Mr Sheilds
Mr Shields was ace. I went to a boys' grammar school, where our reputation rested upon academic achievement and a good rugby team. I fitted into neither category.

I was hopeless at sport but Mr Shields, a sinewy, ex-army PT instructor, with a fine 118-118 moustache, rated enthusiasm above ability. He didn't care if you didn't win the race, as long as you tried. He encouraged teamwork as well as competition.

But he could be a bastard sometimes.

Our pool changing rooms had metal benches, secured by heating pipes that ran to the ceiling. The heating was never turned on and Shields would make sure that the door to the changing room, which led directly outside, was always open. Being a tad nervous at 11 or 12, we were all a little bit weird about getting our kit off in front of our mates, so changing was a bit slow. Mr Shields would walk around the changing rooms with a baseball bat. If you weren't getting changed fast enough he would twat the bat against the pipe just an inch from your head. That hurried things along a bit.

He would come up with ingenious games to build up character (i.e. hurt you). One of his favourites was to have you in the upright press up position, arms stretched. He would be in the same position facing you. The aim of the game was to topple your opponent by trying to knock his arm away from under him with one hand whilst still staying in that position. Shields was made of iron; not even the strongest kid could topple him over and we all got bruised arms from him doing it to us.

He was a top bloke though but left after my second year, to be replaced by a rugby-obsessed dickhead who hated anyone that didn't like sport, i.e. me and my mates who spent the rest of our grammar school lives coming up with new and ingenious illnesses to get out of it.
(Ghostlight, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:11, Reply)