Anecdote – Thrown out of my O Levels
Thrown out of my O Levels
The O Level exams were the big exams at the end of the Fifth Form (Year 11). They were the important ones, as important as A Levels. Universities used the grades you achieved at sixteen as an indicator of your future potential.
I’m not sure they were any indication of my potential. I was in an extremely difficult class where learning was not anywhere near as important as fighting or as much fun as winding the teacher up. I had made it a religion not to do homework and had not produced a shred for three years. I’d found that as long as I kept my head down I went unnoticed. The teachers had enough on their plate trying to keep order in the classroom. My twin interests were girls and Rock Music. I hadn’t yet discovered Beat poetry or serious literature. My world revolved around discussing Rock and Blues, chatting up the girls and deciding which party to go to at the weekend. Peripheral to that were my hair, beard and clothes. I liked to look right. Unfortunately these preoccupations tended to bring me into conflict with a numbers of teachers and the school hierarchy. They were busy trying to hold back the tide with a flood barrier and I was making waves. The school thought that my carefully nurtured appearance was a scruffy mess. I thought it was a triumph of individuality and expression of my underlying ethos.
My parents were in despair they thought my long hair, anti-establishment attitude and casual attitude towards my studies were going to prove detrimental to my future career. They were right. I seemed to enjoy making it difficult for myself. I despised fitting in. I always have and always will.
Even so I managed to achieve. I always did enough to get by and that infuriated some of the teachers no end. They liked the ones who played the game and worked hard. They thought I did not deserve any success. Once again they were probably right.
On the first day of my O Level exams I thought I’d try it on. Instead of donning the requisite school uniform I put on my black hipsters, and Cuban heeled Chelsea boots. I fluffed up my shoulder length hair and wore my denim shirt with button-down collars. There were a few young ladies I was out to impress. I can’t say my mind was fully focussed on the forthcoming maths exam.
The basis of my mind-set was that the O Levels were too important for them to kick up much of a fuss. I might get bawled at but they’d let it go.
I was not taking Mr Morrell into account. He hated my guts. His ethos and my ethos snarled at each other whenever we met. He hated seeing me hanging around with the prettiest girls. He hated my long hair. He hated the fact that I always came top in his Biology exams despite the fact that he knew that I did no work at all. It was personal. We did not exactly see eye to eye.
It was just my luck that he happened to be on duty that day when I walked in. He was a bit of a coward. Rather than confront me himself he called the Headteacher over and complained, pointing out the rules and regulations. The Head was left with no choice but to send me home to get changed. I missed half an hour of my Maths exam.
I scraped through. I managed seven passes, all grade C with just one B in Biology.
I bet that rankled. I would have loved to have gone back as a Headteacher to meet up with Mr Morrell. I’m sure he would have loved to see that I had turned out successful after all. I’m certain he would.
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