I don't know about anybody else, but I never found any of the teachers - apart from Miss Kendall - to be exactly inspiring.  It was not a common occurrence to witness them come bounding into the room, all fired up with enthusiasm and ready to motivate our young minds by greeting us with a smile, putting soul into every lesson.  To be candid, they were not exactly effective role models, were they?  Henry Ford once said, "All Fords are exactly alike, but no two men are just alike.  Every new life is a new thing under the sun.  There has never been anything just like it before, and never will be again.  A young man ought to get that idea about himself.  He should look for the single spark of individuality that makes him different from other folks, and develop that for all he is worth.  Society and schools may try to iron it out of him.  Their tendency is to put it all in the same mould, but I say don't let that spark be lost.  It is the spark that will put force and sincerity into your life.  It is your only real claim to importance."  But let's face it, Henry Ford wasn't a teacher at Downer Grammar School, was he? And more to the point, none of the teachers at our school were ever likely to take any advice from Henry Ford.  What the hell does he know anyway?  Take Bigger, the metalwork teacher, for instance.  There was always something a little bizarre about him, wasn't there?  Remember how instead of hair and skin and bone he was made up of a writhing mass of flame-coloured, flesh-eating maggots? Remember his long brick-red tongue and sharp spiked blood-red ears? And remember how his hair would quite often burst into flames in the middle of class?

For the benefit of the girls I should explain that we used to have to drill holes through bits of metal - I never knew why - and then cut pieces off at certain angles.  And when you fucked up, as I always did, he used to pick the bit of metal up, take a long, slow look at it, inspect me with his chrome-yellow eyes and say in a voice that sounde like a chain-saw cutting a car in half, "Explain to me how your mind works, Wiggins."  I hated that bastard.  And I was very intimidated by him (I probably still would be now).  And because I was scared of him, it would piss me off.  And so I'd get cocky.  "Well, Mr. Bigger, the mind is the seat of consciousness, thought, feeling and will.  The intellect, opinion, desire and purpose are all to be found ....."  "Wiggins! Detention!" And I'd notice that the bit of metal would be blackened and smouldering where he'd been holding it.   Bigger the Bugger we called him, didn't we? He had an aura that extended about six feet in all directions, and he could walk slowly across the playground without a ball or anything else coming anywhere near.  Balls that were heading right for him had been known to stop in mid air and drop to the ground, ruptured beyong repair.

I thought I'd have a go at him one day. Someone had to. So as he passed, I placed a football on the ground, determined to boot it right into the small of his back. I started my run-up thinking, "I've got you now, you bastard," just as his hair burst into flames.  He stopped, turned and looked right at me with those moonless eyes.  A putrid vapour was oozing out of his nostrils and there was the pungent stench of death and decay in the air.  I could taste pennies in my mouth and noticed molten metal dripping from his fingers onto the concrete.  A bat took wing across the playground.  He turned and walked on just as my ball burst into spomtaneous combustion.  Over five years, Bigger only bothered to write in my Report Book four times.  In February 1968 he wrote, "Needs to sort himself out and get down to some work."  In July 1968 he wrote, "Needs to show a little more effort".  In July 1969 he encouraged my parents with, "His effort and attitude to work is very poor indeed." And in February 1971 he was extremely enlightening with, "Does no work at all if he can help it."  Bigger and I were never destined to be soul mates.  Bigger the Bugger?  Bigger the complete and utter arsehole, more like.  I wonder whatever became of him.

This has obviously been eating away at you for some time Karl!  If it helps, you weren't the only one to feel that way about Bigger.  He once gave me great encouragement when he wrote in my report book "Only fair".  I ask you, how can you be only fair; surely you're fair or you're not?  But perhaps his most honest assessment came in February 1970 when he observed that "This subject is completely beyond him". How true and did I care!  If anyone thinks Karl is exaggerating I can assure you that every word he writes is true. We thought we were pretty tough in our year, but believe me, we didn't mess with Bigger!

Thanks for that vote of support Brian.  I'm glad I wasn't the only one.  I agree with you.  How can you possibly be only fair. The word only (like the word just) doesn't do reasonable service to any word that follows it. Someone phoning you up and saying, "It's only me," or, "It's just me," is immediately negating their importance in your life.  But being a metalwork engineer, and thus working to high forms of precision, perhaps to Bigger you were only fair. Other pupils may well have been only good, or just excellent, or only just verging on useless.  To me, Bigger was only a horror movie come to life.  I'd be interested in your comments on my "Report Card Entries."

