Remember the days of the old school yard?

[rathbone]

Given that, one way or the other, the day when Portobello High School relocates moves inexorably closer, I think it would be useful to gather people’s reminiscences of their school days.

I’m putting it in the Local History section because what you remember today becomes history tomorrow. I was taught in the Old Portobello High with its gothic corridors and even more gothic teachers. That is now ancient history. (Well, fifty years ago seems ancient to me). My experiences will have been different from those of people who went to the Tower block and their experiences will be different to those who fill wherever the institution lands next.

So let’s gather those memories together before they are lost forever and that bit of local history gone with them.

[rathbone]

The Old Portobello High School was the large victorian building on the junction of Duddingston Park and Southfield Place. On one side it faced the main road, on the other Portobello golf course. There were two, segregated, playgrounds. The boys’ playground was the one nearest Southfield Place. There was quite a slope from the road up to the school entrance. It was split up by a series of temporary ‘hut’ classrooms which had been built in little terraces during the 1950s and were now considered permanent. The huts meant that there wasn’t enough space big enough to play properly. On the right hand side, nearest the road, were the cycle sheds and next to them the boys’ toilets. These were really primitive, with a big open gutter urinal and smelled of disinfectant. Right at the top of the slope was a caged area, which was a secret place the Jannies used. Next to it was the tuck shop and then the Boys’ Entrance into the school.

[rathbone]

On the first day of term it was obvious who all the new boys were. The bell rung and everyone else got into lines. We stood around outside the toilets wondering what to do. After all the other pupils had disappeared, a teacher came down the playground and rounded us up.

We were formed into a line and marched in to the school through the door at the top of the slope, then along a corridor to a big hall which had ropes hanging from the ceiling and what looked like a series of ladders screwed to the walls. The girls were marched in through another door. We were told to sit on the floor. There was a row of people sitting on chairs in the space between the two sets of doors.

[Franck]

My school life was split between the annexe and the main school, the first two years ( I think) being in the main at the annexe, then onto the main school.
My memory is terrible,but I can recall playing pitchie in the sheds at playtime, the corridor to the halls in the annexe being terrifying and always dark, the balcony that ran outside the maths (?) department and the Ms Noble's ( or should that be frau?) classroom having large steps.Jacke ausse bitte!
The occasional journey from the annexe to the main school was always a highlight with the occasional skirmish between the boys with the girls looking totally indifferent.Also, the art dept and Mr Cuthbertson, who hated every boy who did not play rugby for him and seemed to have more time for the,eh, ladies.Teachers like Mr Reid,Mr Marshall and Mr McPhail, all sound.
Onto the main building, being allowed to use the lifts ( or using them when not allowed) the sways and crushes on the stairs at home time, teachers like Dunnigan,Taylor & Pratt who I thought were brilliant and teachers like Bell from the technical building who I thought was a tosser.
I spent as much time after school hours up there playing basketball with tony szifris.Looking back, I loved my time at PHS and I'm still best mates with the same motley assorted crew who I started there with in 1986.5/6th year was a hoot with below average grades but a social scene in the common room some of the best years of my life.
If PHS can continue to provide the grounding it gave me ( maybe not the grades!) in the new building, it will be a big success.

[rathbone]

Thanks Franck, this is exactly the kind of response I was looking for.
Mr. Cuthbertson taught me art in the 1960s. Nice to note that over twenty years later he was still more interested in rugby than art! We also had a good social life in the common room.

[rathbone]

We were all told to stand up again when a man with a mustache came in. This turned out to be the headmaster, Mr. Houston. He welcomed us all to the school, said something about how we would find it strange after Primary, but he was sure we would do our best. Then he was gone again. We were told to sit down.

A little man in a brown suit and glasses stood up and took the centre spot. He looked a little bit like photographs I had seen of Rudyard Kipling.

“I am Mr. Brown”, he said, “And I am the Deputy Headmaster.”

He indicated the woman behind him:

“This is Miss Darling”, he said.

Some of the boys around me sniggered.

“Miss Darling is the school secretary. She will read out your name. When she does, you will say ‘here’ and then she will tell you which form you are in and then your house.”

Miss Darling smiled severely.

