Monkeys and Parrots 3

The centre of my existence for quite a long time at school was a small room in one of the classroom blocks. I had an interest in model aeroplanes at the time, and I and a group of like-minded nerds asked the head if we could have an aeromodelling club at school. He agreed, and actually gave us our little room. We proposed to use it, so we said, for building models, and we were allowed to go there at lunchtimes.
In fact, we did no model building there at all. We brought half-built models in from home and left them around. We even put on a special exhibition of our work one day, which gained us considerable, and much needed brownie points, even though not one stick of what we exhibited had originated in school. No, the modelry was where we spent all our time nattering and laughing, indulging, as teenagers always have done, in what one of my friends always called “erotic parlance”. The room was always known as “The Modelry” and was effectively our common room, a sort of disreputable alternative to the prefects’ room, of which, needless, to say, I was never a member. The de facto leader of our band of brigands was a very big boy always known as “Boris” (His name was actually David, but not many people knew it -- teachers always used surnames in those days anyway) At fourteen Boris was six feet four inches tall and weighed fourteen stone - a good lad to be friends with. He was an expert builder of model planes, a good cyclist, and competent pianist and was very, very funny. He was also, in his spare time, a flight sergeant in the Air Training Corps. His descriptions, with sound effects and facial grimaces, of the conduct and habits of the young louts he took to annual camp had us in stitches.
Tragically, and short-sightedly, the school establishment didn’t rate him at all, because, well, he didn’t fit the mould. Even his leadership of the model club, with the exhibition which he organised, was looked on with patronising amusement. Of his Air Cadet activities the school knew nothing, yet he'd gathered lots of serious qualifications as a Cadet. He was one of the few to become a cadet senior NCO, so it was clear the Corps respected him and gave him responsibility. Yet he was a thorn in the flesh of his teachers and left school before taking any exams. Why did they let that happen? Eventually, he went into the Royal Air Force where he became an Air Electronics Officer, flying with the “V” Force of advanced jet bombers, Victor, Valiant and Vulcan, that carried our nuclear deterrent. He'd simply got his education elsewhere, in a different way.
So the years passed, and in no time we were sixteen, ready to go into the sixth form. Our form members knew each other very well by then, and we were, by modern standards, young men and women. The implications of that, however, will have to wait till next time.


The story of Boris will be recognisable to many. The student who's rebellious at school but has a different sort of life outside -- in sport, maybe, or a band, or a cheerleader group. Fortunately Boris's outside life led directly and seamlessly to a worthwhile technical career. These days, I suppose -- I hope -- that a school would know about Boris's ATC life, would celebrate it, and add it to his portfolio in some way.