Instinctively I moved to push them out of the way of danger. In reality, I had jumped up out of bed, lifted a coffee table full of bottles, after shave and chocolate, and thrown it across the room. With a crash, it bounced on the tiled floor, broke into two and hit my unsuspecting mate’s bed. My other room-mate had quickly jumped up and grabbed me as I waded through the floor of broken glass and after the table. After I awoke and everything had calmed down, I looked at the coffee table and knew in my woken state I could not have even lifted it, let alone throw it! Strangely enough no one came to see what had gone on. It could have been terrorists or whatever. We always joked that the British volunteers slept with their passports under their pillows. They obviously had faith that attackers would do a document check before proceeding!

Eventually it was time to return to London for the second year of my A Level study. The boys had gone off a bit earlier to travel across Europe before heading home as well. Another time had passed on Tel Katzir. I was leaving but knew I’d be returning again one day.

Drop Ten, turn and face 31

‘Drop ten, turn and face.’ 

Quilty’s Football Yarns 31

Home then Away

It’s always nice when the results of a plan start to fall into place. Returning to London from Tel Katzir I got my head down and began to make some real headway around study at Hackney College. One of the things that made things a bit easier to live, was getting some part-time work at the Finsbury Leisure Centre not far from Old St in Islington. Gary and I frequented the centre to play squash and badminton. Thus, one day when leaving after a session we spotted an advert on the wall for ‘Leisure Centre Assistants (2)’. Neither of us wanted or needed a full-time role but occasional shifts would suit us. An interview was required but how could we make sure of getting the job? ‘That Gary’ knew! We’d go right around the building and take down all the job posters that been put up. Easy! We would be the only applicants, and so we were. ‘That Gary’ had always had good ideas, ever since we were kids. One time we were outside Dalston Bus garage and he had the idea of going in to torment the workers. Leading the way, he went onto a parked bus and started ringing the bell until one of the mechanics came to see what was going on. A fleet footed Gary ran back off the bus, before he could get caught, mocking as he went. Outside on the street he said,

”That’s how it is done. Who’s next?” The unfortunate Peter Levick was next up and reluctantly crept back towards the parked bus in the garage. There he was doing as Gary had done. Ding ding ding the bell rang out. All seemed so simple. Then suddenly, whoosh! The electric doors on the bus closed. Peter was trapped inside. ‘That Gary’ had turned the emergency switch to lock him inside. If that wasn’t bad enough he started to call out,

”Mister, mister, he’s inside your bus!” 

The annoyed mechanic quickly appeared, opened the door, cuffed Peter and threw him off the bus. Knowing how ‘That Gary’ could be, always made me wary. Alert but not alarmed, we started our jobs at the Finsbury Leisure Centre. We had some good laughs looking after the equipment, doing some clean up and working in the bar. Eventually I got into taking activities for the Holiday play groups which was all experience towards teaching, I was now almost through my first two years of study with four to go. 

What came next for me, was to head off to have some interviews at UK Universities. In England most students at the time would leave their home-town and go away to study. My choice was between Leeds, Newcastle, Warwick, Sheffield and Swansea. I actually went up to visit Newcastle which seemed friendly but my first choice was Leeds. Having a cousin of my mum up there, Audrey Bennett, I stayed over-night with her family. They lived in the Leeds suburb of Scott Hall which had the notorious unsolved problem of the ‘Yorkshire Ripper’ around this time. The welcome from Audrey could not have been more kind. She had a big family of her own but also had several others staying there. No sooner had I sat down in the armchair when she plonked a full roast dinner onto my lap! Making me feel very welcome. The interview at Leeds University went well and they made me a ‘gettable’ offer. All I had to do was pass my ‘A’ Levels well and I would have a place studying Economics History and Politics in mid-September.

Back in 1979 the proportion of people going to University in the UK was no more than 3-4%. In my family I was one of the first to consider it. Where we lived in Hackney was low, in socio-economic terms, not many went on to higher study, but I had a plan to carry through. My mate and neighbour, David Bass, Bert’s son, had a much more difficult task than me. Relating his story from what I remember, he wanted to be a medical doctor. If that wasn’t difficult enough, he actually went to a school called Shoreditch, with little history of anyone taking, let alone getting A levels! He took a few but didn’t get the grades first time so did them again. In applying for medicine he had been promised a letter of recommendation but it got lost and he was rejected by Medical school. Unperturbed, he decided to do a 3 year Physiology degree, before applying again. He then applied again but got rejected. The interviewers informing him that in medicine they didn’t like students with science degrees starting medicine! Unperturbed, he decided to start a nursing degree to gain experience. After several years David applied one more time but got rejected again. Despondent he put in a last-ditch attempt through the ‘offers clearing system’. I’m not sure of the exact detail but the person behind the interview desk just happened to be the Consultant who had written the original ‘letter of recommendation’ eight years previously! He was finally ‘in’ to study medicine. It had taken years of persistence and amazing resilience. Dr David Bass has recently retired after over thirty odd years of being a partner in his own Medical Practice. Well done David!

As my study at Hackney College came to an end, I applied for and was accepted to go to Camp America for twelve weeks before going up to Leeds. Camp would be another opportunity to work with children. The camp I was assigned to was Camp Delaware in Connecticut. Around this time I was also to meet my future wife Terrie Cassidy. 