“And these”, Mr. Brown went on, indicating the other teachers, “are your form tutors. When I tell you, you will leave the hall with your form tutor who will then give you your timetable. You will start following your timetable after luncheon break.”

He sat down and Miss Darling stood up. She had a big folder which she proceeded to open. She wore a matching cardigan and jumper over a tweed skirt and had an old fashioned swept back hair style. Her glasses were on a cord around her neck. She lifted them up slowly, put them on and then started to go through the list in the folder one by one in alphabetical order. At first I didn’t pay attention to what she was saying to other people, I was waiting for my own name. At last it came.

“Here, Miss”

“1A1. Duddingston.”

Once she had dealt with Alisdair Young, Miss Darling sat down and Mr. Brown got up again.

“ Your form tutors will now stand up in order, starting with Mr. Johnson, who is the form master for 1A1. If you are in 1A1 please form a line and follow Mr. Johnson.”

[rathbone]

A tall man with a gray jumper on stood up. Those of us who had been told we were in his form stood up and formed ourselves into a rough line. He led the way back through the door and down the corridor.

The first real surprise was the classroom. Unlike Primary, the classrooms at Portobello High were built like lecture theatres. The desks were on a series of levels rising up to the back of the class, with steps leading up either side. Down the front was the blackboard and the teacher’s desk. The ceilings were very high, as were the windows. Brown painted heating pipes ran up the wall beside each of the flights of steps and along the back of the class.

[rathbone]

“Right”, Mr. Johnson said once we had all come into the room, “initially I want you all in alphabetical order. When I call out your name you will sit at the next available desk, starting from the top left.... Aiken.”

He went through the register and we took our seats. As usual, I was somewhere around the middle of the middle row. He then passed out a roneographed sheet to each of us that looked like a little calendar. Each of the squares was sub-divided horizontally. He indicated the blackboard and told us to enter the subject in the top of each square and the room number in the bottom. There was an immediate fuss as at least half of us hadn’t brought pens or pencils with us. Mr. Johnson did not look pleased. He distributed pencils to those who did not have one. There was then relative quiet for a while as we entered the information on to the sheets. Once we had finished, Mr. Johnson explained how things worked at secondary school. First thing every morning we would get into our lines and then come to this classroom for register. Then every time the bell rang we were to go to the next classroom on our timetable as quickly and quietly as possible, unless, of course, we had a double period.

[rathbone]

The most inspirational teacher I had was Mary MacIver. We hit it off immediately. Mrs. MacIver turned out to be probably the most formative person in my life. She had a profound effect on me.

She was married to Hector MacIver, who taught English at the Royal High School. I already knew about Hector MacIver because I had read critical articles he wrote in the Scotsman and other newspapers about all sorts of things, particularly poetry. Mary and Hector lived in the village of Temple, next door to the painter William Gillies and knew all sorts of poets, musicians, actors and painters. Over the coming years they took me under their wing and introduced me to people like the poet Robert Garioch, the painter Robin Philipson and the weaver Sax Shaw.

This first day, however, she was just one of a series of eccentric teachers who would be central to my life. Mrs. MacIver’s eccentricity lay in her approach to punishment. Rather than use the belt, she would make you learn ten lines of Tam O’Shanter for every misdemeanor. Every time you misbehaved you had to recite from the beginning to the point you had reached the last time and then add the next ten lines. Some people learned the whole poem this way and still probably bore their friends with it every Burns’ night.

[rathbone]

The other teacher who had a profound impact on my development was the deputy head, Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown was the head of the Maths department and was a truly gentle man. He always wore the same brown suit and, with typical schoolboy humour, was known to all the kids as “Old Hovis”, and he knew we called him that. He used to give prizes for solving simple mathematical problems, and always had a delighted grin on his face when he saw the class busy with feverish activity to get the prize, which we knew was just a sweetie. Usually it was pan-drops which he kept in his jacket pocket. Sometimes it was fruit boilings.

[rathbone]

Our form master, Mr. Johnson, was anything but a gentle man. He had been a captain during the war and so was known as ‘Cappie’ Johnson. Cappie had a range of ways of ensuring discipline. If you were talking in class when he was at the blackboard he would spin round when you least expected it and hurl the wooden backed duster with unerring accuracy at your head. He could hit you even if you were in the back row. It hurt. If your misdemeanor occurred while he was sitting at his desk it would be a rubber which hit you on the forehead. That also hurt. And woe betide you if you arrived late for register. His usual remark was:

“My room for morning coffee, boy. Will it be black or white?”

