We Had a Woodwork Teacher called him "Bulldog" Leese
If he could not get class attention, throw a chisel hard,
Hit the back wall cupboard, like a dagger stuck and jarred.
All the class it stood and quivered dare not cross his path,
The respect was thrust upon you, dare not stir his wrath,
After our formative year at the small village school, it came as a shock to mix with such huge groups of kids, (over 600) a big proportion town kids, some showing aggression to us village kids.
But we soon realised that they could only do that when they out numbered us, and one good BOOO at them was enough to stand them back..
We had always been used to working in school in one classroom, but here we all had to up sticks and move round to specialist classrooms that dealt with a particular subject. The classes I liked most were the woodwork and metalwork classes, although the two teachers could not have been more different.
Harry Nuttall was the metalwork teacher, he always seemed to me to be a bit short sighted as he wore heavy thick lens glasses, and a brown smock, he showed us how to mark out with a scribe in sheet metal, the first thing to make was a round washer and a square washer, going along the scribe marks with the centre punch making a row of small dots to file the metal down to the size marked. Then we made a fire poker with a loop top to hang it up, progressing on to a brass toasting fork, and on to make a fancy bowl out of copper, first rubbing it with soap the heating it to soften it until the soap went black, more heat and it would melt. Next we hammered it with a planishing hammer on a leather cushion full of sand, gently hammering round and round and starting to hollow the centre. Rub with soap again and soften it again, repeating until it was rely hollowed out. Then we cut a bit of round brass rod and formed it into a circle and soldered it in the bottom so it would stand firm, and the same again round the top edge and the finished thing was buffed up and highly polished on an electric mop.
Mr Leese was the woodwork teacher, and because he wore a permanent scowl we called him Bulldog Leese. He showed us how to use a set square and scribe and how to saw a piece of wood following the pencil marks. Not being used to sharp saws we had the habit of putting pressure on the blade as you worked like cutting logs at home, but with his saws we were told in no uncertain terms that the weight of the saw was all that was needed. We learned how to make all the popular joint and dovetails and to match one lump of wood to fit exactly into the other then glue to make a firm elbow.
Some kids just could not get the idea of sawing straight, and Bulldog would not let them progress until they could. The same when using the plane, to keep it flat on the timber right to the end, and not let it tip as it went over the far end. Chisels of all sizes (he had twenty of every tool needed in woodwork lessons), these were kept in tall cupboards at the back of the class room hanging in rows on the inside of the doors.
Mortas and tenan joints were carved out with chisels so sharp and almost too dangerous for kids to use. Again there was always one or two who just could not do the job no matter how they tried, and this wound him up into such a rage. In fact to impress on us who was boss and who we had got to listen to he threw a chisel from where he stood at the front of the class, at the cupboard on the back wall in his frustration so hard it jarred like a dagger in the door. Nowadays he would have been dragged in front of the courts and suspended on full pay indefinably, but it was his way of making sure we listened.
At the ‘big' school we had metal work and woodwork these were our favourite lessons. You learnt very quickly with Bulldog Leese
We Had a Woodwork Teacher (1950 ish)
We had a woodwork teacher, we called him Bulldog Leese,
Had stern face and bad temper, no one dare to tease,
If he could not get class attention, throw a chisel hard,
Hit the back wall cupboard, like a dagger stuck and jarred.
All the class it stood and quivered dare not cross his path,
The respect was thrust upon you, dare not stir his wrath,
No one liked his lessons, even those who could push a plane,
Perfection in this man and all his tools, but he was a bloody pain.
Countryman
Austin's service busses ran from Woodseaves via Seighford to Stafford and took us kids to the BIG school in 1950's. We (our village) were on the westerly route out of town, it was this same bus company that ran a service to the southerly route of the county town.
6.00 pm was the last bus for anyone working in town to get home on that southerly route, so it was always full to bursting, in fact the police one night noticed how badly that double decker was sagging in its springs and on the corners listed and leaned over with the weight. So on top of Billington bank, after the bus had struggled up to the top the police pounced and inspected its load. The bus supposed to carry fifty two seated, when the police unloaded the bus they had counted one hundred and ten. This was widely reported in all the papers and the bus company fined for over loading. It became a rule that they could put as many as they can cram on, on the bottom deck, and seated only up top.