Paul Mordecai and I had been to the Spooky Lady’ club over near Hackney Marshes. It was on the future site of the London Olympic Stadium. Leaving to go home in Paul’s dad’s Green Jag, we noticed two young girls waving us down. Apparently, they hoped we may have been a mini cab. They were at the time being harassed by some blokes in a van. After a quick conversation we agreed to drive them away toward Hackney. Co-incidentally, Cathy, Terries friend, lived just around the corner to my mum. At the house in Malvern Road, there was a celebration going on. Cathy’s brother’s wife, had just given birth that evening. We all sat talking until daylight. Terrie and I later had a date before I went off to Leeds but after returning from camp in America. She reminds me that one weekend, when I returned to London, I called hoping for another date. She told me she was actually going out with friends to a party, but I could come along. So I did. Not long after we had our first official date on December 1st.1979. We went to Steven Marsh’s wedding to his wife June, up at University College, Gower St,  Bloomsbury in London. 

Camp had been a great experience. The camp was up at Winsted Connecticut. The kids who attended this sleepaway camp were predominantly Jewish and came from the New York suburbs. Camp was a great tradition on this side of America. Originally it had been a means of getting poor Jewish kids away from the city but over time had been commercialised and was really quite expensive, especially when multiple family members would go. I flew into NYC with a big group of British and European counsellors. We stayed in a rough old Hotel down near 42nd street for a night before bussing up to Winsted with the campers. Camp lasted eight weeks in all and the deal was that counsellors could travel for a month after camp before heading home. Not surprisingly it was a very different culture for me but having stayed and worked away previously, I soon fitted in. I was assigned to a group looking after 30 ‘five and six year old’s’, along with four other counsellors and a ‘group leader’. It was a surprise then, when after just one week, I was placed in charge of the bunk because the leader Fred Tannenbaum had to go home. The British and European counsellors were usually sports specialist’s and although I did take football, as a leader, I worked with the General counsellors taking our kids from activity to activity. A tradition on camp was a thing called ‘Colour War’ an eternal battle between the Blue and White teams, in the last week of camp. Leaders were elected of the tribes and generational rivalries pivoted on the ‘contest’ between the two groups. Colour War was speculated upon continually. Fake outs occurring to psyche out the whole camp. Leaflets were showered from a plane onto camp declaring ‘Fake out’ and later a group of people riding horses stormed through the camp. Personally, I believed that ‘Colour War’ had the potential to wreck friendships made in the past seven weeks. So concerned was I, that at the Group Leaders meeting I stood up and explained why I thought it would be would be so bad. Everyone, including Lou Adler, the Camp boss, nodded understandingly as this Brit put his case. It was decided there would be no colour war in 79’. It was a big surprise to me then, when Colour War broke out the next evening! Everyone had been distracted by a group of green aliens on a bunk roof. Then, right on cue, a truck pulled up displaying in bright lights the words ‘COLOUR WAR 79’. What did I know?  In reality, Colour War was a control devise to keep the kids in line. Points were awarded for everything. The Americans took their roles super seriously. Life-long memories were being made, reputations  forged, ensuring the campers would return again the following year. And they did. Every year. Some parents explained that if their child didn’t go to the camp, they would be left home in an empty neighbourhood. Teenage boy campers worked as waiters in the dining room while teenage girls were ‘Junior counsellors’. It was like a well-oiled machine. When we finished Camp seven of us hired a big shooting wagon and made our way down to Florida. We visited several University towns on the way. Uni of Pennsylvania, Yale and Emory in Atlanta. Driving a car with New York plates was a hindrance especially driving south. In South Carolina we got done for speeding by a motor-bike cop. He insisted we followed him off the highway to a small own to meet the ‘Magistrate’. The conversation went something like this.

Magistrate: (A small fat bloke with no tie) You were driving 65 in a 55 zone. You need to pay a $120 fine to the municipality”

Our Guilty Driver: “What happens if we don’t pay?” (The rest of us taking photos)

Magistrate: “In that case you will spend the night in the lock-up”.

All of Us: Great we will all spend the night!

Magistrate: “In that case you will pay tomorrow morning”. 

Tiring of the game we all pooled together to make up the $120 fine which we handed over. Immediately, the Magistrate looked at the motor-bike cop and promptly put the money in his pocket.

“Do we get a receipt for that”, we asked as one.

“No” said the Magistrate.

It was later explained that this was a regular local rort to revenue raise from the New Yorkers who drove through going South to Florida. 

We never actually made it to Miami. Hurricane David caught us in Northern Florida on a camp site. We had a choice to stay and bunker-down, on site, or run. By four votes to three we voted to run and set off for Savanah. We stayed one night with the aunt of one of the blokes we were traveling with, then made our way across to Atlanta. At Emory University we experienced some comical Southern pride. The students wore tee shirts which said, ‘Yale the Emory of the North’. As fate would have it I got my A level results whilst on Camp. David Bass rang me from London, at a Winsted telephone box and gave me the news. Talk about performance anxiety, there was quite a crowd listening. It turned out well, I'd got what I needed.

Our after-camp trip had been great but for me it was now time to return home to London, so that I could move up to Leeds and begin the next phase of my study quest.