Black was his favourite tawse. White was his number two. Most people preferred White, which only raised red welts along your wrist. Black had been known to draw blood.

[rathbone]

The room opposite Cappie Johnson’s was the music room. The music room was no different from any of the other classrooms, except that at the bottom of one of the flights of steps up the rows was an upright piano and at the piano was an enormous woman in tweeds who looked like Margaret Rutherford from the Ealing comedies. In the corridor outside the door was a bucket of water with antiseptic in it. This was for washing your recorder in because it would still be full of saliva from the previous pupil. No-one wanted to play recorder.

[rathbone]

The big woman was known as Granny Parnell. Granny was a real eccentric who was often spotted walking round the school corridors smoking a pipe. She had a yellow streak in the front of her otherwise grey hair. Rumour had it that this was a nicotine stain.

Like Cappie she was tawse happy. No matter who had caused the misdemeanor, the whole class had to line up for a beating. We would all troupe down one flight of steps, get the belt, and return to our desks up the other. Quite quickly we learned that if those who had been beaten simply went along the row and rejoined the end of the line, Granny would go on and on until she became thoroughly confused. We could afford to do that because, unlike Cappie’s, her belt was as soft as chamois leather and amazingly pain free.

For a music teacher, her repertoire was remarkably limited. It was either old songs of the empire: The Road To Mandalay. Boots Boots Marching over Africa. Or it was Border Ballads. Her piano technique was equally limited. As the lesson went on and we became more unruly she would simply play louder. Invariably this led to Cappie Johnson bursting in yelling:

“How can I teach with this racket going on?”

[rathbone]

The ceiling of the music room was covered in little bumps. These were gnumfs. Gnumfs were made by chewing bits of paper until they became soft, squashing them into moist sticky lumps, putting them on to the end of a ruler and flicking them up on to the ceiling where they stuck.

[rathbone]

The ceiling of the art class was also covered in gnumfs, but they were more colourful there. Mr. Cuthbertson taught art. Cubby was a bit macho and fancied himself as a bit of a hard nut. If you could combine your artistic skills with rugby then you were quids in.

On the same corridor as the Art class was Latin and Religious Instruction. Miss Hailley taught Latin. Her class was quite safe.

Mr. Trotter taught R.I. It was dangerous if you were in the front row of his class. He had a habit of spraying saliva when he got carried away and the front row could be drenched. He was an ordained Church of Scotland minister and used to complain about Catholics attending the school when they had their own school, St. John’s, just across the road.

[rathbone]

It was traditional for the school hall to be decorated for the school Christmas dance. The Sixth Form were responsible for the decorations and the First Year pupils made them. This year’s theme was the Aztecs. The hall was transformed into a pagan temple from Central America. I thought this was going to be great. Unfortunately the dance band consisted of a violinist, an accordionist and a drummer playing the Dashing white Sergeant and the Waltz Valetta.

[rathbone]

In French class we had Mr. Main. Mr. Main was in the same mould as Cappie Johnson. The very first day we met him he took his tawse out from his inside pocket and hung it over the front of the desk. “I am called Big Ben”, he said, “I strike every hour.”

[bb67]

I, too, remember Mr Main. Well, I suppose I should, as he was my Dad. My own first few weeks at PHS were constantly punctuated with "are you Mister Main's/Big Ben's dot'ur?" (or Mrs Main's, as my dear sainted Ma was also a teacher at the school). Spending 5 years at a school where one's parents both taught was either character-forming, or a total nightmare - my internal jury's still out on that one. I freely admit to playing the class comedian, irritating my teachers, smoking behind the bike sheds etc in a (pretty successful) effort to distance myself from the "swotty teachers' daughter" tag which their presence bestowed upon me. As a result, I had more hassle about my parents' presence from other teachers than from my fellow pupils (are you listening, Miss Noble et al?). Big Ben did tend to rule by fear, whereas the much gentler mater was - to the best of my knowledge - universally loved by her pupils, and never used her own tawse (in fact, I don't think she had one). In his defence, Big Ben was a brilliant and dedicated teacher - ask any of his former Higher or SYS pupils - but admittedly he couldn't be arsed with having to deal with certain pupils who were forced into a French class at the age of 12, when they had no interest whatsoever in the language and would drop it as soon as possible, and he was probably pretty horrible to them because of it. I can see both sides. Anyway, Big Ben struck his last in 2005, at the ripe old age of 85, having retired from PHS in 1982. He's probably beating the hell out of former pupils somewhere very, very hot.

