It’s Wednesday morning. And Wednesday morning means one thing: maths. And while I struggle with the subject, I’m now at least in a class with my friends. Being in top set English initially put me in top set maths but it was soon clear I was a words rather than numbers person. So I’m now in ‘mixed ability’ which is better than being in the ‘Ostrich Class’ where you’re babysat rather than taught.

The classroom is one of those curious ‘2-in-1’ rooms. Running almost the full length of the block, it has a concertina separator made from sand-coloured flexible vinyl which allows the room to be split in two – thus accommodating separate classes during peak periods, and the flexibility to have one mega room come exam season.

In the corner of one half of the room is a sink. Given that long division doesn’t generally involve getting your hands dirty, we can only conclude that once upon a time this room was used for science or Home Economics. Either way it offers plenty of opportunity for pupils to leave their seats in search of a drink or to wash imaginary pen off their hands. For the teachers, it’s yet another distraction to manage.

Today, the divider has been pulled across, and those children who are sat closest to the divider take it in turns to lean back on their chairs and push the people on the other side – ideally hard enough to fall off their chair. Discretion is key as too much noise will necessitate the march of a teacher down the aisle of tables issuing threats of being sent to see the Deputy Head Teacher or isolation.

The teacher is Mr Anson but we all call him Papa Smurf on account of his white beard. He is kind, interested in us and universally liked and respected. But not to the extent that we wouldn’t muck around. I mean, who wouldn’t muck around when you’ve got a room divider and a sink?

At the far end of the room, to the right of the teacher’s desk is a door which leads you into a small hallway. Turn right out of the door and you’re met with the isolation table which sits at the top of a flight of stairs. Turn left and it’s the Deputy Head’s office. She’s bloody scary, and she’s in. At some point during the lesson she taps on the door to speak with Mr Anson. As he leaves, he offers a gentle instruction to ‘carry on with your worksheets – I’ll know if you’re mucking about’. And know he will, because we are about to make music.

Despite 90% of the class not receiving any formal music tuition outside of school, we are a very musical bunch. Lessons begin with the boys sharing football chants that combine classical music with the language of the terraces. Or we may decide upon a group recital of the ‘Allo ‘Allo theme tune or go all dancefloor with Move Any Mountain. The few children who actually play piano and violin are treated with a mixture of envy and suspicion (who has that kind of money?) and besides, we won’t be needing their talents for what is about to happen.

The door clicks shut and from somewhere in the room a gentle rhythmic thud of a fist on a table begins; ‘duff-duff-duff-duff’. It is 20 years before the advent of the White Stripes and we are creating the basis for Seven Nation Army. In place of a hi-hat, a friend has made a break for the sink where a flip of the towel dispenser lid offers a pleasing metallic clash.

With backbeat and percussion established, out come a series of rulers – one or two offering simple dry ‘boings’ in time with the thudding before a virtuoso rises from the crowd playing up and down their ruler. By sliding the shatterproof along the lip of the table they create a sound akin to a Mouth Harp. It’s beautiful, and we’re primed to sing along. But what shall we sing?

Given there isn’t time to compose a set of lyrics, and there’s definitely no precedence for this song as a football chant, a solution is found with a gentle calling from someone on the left-hand side of the classroom:

‘Olay-eh-oh’

This opening line is responded to by a soft croon from the other side:

‘Olay-ee-oh’

This is it. This is our song. With a call and response established and two clear sides to the classroom; we know what we must do:

‘Olay-eh-oh’

‘Olay-ee-oh’

‘OLAY-EH-OH’

‘OLAY-EE-OH’

‘OLAY-EH-OH’

‘OLAY-EEEEE-OH’!!!!

We are swept up in a whirlwind of song, voices united in harmony, the initial solo thud on the table joined by dozens of fists and hands slapping their textbooks, the towel dispenser banging, rulers close to snapping and…

‘WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?!’

The voice appears to be in stereo. We can see Mr Anson but how is he shouting from both the back and front of the room? Our answer is the divider which has been parted to reveal a furious Head of Department whose class is roaring wildly at the absolute chutzpah of our performance.

We are all in so much trouble. We are all getting a detention. We all agree it was totally worth it.

******

This is an extract from my current work in progress: Absolute Scenes. A book that will aim to capture what it was like to grow up on a council estate in the ’80 and reclaim and reflect some of the joy of working-class culture.

All scenes are based on real events that took place in my life. Names and some of the details are changed to protect the identities of those who really *don’t* want to be identifiable in the recollections of someone with a history of sharing too much information.

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<Featured image credit: Photo by Joshua Hoehne on Unsplash>