At sixteen, I left school knowing little more than how to dodge a football and the square root of nothing. I grew up in Yiewsley, West London, where the only thing of note to come from my hometown was Ronnie Wood—yes, that Ronnie Wood from The Rolling Stones, back when he was just "Ronnie from The Birds." They were a local band before he hit the big time. So, there you go, Yiewsley’s claim to fame. As a note, they weren't the famous Californian "Byrds" led by Roger McGuinn but of course Ron became more famous, that boy from Yiewsley, did well!
Now, as a West London lad, you might think I’d naturally support Chelsea. But no. My neighbour Gary already had that covered, so to avoid being a copycat, I went with Tottenham Hotspur—probably because they had some big names like Martin Peters, Pat Jennings, and Martin Chivers. Don’t ask me why, I couldn’t remember much else about my younger self except that I was once bullied by a kid named Paul Chapman. Funny story: he kept poking me in the face during playtime, so I socked him in the nose one day. We became friends after that—nothing bonds schoolboys like a ten-second fight.
When it came to the infamous Eleven Plus exam, let’s just say I failed it gloriously. And with that, my academic fate was sealed. Gary sailed off to grammar school, the land of brainiacs, while I found myself in the lowest class at secondary modern school. I ended up in 1C, the class for those who, let’s say, weren’t setting the world on fire academically. If you've ever seen Peter Kay’s comedy sketches about the "thick table," well, that was us.
There was a kid named Kim Retter in my class who constantly wet himself—earning the nickname "Kim Wetter"—and another guy, Gregory Hawes, who couldn’t read and became our class version of "Denis," the awkward, slow kid from Please Sir! who thought owls went "hoooooo." Looking back, the class was a bit of a sitcom cast, except it was real life, and I was living it.
It all boiled down to the Eleven Plus, which was supposedly designed to separate the wheat from the chaff, except it felt more like separating the lucky from the unlucky. I was in the latter group. The whole thing was based on an exam at age 11 that decided your future—grammar school for the smart kids, and for the rest of us? Well, welcome to 1C, where dreams go to die.
The system was the brainchild of Cyril Burt, a guy who claimed intelligence was inherited and ran some dubious studies with twins to back it up. I think he might have been an advocate of Heinrich Himmler, although, Burt’s focus on intelligence testing and heredity was part of a legitimate, though now controversial, area of psychology, while Himmler and the Nazis took ideas about eugenics to a horrific extreme, applying pseudoscientific beliefs to justify genocide. Years later, people discovered Burt might’ve fudged his research. Great, so my future was decided by a man with questionable ethics—no wonder I wasn’t a fan of the Butler Act that introduced the Eleven Plus. "Oh, how I hate you, Butler."
So, in 1970, I marched through the gates of Evelyn’s Secondary Modern School in Hillingdon, fresh from my primary school eleven plus school failure. The place was a concrete labyrinth, an intimidating fortress of misfit souls like me. The headteacher gathered us in the assembly hall for the grand sorting ceremony (Hogwarts-style, but with less magic and more anxiety). The classes were split into the letters of "EVELYNS," and as names were called for 1E, 1V, 1L, and so on, I watched my old primary school friends disappear into their fancy new classes. I, of course, was left until the end. Then came 1C—the dumping ground.
Life in 1C was… let’s call it "character-building." We were the underdogs, the forgotten few, the class no one really expected much from. It was like being cast in a bad play, where the script was already written: you’re not going anywhere, so why try? But after a few months of trying to find my feet, something clicked. I wasn’t about to let 1C define me forever. Mr. Cable, our teacher, saw something in me, and before long, I got the nod—upgraded to 1V, the land of the semi-bright kids!
By the end of the school year, Evelyn’s had officially shifted to a fully comprehensive system, which aimed to provide equal opportunities for students of all abilities. The idea was that every student had the potential to succeed in either an academic or vocational pathway, depending on their strengths. but the damage was done to me by the eleven plus. I left with a handful of CSEs, the "almost there" certificates, and thought, “Well, that’s that.”
Fast forward to today. I might’ve started in 1C, but I ended up as a Warrant Officer in the Royal Navy. Along the way, I earned two Open University degrees, a BTEC diploma, and a Higher National Certificate in Mechanical Engineering. I’ve got medals for long service and good conduct, and even managed Wimbledon’s stewarding for a few years. Not bad for a "thicky," right?
As for Gary? He joined the army for a few years and left to become a labourer. Paul Chapman? He got mixed up in drugs and ended up in prison, he allegedly robbed electric meters, including my old mum's . And me? I guess I proved that your start doesn’t define your finish.
POEM
Yiewsley
Have you heard about this tiny village where,
I grew up, and was founded there?
Such a place, we often prayed,
At School on Sunday, where our souls were saved!
Famous for Gordon’s – a so-called “gift box”
For the “Byrds” with Ron, of the faces and Jagger, that rocks!
Where Genevieve near De Burgh was filmed when she broke down,
in location, West Drayton, we called “the town”.
To EVELYNS, at eleven, I sat to discuss,
Why I was in 1C, for failing my “plus”.
Delivering papers, riding my bike,
Then past the nags head, for the regular hike.
To the entrance of the “Comp” we walked - to join up with those,
Wearing, Harrington jackets, Crombies and brogues
Such 70s styles, which mum could not afford,
After the six months of 1C, I knew I was bored.
The jokes and taunting which haunts me today,
Affected my schooling, which affected my stay.
As far as I know, the village still serves,
As a far distant memory of childhood and nerves.
Goodbye Yiewsley, I guess you served me,
To work my way toward a life on the sea.
Goodbye Yiewsley, of course, I’m glad, you were there,
You’ll live in my memory, so hard to repair.