Rathbone's reminiscences of his first day at PHS called to mind my own, in 1973. By this time, the 500 or so first year pupils (I believe there were 17 first year classes of about 30 pupils each - I'm sure there are far fewer these days?) were assembled in the hall in the Big School. During the summer holidays, we'd each been sent what was presumably an early computer generated "punch card" - a postcard-sized white card with a hole, or holes, in various positions punched through it. The redoubtable Miss Wishart, one of the assistant headteachers, stood up and said (you have to think of Maggie Smith playing Jean Brodie for Miss Wishart's voice here) "Would those boys and girrrrls who have a hole in their bottom please stand up" - I remember desperately trying to quash the laughter which would later see me spend many an hour standing outside classroom doors - and thus we were dispatched, by dint of our hole location, into our classes. Mine was 1C7, and accompanied by a teacher whose name I've forgotten, we trekked down to our first year home in the Annexe.

I remember many teachers - the scary but nice-underneath-it-all Mrs Bain for Geography, the bonkers "Major" Bruce strutting along the 8th floor corridors leaving an overpowering whiff of Old Spice behind him (thanks to him I've never forgotten that there are 22 yards in a chain - god knows that bit of info has got me out of many a tricky situation in life) , Mr Alan "Danny" Keay for O-grade English, Mr Smuga for Modern Studies, Miss Crawford for 3rd year beginners' German (where I met one of my very best friends to this day), the bagpipe playing Highlander Hamish McLean for 1st year History (must confess to a bit of a 12-year old's crush there), Mr Stewart and his patience at trying to knock maths into my distinctly non-mathematically inclined head. Happy days, mostly. Or perhaps that's 35 years' distance talking!

[rathbone]

Thanks a lot for that bb.

Despite the tawse I quite liked your Dad. He wasn't happy though when I finally gave up French to take additional maths....... maybe more on that later on!

[rathbone]

In second year Granny Parnell was taken ill and we got a new music teacher.This was little Robin Dempster. He was still temporarily sitting in when I left school five years later.

There must be something about music teaching which attracts eccentrics. His approach to teaching was to put on a record of classical music while he sat and read his newspaper. When he had finished the paper he would rip it up and put it in the wastepaper basket saying that if anyone else wanted to read it they should buy their own.

On the odd occasion when he did sit down at the piano to teach, he would flip back imaginary coat-tails before sitting down on the piano stool.

To maintain discipline, his approach was not to use the belt, but to send the whole class out to run round the golf course across the road. There was more than one time when the whole period was taken up with us running round the golf course while he stayed in the classroom reading his newspaper.

[rathbone]

At the end of the winter term in 1962 we had been told that the Corporation had decided to build a new Portobello High School on the playing field next to St. John’s catholic school in Duddingston Road.

In March 1963 two architects came to the school to give a presentation on the proposals. One of them was called James Laidlaw and the other Alistair Foggo. They worked for a firm called Bamber and Hall, who had their offices in Rutland Square. The new school was going to be a tower block eight storeys high. It would be the biggest school in Scotland.

[rathbone]

As I mentioned in my reply to bb, at school I had a battle on my hands. We were now at the stage when decisions had to be taken on the O-Grades we would take. Because I wanted to be an architect I wanted to do drawing and physics. I was promptly told that it was not possible for me to take both Art and Science. I responded that I could drop either French or Latin. I was told that I couldn’t. I was in 1A1. I wasn’t going to just accept that. I drew up a case to demonstrate that if I was going to be an architect who built buildings that wouldn’t fall down then I needed qualifications in Physics, Mathematics and Art. As I had no intention of being an architect in France or the Vatican, I needed neither French nor Latin.