Karl

I saw Bigger at a school reunion in 1992. I was 36 years old. I looked at him and thought ive waited for this all my life i went over to him he was with some other teachers i didnt bottle it "why were you such a horrible b #####d " to be honest i cant remember his reaction i think he was stunned i was euphoric "you're nothing are you really just an old man who got his kicks from terrorising little kids" i was ecstatic in one afternoon he was out of my childhood demons. another thing miss kendall"mrs thirtle" what a woman!!!! if your out there how about a drink!! i dont care how old you are!!!

Pete Mayes

Good for you! To take the opportunity of saying to Bigger, "Why were you such an 'orrible bastard?" Brilliant!  A true hero.  First pint's on me.  It makes you think, though, doesn't it?  Why was he such an 'orrible bastard?  It's impossible to hate EVERYONE on EVERY Day of your working life.  Such perfection doesn't exist.  The only answer is that he hated himself.  (For more discussion on Miss Kendle see the "Whatever Happened to Crippen?" discussion.  Terry Stern, Bob Long and myself have had to take the conversation along private e-mail channels in case we offended anyone and got booted off this site).

I've found the bastard! I've found Bigger!  He's changed his name to Snape and, believe it or not, is still teaching. He teaches "Potions" at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You can read about him in Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone where he apparently knows a lot about the Dark Arts.  Listen to the description: "Greasy black hair, a hooked nose and sallow skin." It's him, isn't it?  If you're still not convinced read this extract:  Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons.  It was colder here than up in the main castle and would have been quite creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls.  Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class.  His eyes were black like Hagrid's, but they had none of Hagrid's warmth.  They were cold and empty and made you think of dark tunnels.  "You are here to learn the subtle science of potion-making," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word - like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort.  "Potter!" said Snape suddenly, "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"  Powdered root to an infusion of what? Harry glanced at Ron, who looked as stumped as he was.  "I don't know, sir," said Harry.  Snape's lips curled into a sneer.  "Tut, tut - fame clearly isn't everything."  "Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"  Harry didn't have the faintest idea what a bezoar was. He tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle, who were shaking with laughter.  "I don't know. sir."  "Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter? What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"  "I don't know," said Harry quietly.  "For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of the Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshead and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite.  Well?  Why aren't you copying this down?"  There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment.  Over the noise, Snape said, "And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for Potter's cheek."  It's him, isn't it? It's Bigger! There can be no doubt about it.

As someone who actually took an 'O' level in metalwork, I didn't think so bad of Mr.Biggar.  Two stories might help you to see my point of view.  Both concern the actual 'O' level exams.  In my practical exam I was getting behind in the work. Mr. Biggar knew I was capable as I had got the Metalwork school prize the year before (actually a book on radios, which I think Maurice Miller still has). Mr. Biggar actually helped me in the exam.  He got machines, ready, and made sure I didn't make mistakes.  He was a good guy to those who knew.  But I am sure such behaviour would not happen today.  The other story is much funnier.  During the theory paper for metalwork, Mr. Biggar was the envigilator.  We were all working away, when there was a great crash from the front of the class.  Mr. Biggar had been leaning back on his chair, and had fallen over backwards.  He sat on the floor and looked up, while we all looked at him.  No one laughed...  until after the exam.

Lennie

Karl, having just read the first 3 Harry Potter books, (I bought them for my daughter who is half way through the fourth, so I've got to wait now), I feel that Snape, whilst a teacher from the Biggar "school", doesn't fill me with fear like that which I still remember from metalwork.  Surely Voldemort himself is a closer analogy?  Pure evil.  Even now if I ever have to use a hacksaw to cut metal or a file I still get the dread memories evoked by the smell of totured metal and iron filings!
I dreaded his classes so much I would have done virtually anything to have avoided them, however my father was a toolmaker and insisted that I persevere and complete the training!  It helped me a lot, in no way was I going to have anything to do with metalworking when I left school!  It worked in quite the opposite way to that intended by my dad.

Bob, I'm convinced that the world consists of people who HAVE read Harry Potter and people who WILL read Harry Potter.  That's it.  Nothing else.  Perhaps from now on it may be prudent to refer to Bigger as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. For our own safety, that is.

So I'm not alone in having 'Bigger' nightmares? I was sharpening my trowel in the class when I cut myself, quite badly. Bigger was talking to the woodwork master (what WAS his name? - little bloke - also nasty).  Anyway, I was so afraid I just stood near them spouting blood until I keeled over.  When I came too, Bigger said - whay didn't you tell us?  I said I was afraid - He said - you're allowed to interrupt us if something serious happens!!  Hardly any milk of human kindness in his voice.  Mind you, we were hardly angels, were we?  And there were some serious hazards in the room - lathes etc. We also have to remember that our teachers were the ones left over from the war - remember the battle axes at primary school?  When I saw the young pretty young things that taught MY kids I realised how I'd been deprived - by the War.  It wasn't the teachers' fault (not entirely anyway).