If you look at the normal London double decker bus, the top deck has an isle down the centre, with six foot headroom, but these worn out utility type of bus had been built specially for a bus company up north where they had some bridges that would not take the full height bus. They were a good foot and a half lower, this was achieved by putting in a sunken isle along one side of the upper deck, the long bench type seats to take four people which had to be reached by ducking low along the seat, on sitting down there was just enough headroom to be comfortable. On the deck below the person who sat under this side isle had it almost touching their head. Our local bus company had bought a few of these worn out busses second hand, so you can see why they were so unstable, all the upper deck was loaded to the left hand side, and driving on the left as we do , the country roads always had a fair camber to the left. Going round some of the right hand corners with a left hand camber and a left hand load it looked a bit scary, as the bus buried its rear left wheel well up into its wheel arch. Don't think they had invented anti-roll bar in them days.
Our gang from Seighford always sat at the front upstairs and aggravated the driver by banging our feet on the floor above his head. Some drivers took no notice but
Tommy M. our regular driver at that time, got very annoyed, and on our route home, he ran the bus onto the grass verge and under some low over hanging branches of a tree. These buses running the rural route had dents in the top front panels anyway, so a few more made no difference. Playing about as we did and banging the floor, and not looking where we were going it came as a terrible shock to us as the twigs and light braches crashed the font windows at full speed. It did settle us down for a week or two, as we watched where we were going to be ready next time he pulled that trick.
However the stamping on the floor began again, and out in the country on a down hill slope he jammed on his brakes , jumped out of his cab, round to the back of his bus and came upstairs two at a time and faced us in a very agitated threatening manor. Of course we sat very innocently, but were trapped where we sat, as he stood shaking with rage in the sunken passage of the upper deck. Tommy was normally quite jovial type of chap with a terrible sssssstuter, and would take quite a time to get out of his mouth what he had got to say. But on this occasion, he was a different man, all his cursing language came flooding out loud and clear for all to hear, and not a stutter to be heard. The rest of the journey home he drove very erratically, and we paid full attention trying to anticipate which way to lean on the corners, so as not to be chucked about.
A couple of years on and Tommy got another job, it was with our threshing contractor as a mate to the driver of the threshing set. His stutter had not improved at all, and he often recalled the times of when we aggravated him on his bus. Who knows he may have been bated by other lads on other routes, but he got fed up and found another job.
Tommy the School Bus Driver
Each day we travelled off to the big school,
Caught the bus at a stop by the farm as a rule,
It was a service bus, tired old double Decker,
Second hand, and looked like an old wrecker.
We all had passes, and didn't have to pay,
Supposed to show, them every day,
Inspector shows up, every now and then,
Lost our passes, and out with his pen.
Threaten to put us off, going in to school,
Were very pleased, but pretend it's cruel,
A different matter, on the way home,
Delaying tactics, till a pass I loan.
On the upper deck, right at the front,
Our gang filled seats, swayed with the movement,
We stamped our feet, bov the drivers head,
Then looked out the window, at what's coming ahead.
Driver took bus, along the grass verge,
And under low branch, of a tree with a surge,
It rattled the front window, and roof of the bus,
We dived for cover, under the seats he's reckless.
For quite a few weeks, with that driver on,
It was quiet up top, till thought we'd test this moron,
Stamping again, over his head,
He put the brakes, on and stopped it dead.
Tommy the driver, got out of his cab,
Shot round the back, hand rail did grab,
Off up the stairs, and up to the front,
Shouted and shouted, he was most blunt.
Tommy had got, a most terrible s-s-s-stutter,
He blinked his eyes, and looked down to the gutter,
Eventually his words, came out with a rush,
Had to listen carefully, when he was in full flush.
On this afternoon, on the way home,
In his anger he forgot, all about his syndrome,
His words came out, flooding and direct,
His words were perfect, no stutter detect.
We thought we had cured him, a relief it was,
To this poor mans stutter, we had the cause,
When he had calmed down, on the next day,
His stutter was back, and he was okay.
Some times as a stunt, he would drive past our farm,
Make us walk back, to cause us alarm,
But we didn't mind, some old lady we'd find,
Had got to walk back, drivers name she maligned.
Got to know Tommy, good driver he was,
Always waved and piped, on way by in his bus,
He never did get rid, of his terrible stutter,
Was how he's made when, he wanted to chatter.
Countryman
Knowledge and timber shouldn't be much used till they are seasoned.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.