I then set about canvassing the teachers. Mary MacIver was naturally supportive, as was Hovis Brown, but he had an ulterior motive. What he had in mind was me taking a whole raft of maths O-Grades: Arithmetic, Advanced Geometry, Dynamics and Applied Maths. Cubby Cuthbertson needed a bit more effort to convince. In the end he decided that I was serious about wanting to be an architect and came on board. Miss Hailley didn’t seem too bothered - I was no great shakes at Latin, but Ben Main put up a lot of resistance. The argument went all the way up to Mr. Houston. Eventually it was agreed that I drop the French and Latin, but take the additional Maths subjects.

[rathbone]

In April 1964 old Hovis Brown was taken ill and left the school. His role as head of Maths was taken by ‘Daddy’ Weaver. Like so many of my teachers, Daddy was a bit eccentric. He used to wear his pullovers tucked inside his trousers. His technique was to teach us quirky ways to remember things. “I wish I knew the root of two” - 1.414, or, when dividing by fractions “The number you’re dividing by, turn upside down and multiply.” These things stay with you forever.

Fortunately most of my work on Dynamics and Advanced Geometry was taken by a young Canadian teacher who had just joined the staff that year. This was Mr. Hendrikson, the schoolgirls heart-throb.

Right at the end of term word came through that Hovis Brown had died.

[rathbone]

It had been decided that the Queen’s cousin, Princess Alexandra would open the new Portobello High School. The big day arrived. Everyone was gathered in the big new assembly hall. Dinky Dempster had pulled together a special choir. We were all ranged up either side of the platform. As the princess entered we burst into:

Hail smiling morn, smiling morn
That a-tips the hills with gold
Whose rosy fingers ope the gates of day hey hey hey hey hey
That ope the gates, the gates of day.
Hail hail hail hail.

I felt like a right idiot.

[rathbone]

The new school was good though. The classrooms were all on the flat, no more going up and down steps to your desk and the seating was informal. The views across to Arthur’s Seat on one side, and the sea on the other were suitably distracting. The novelty of going up and down in the lifts lasted about a week. Then there was the novelty of climbing up eight flights of stairs when the lifts broke down, which was also after about a week.

The best thing about the new school turned out to be the House block. In the old school we had been allocated to houses, but it was all very notional and abstract. Now each house had its own common room, kitchen and dining area. The common rooms became the centre of school life, with most people hanging around during breaks playing guitars and trying to look cool. The playground was virtually deserted.

It turned out there was a reason for that. As the autumn progressed, the wind increased. We all discovered that the tower block caused the courtyard to act like a wind tunnel. It was almost impossible to open the doors and some days small boys were blown over and bowled away.

[rathbone]

With the opening of the new school I’m going to bow out for a while to disappear down the trenches.

Thanks to Franck and bb67 for their contributions.

On average 10 people a day have been looking at this thread. I can’t believe that none of you went to school or that you all suffer from collective amnesia. I look forward to your memories!

[Bob Jefferson]

I must be one of the ten then. I was enjoying this and I'm disappointed that you have stopped it. I hope you intend to continue in due course? Enjoying the other thread as well. Keep it coming.

[Franck]

[rathbone]

I look forward to what you have to say in the future Franck. All contributions welcome ...... and you don't need my permission to post. In fact I was hoping to encourage people to do that and to echo Bob, I'm a wee bit disappointed that so few people have. There was a time when you needed a pitchfork to keep people off this forum!

Bob, It's purely a matter of resources. I've started trawling through the Archives again for info on Porty in World War One and am finding it difficult to keep both threads going while I do that. Expect the assassination of Franz Ferdinand in the not too distant future.

