T
HE school I used to go to closed its doors for good in July, so I went back for the last-ever old boys' reunion.
As an academic seat of learning it was in a sorry state all round, sinking so low in the educational league that it was in danger of falling off the bottom of the Oftsed table. Aesthetically, the building was somewhere between 'tatty' and 'squatter camp'. In fact, it was so squalid and useless that next month the bulldozers come in to knock the place down before it can fall on top of anyone.
I mooched around with three of my oldest pals and stood defiantly on the school lawn in full view of the headmaster (a brazen act which used to be strictly forbidden and punishable by instant death), reminiscing
about the old days and watching the rats chasing each other around the bike sheds.
We also bumped into our former science teacher, a man who made Stalin look like a reasonable human being. This was a person who delighted in using my head for blackboard rubber target practice on a day-to-day basis and, by rights, should now be on trial in the Hague.
But instead there he was, as free as a bird, shaking me by the hand and calling me by my Christian name. The whole day was surreal. No one shouted at me. No one criticised my grammar. No one put my head down the toilet and flushed it. Plus, we were allowed beer.
They say school days are the happiest of your life, but, honestly, mine were about as much fun as gum disease. I've been giving this a lot of thought recently and I've decided that it would have been a lot better if my parents had sent me to Rydell High School instead, the location of the hit movie musical Grease.
Just think of the fabulous benefits: singing; dancing; general frivolity; big quiffs; cool cars; warm weather. a lack of institutionalised brutality; access to the 'Shake Shack'; Olivia Newton- John; and access to Olivia Newton-John in the 'Shake Shack'.
At my school, there were none of these things - apart from the quiffs. So give me Rydell High any day of the week. Harewood House is showing Grease this month as a drive-in movie: a great idea if the weather behaves itself. I like the film, but find it strange that it regularly tops the charts of the Best Movie Musicals Ever Made (look, it's good, but it's no Paint Your Wagon).
For starters, there's John Travolta who, we are asked to believe, has just turned 18, despite clearly being at least 36. His legs appear to be made out of pipecleaners, and is that eyeliner he's wearing?
Also - and I don't care what anyone says - John should on no account be encouraged to sing in the upper register (Exhibit A: 'Sandy'.) He sounds like Kermit the Frog on helium.
Then there is the 'plot', which goes something like this: prim college girl Olivia Newton-John is the one that swivel-hipped teen John Travolta wants. Which is lucky, because she's hopelessly devoted to him. But their young romance doesn't go like greased lightning, because of those summer nights. Then she becomes a *** and they drive off in a flying car. The end.
And yet, Grease works beautifully. Perhaps it's the music. Perhaps it's the attention to period detail. Perhaps it's Olivia Newton-John in slutty satin leggings. Whatever the reason, you always feel better when it's over.
A bit like a school reunion.