Biggar--I never did get too far into his bad books but he was a sod allright.  I remember making some beaten copper spoon-like thing.  You had to anneal the metal before hammering it into the mould--the instructions said bring to cherry heat and hold for 30 seconds.  I did exactly that except after 17 seconds the bloody copper melted.  I felt quite cheated and have never trusted explicit instructions since.  Just as the metal turned into liquid I looked up into Biggars bloody sneer! Saw him cut the tie off a kid using a drill press [fair enough!].  Stuart Galer was in our class--the first time Biggar called register and came to Galer's name he stumbled a little.  Afterwards he came up to Stu' and asked if he had a brother at Chandos.  Stu' asked his brother about it--seems as if Biggar have been booted out of the sec' mod for heaving a lump of metal at a student and cutting his head open!  You'd sue the bastard for a million these days...  What with him and Mr. Locke [Baldilocks] going ballistic every few minutes it was a good thing we had Peter Williams in the woodwork/tech.drawing crew as a touch of sanity...

Andy Forester

Andrew  Nothing wrong with Mr Bigger.  I still use the stylish (hem, hem) varnished copper letter knife made in the metalwork class circa 1952/53, although I often have to straighten it out after my wife has used it to unblock the kitchen sink! I also remember Mr Lock's Class control strategy and wonder if would work with today's young hooligans!

Duncan Brodie. (1951 to 1958)

"Nothing wrong with Biggar" you say?  You Sir are in a distinct bloody minority - go read the lovely stuff elsewhere on this message board.

Andy

For all those who have derogatory comments about Mr Biggar.  I can only assume that none of you knew which way a drill went into the metal.  It must have been a soul destroying job teaching a load of spotty worms how to shape and form metal without losing any of your digits.  Those who were in any way dextrous and interested in making something out of nothing appreciated the tuition of both Mr Biggar and Mr Davies the woodwork master.

Why not grow up and stop groaning about your own shortcomings.

I'm sorry, I have to protest.
Bigger and Davis were like chalk and cheese.  Given their mutual roles in terms of woodwork/metalwork their attitudes to pupils differed expontentially.  Bigger was a miserable git irrespective of whether he was acting in the capacity of metalwork teacher or as form teacher and I suffered at his hands in both capacities.  I would say that I had a run in with him on one occasion and actually stood up to him and from then on he was wary of going too close to the edge with me again but having said that I never had any respect for him.
Bigger did not aid in making my life at Downer a pleasureable experience

I also recall often dreading the next metalwork class but must admit that I still have a garden trowel fashioned in one of Bigger's classes.

I never did get round to putting a wooden handle on it as I think that my woodwork was probably worse than my metalworking.
It remains to this day in the potting shed awaiting this momentous event.  Perhaps this recent correspondance will jog my memory to complete this task (albeit nearly 50 years late).

I must also agree with the comment that seen from Bigger's aspect he must have had a trying job in his attempts to treach us safely something constructive.

John Bailey

Plenty of dangers in the chem. lab and you could always sever an artery with your scalpel dissecting out the spiral valve of the dogfish in biology. Plenty of harm to be done with chisels in wood work as well but Crip, Miss Jones and Peter Davies made these "dangerous" classes a delight--a bloody drill is not THAT dangerous and Biggar was just a frigging Berk for getting into all those histrionics for no reason other than the fact that he was a nasty little wanker and that's about all there is to it.  If you found Biggar's misanthropic rantings a good role model I wonder what sort of twat you turned-out to be [not a very nice one I would guess, given that you started out, by your own admission, as a spotty worm!].  Fair play to Wiggins whoever he is for telling Biggar what a rotten old sphincter he was--shame he didn't put the boots to him.

Andy.

Regarding run-ins with Teachers.  Does anyone remember Jones, the ex-army short P.E. teacher?  I once recieved a full in-the-face punch from that poor specimen of a man - I have often thought that I would like to meet him again!

From: David Draper

Yes, I remember Jones the PE. He was the man when I was tight head prop for the school 1st XV.  I once played in the same team as him; he was with Saracens then; I wouldn't want to play against him.  PA Bigger - I remember him too.  We got on fine - I was good at metalwork.  As was Peter Crooke.  He [PAB] was AOK with those who were ahead with their projects.  Peter "fly" Davis, another rugby man - I forget his team - once responded to my woodwork request "what do I do now Sir?" with "put a match to it?"   He was right, of course!

Regards to all, David. [The Boots - Frinton-on-Sea White van man. Specially out of retirement!]