[Franck]

One of my fondest memories of schooling is down to a group of teachers collectively known as The Modern Studies department, but in particular, Mr Dunnigan, a fine fellow, sturdy (ahem) in the extreme with a beard to match and a fondness of cask ales served in a pint glass ( no handle, allowing the hand to warm the ale) in The Southern Bar.Alongside Dunnigan was Mr Lawrie, a rather tall specimen of humanity with rangy limbs and eyes to match.He was head of department and he never had the good fortune to teach me.Making up the unholy trinity was Mr Colin Pratt,a good guy with no time for fools, even given his personal preference of football teams ( a jambo to the core) I recall the day after Hibs won the League Cup in October 1991 I boldly sauntered into his class resplendent in the green and white of gods own team, only to be met with a very direct 'get out of my bloody class wearing that shite, we're the number one team in this city and you lot come along and win a bloody trophy'...I happily retired from his class to the common room to re-read the various newspapers from the previous days excitement.It took Pratt a few periods to overlook my blatant (but enjoyable) baiting, but he was an outstanding teacher and I was sorry to hear he developed ME soon after I left school.I hope he is well and managing to cope with an illness which is truly unfair.Between him and Dunnigan they turned me onto politics (in particular american politics) and gave me the grounding that now allows me to understand any level of government, local or national.This was nearing the end of my time at PHS and I have to admit I let my teachers down by not even bothering to turn up for my higher examinations, instead preferring to act the goat and indulge in what daft teenagers tend to do when left to their own devices.
I'll endeavour to go futher back into my academic helter-skelter and recall some of the less unsavoury moments here, it'll just take a wee while for the grey matter to dredge up the repressed moments

[Franck]

Terrifying teachers.

During my stint at PHS, three teachers in particular stand out as being the strictest.Top of the pile was the head of Geography, Mr Lauder, a man with facial moles to rival any world champion in that particular category.A strict discpilanarian who gave the impression that he had a dislike for pupils verging on the unhealthy, he was possibly making up for his colleague Mr Marshall, a man so meek and unable to control a class that even in my teenage years you felt sorry for him and the abuse he had to take constantly from the more disruptive elements of the class.Mr Marshall was a lunchtime visitor to the Coach house alongside the cycling and unkempt maths teacher Mr McPhail (famous for his games of head down thumbs up in 1st year) and biology(?) teacher Mr Harry Hood ( famous for having the most impressive sideburns this side of arthurs seat).They used to play boulle outside the bar and on occasion in 6th year, would allow us to join them.The same welcome was not ever available from Mr Lauder.

Next up was head of Maths, Mr Taylor, a man who could handle any kind of riotous child and teach any child the basics of maths through extreme fear.The difference with Taylor was you could tell he enjoyed his work and if you had even the slightest interest in his subject, he'd make sure you did better than you were expecting.Fearsome, but an outstanding teacher.

Finally, Physics teacher Mr Ranald Donald MacDonald, newly aquired from the western isles and sometimes forgetting that presbyterian views were not shared by the masses of Portobello/Magdelene/Niddry & Craigentinny.I think he married a teacher from the economics department, which caused surprise amongst me and my friends as we thought of him as some sort of asexual android.Children and be unkind and dismissive of teachers and we were probably exactly that of Mr MacDonald.A fine teacher, to this day I can recall the right hand rule.

Actually, thinking a wee bit more, I think Mr Lauder rose to the rank of assistant head teacher, and I pity the pupils who came after me if that is indeed the case.

[Franck]

Rugby,skiing and Basketball

Because of the teachers strikes, extra curricular activities were reduced.Football in particular suffered...there was a team, but given the quality of footballers available in the school, never really did as well as it should have done.There were some outstanding footballers, some of who went onto have terrific careers as pros...Jackie Macnamara Jnr being the most famous (son of Jackie snr...I always wasted jnr to play for The Hibees, something that never transpired) And Peter Cormack jnr (see a pattern here, son of Hibs/Liverpool legend Peter snr) who was taken on by Newcastle United only for injury to force an early end to his football career.

Anyway, I digress from the sports that occupied my time at PHS.As mentioned briefly, rugby was driven by Mr Cuthbertson of the art department and the ever-sound Mr Reid of the science dept and surely an ambassador for Benson & Hedges.His intake of tabs was impressive.The rugby team at the time was impressive, especially the group of boys 2 years above me.A collective of muscle,brain and unrivalled aggression that made for some spectacular sights on the rugby pitch.As we gradually got integrated into the 1st 15 we felt compelled to raise our own game to a level we thought the current players would find acceptable.I'm pleased to say they were suitably impressed with certain acts of barbarity acted out of the opposition...Preston Lodge in particular always being a savage encounter.I'll not name names on an open forum just in case these young dandies have matured into pillars of our community, but to this day, some of the acts of team violence dished out have stayed with me...as has the tremendous skill and team-bonding we achieved.I was never really that into rugby anyway and played because my pals were,Cuthbertson demanded I did and the access to cheap tickets for 5 nations rugby which could be sold on at extreme profit to visiting fans from the opposing teams.We did go and stand on the clock end of the old ground and try and cadge a swig of the whisky being handed round.Heady days.

From the end of 3rd year I got involved in Basketball, a sport clearly less violent,but one where you had to keep your wits about you.Mr Tony Szfris was the man behind the drive to make PHS a force in Scottish Basketball and I think he achieved more than he expected.The school team won the league and scottish cup for the last three years I was there and provided the majority of the Edinburgh team we became involved with, St Thomas' making up the rest.The original gym hall was where we trained almost every night of the week.Not only male success but female too, the kool kats dominating the scene at the same times.Along with Tony was Mr Connell, an Australian with shoulders as wide as Uluru and a calm demeanour hiding the clearly obvious ability to deal with any nonsense.A quiet guy but an outstanding teacher. Extreme credit must go to Sandy Sutherland too, although not a teacher at the school, vital to the success we managed to achieve.I was never the best (or worst) player and some of the better players managed to go and obtain scholarships in America.Tremendous times, tremendous people.

Mr Bell for the techy department ran the school ski club, alongside Mr Laidlaw(?)We would go up to hillend on the number 4 bus (5p jnr single!) and fall and scrape our arms and arses on the artificial turf.all this was leading up to the main event...the 3/4th year school trip to the Alps.Montgenevre on the French/Italian border in the milky way ski complex was our destination.My main problem was that Mr Bell knew my dad thru his work as a draughtsman and I got the feeling they disliked each other,I'd need to be on best behaviour to avoid the wrath of the tache sporting,vertically challenged boss of the trip.The trip in itself was brilliant,and Mr Bell only had to sanction me once (with good reason) during the trip.Me and three of my pals decided to take ourselves of one evening to sample the delights of the neighbouring town of Sauze d'Oulx on the other side of the border in Italy.We settled down in a pizzeria and ordered unknown toppings and Fanta Limon.The pizzas came with raw eggs on top, a new and surprising addition for us all.Anyway, we scoffed it down and started sauntering back to our hotel a few miles up the road, only to be met by a very concerned Mr Bell, who it transpired I had forgotten to tell of our plans.The local copshop had been contacted and we were in serious trouble.One day off the slope cleaning everyone's rooms was our punishment and it felt like the most unjust sentence carried out in the history of teacher/pupil punishment.Mr Bell accepted our apologies and allowed us to take part in the night ski with torch carriers.Hindsight is always 50/50 but I reckon this was another example of me leaving a teacher no other option but to punish me for my actions.I met Ian Bell recently and had a laugh with him about all the things that had happened, he was a nice enough bloke and without his trademark tache, someone I was happy enough to have a beer with.

[Epykat]

My first class on my first day at PHS was French at the Annexe (in those days the whole of your first year was spent at the Annexe - the reason being, according to the 'big' pupils at the main building, that all first years had nits and had to be segregated). I was sitting next to a Justine (still one of my best friends almost 40 years later) and the teacher was Miss Crawford. She looked like a teacher, a very stern teacher and I thought she was terrifying. Turned out she was the loveliest person ever - not least of all because she decided to give everyone in the class a French name. Just turned out that myself and Justine already had names which lent themselves to the language perfectly so she was particularly nice to us after that. She's in her 90s now and I still see her occasionally out and about. The other 5 years of my school career were split between the Annexe and the Main Building (back and forth between periods - great skive). When I went back to work there it was like going back in time with quite a few members of staff who had taught me still there. I loved my time at PHS and would have been happy to enter an Upper 6th year if they'd let me

[kilts away]

I remember good times at phs. We went over to a house beside the catholic school to learn house keeping for two weeks. We all had a turn at doing different things in the house. I also remember the music teacher who played the dam busters music on the piano for us if we had behaved. Also the geography teacher who if you got the strap from her you never forgot it.