Hey David (Draper), I was trying to keep a low profile on this one!! Bigger was OK, not the most friendly of sorts but when you are hwith a class of 13/14 year olds who have every intention of maiming themselves I think I would do things I might not otherwise do.... Anyway I liked making things, still do, so if you followed the instructions and got on with endless filing and emery cloth polishing then a nice little coat hook (still got it - never been used) or a trowel (used for a while and then the handle broke) or a plumb bob - turned in brass on a lathe, were some of the delights that could be made.  Those who couldn't be bothered were lucky to survive.  By the way, I'm not sure which piece of woodwork you were refering to David, but I do recall that I think there were only two of us out of a class of about 30 that managed to make a stool with joints that didn't need more glue than wood - oh the joys of electric planers these days!!!  Has the question as to whether Crippen, (was that his name or just what we called him) - chemistry - did he make his own soap? been raised as yet?  And then there was the new chemistry master - name escapes me, who set fire to his jacket whilst warming carbon disulphide to dissolve sulphur!! Funny old memories...... Were school days the best years of your life?  I must admit I always wondered if school productions were intended for the pupils to take part in or for the teachers to show off - that should raise a few comments!!

Bye for now Pete

I logged on to this site at lunch time at work and re-read all the entries.  I got so depressed at the thought of how much it still affected me, 43 years later and on the other side of the world, that I got up from my desk, got into my car, drove the 5 minutes to the beach, changed, had a swim for an hour in the warm Pacific sea.  I've just got back, had a shower and I feel much better!  I do have to admit that while I was floating on my back in the water, I could see Biggar and Locke's faces in the sky!  Is there no escape?

Bob - Sydney

Bigger was an absolute wanker.  He chose to do the fucking job, didn't he?  If he didn't wish to enrich schoolkids lives, he could have been a prison (or traffic) warden, both careers which he would have been suited to. Tosser!

Karl I've only just joined up to the site - I vaguely remember you from the school band - did I get that right? Like me you may not have been god's gift to metalwork but clearly one of the English teachers must have inspired you to write graphically!  You summed up PAB brilliantly.

David Abrahams

Thanks David,  I was in the school band.  And I write a lot now.  If you're seriously interested I'll e-mail you a web address where you can find a stack of my stuff. (ABCTales.)
Good to hear from you.

Karl

I remember Jones the PE. He left and was replaced by Andy Williams in about 66 or 67. I came across him some years later playing for Wasps 4th I think, and I gave him a good shoeing in a ruck and later administered a fine straight arm tackle.  He had no idea who I was and seemed a bit puzzled as to why I kept fouling him.
He He

Colin

I had Mr Biggar for metalwork and he was OK with those who carried the subject to O level, albeit not the most jovial character in the world.  In fact I remember him helping me mend Geoff Nordens' Triumph 350 one lunchtime.  He must have had some impact as I went to a career in mechanical engineering. I also had Mr Davis for Technical Drawing and he was excellent.

Colin

Crip/Crippen was, of course a nickname for Mr. F.G. Williams.  He suffered from the same nickname at Wembley County and brought it with him to Downer when he changed schools.  We had a few bad teachers at DGS and some very good ones--Crip was one of the best: stern and slightly humourless but a great teacher and I feel rather sorry that he was saddled with this cruel nickname.  I was never brilliant at chemistry but as the fates have it I have had a lot to do with biochemistry and toxicology over the years and thanked Mr. Williams for getting at least the basics into my head.  I think the "other" chem' teacher you mention, the one who set himself alight, was Mr. Barnett [he's there on the 1962 upper school photo].  He had a chemistry degree and was doing a BSc in biology at Birkbeck College during my last yearat DGS ['62] and said we would have to revise A-Levels on our own as he had his degree "finals" coming up!  We also had a "student" teacher called Kit Singleton--son of the well-known cricket commentator Jack [?] Singleton.  He was teaching in one lab' while we were doing our A-Level chem practicals in another.  Part way through our exam' a little kid ran in screaming "Please Sir--Mr. Singleton's blown himself up!" at which point Crip or whoever was invigilating, ran out and we all started cheating outrageously.  Singleton was immensely tall and brought his fiance, who was barely five foot and extremely cute, to the school dance at which point all the lads tried putting the moves on her.  'Must have been hilarious for Singleton and his lady...

I have been reading the wonderful stuff about Mr. Bigger.  I don't remember you Karl but your memories of our beloved Metalwork teacher are hilarious.  I must say, that for my fifth year at school, Mr Bigger was my Form teacher (if that's the right word) and he did seem to be more of a human being than in the first four years.  I was absolutely useless at metalwork.  My copper tea scooper, still a prize possession of my mother, was the wrong shape, the wrong size etc etc.  I hated metalwork with a passion.  Forgetting one's apron was the worst, thank God I never did!  I was so pleased that in the third year I could give up Metalwork and pick another subject.  So, I chose R.I.!!, and that's another story, who remembers "Creeping Jesus"?

Chris Earnshaw 1961-1966