To a boy, we all froze. Hopkins left off his attempt to hide Martin's muddy shorts behind the radiator.
'Yes, you heard right: I said DANCING. As in 1-2-3, 1-2-3. Marriot, if you leave your jaw like that you'll catch a hundred flies!' With thirteen pairs of eyes fixed on him, the sunburnt sportsmaster came to a halt by my peg and stood, hands on purple hips, track shoes wide apart.
'In next week's Games period, Mrs Barnett and I are going to drum some basic dance steps into all you oiks - and the first-form girls, God help them ...' He paused for breath before delivering the final blow. '... And then, on the evening of December 15th - yes, Hopkins, I said evening - AFTER SCHOOL - you'll all be ready to skip the light fantastic at the first-form Christmas Dance.'
Christmas Dance? With girls?! Our scrawny, half-dressed bodies, already fagged out by the rigours of a cross-country run, shrank even further. Thirteen willies trembled in unison. Thirteen imaginations foresaw the horrors of this latest nightmare of life at LEGS.
Hopkins broke the silence with a question: 'Sir, can we do the Twist, sir?' A snigger passed around the changing room.
'This will be real dancing, Hopkins, not your Chubby Checker nonsense. Now, finish getting changed, boys, and I'll be back in five minutes - anyone still here gets 20 press-ups.'
With that, Mad Ron left. As we pulled off the rest of our togs, Simpkins lightened the atmosphere a little with an energetic interpretation of the recent No. 1, 'Let's Twist Again Like We Did Last Summer.' Marriot and Hayes accompanied him on rhythm and bass tennis racquet respectively, while Hopkins beat the bongos, in the form of a basketball between his knees. I laughed from the corner but didn't join in. Pulling on my grey flannel shorts, I counted the days. December 15th. 12 days to D-Day. D for Dance. Just when I could glimpse the Christmas holidays on the horizon, another dark mountain had loomed up from nowhere to block the way. Maybe on December 14th I could ask my Dad to make some trifle, then I'd stick my fingers down my throat and be off sick. Anything but dance with the six-foot Deborah Kirkbride or, even worse - and I trembled at the prospect - with the Two-Ton Tess of 1A, Rosie Ranshaw.
The Wednesday of the dancing lesson dawned grim and cold. At quarter to two in the afternoon, a damp chill still clung to the school hall, as fifty first-form boys trooped in and glued their bottoms to the row of benches along the right-hand wall. Fifty first-form girls glued theirs to the benches opposite. We glared at each other across the brown gulf of polished Parquet tiles that lay between. Not even the shared fear of a torment to come could bridge the chasm between the sexes at LEGS.
To a boy, we all froze. Hopkins left off his attempt to hide Martin's muddy shorts behind the radiator.
'Yes, you heard right: I said DANCING. As in 1-2-3, 1-2-3. Marriot, if you leave your jaw like that you'll catch a hundred flies!' With thirteen pairs of eyes fixed on him, the sunburnt sportsmaster came to a halt by my peg and stood, hands on purple hips, track shoes wide apart.
'In next week's Games period, Mrs Barnett and I are going to drum some basic dance steps into all you oiks - and the first-form girls, God help them ...' He paused for breath before delivering the final blow. '... And then, on the evening of December 15th - yes, Hopkins, I said evening - AFTER SCHOOL - you'll all be ready to skip the light fantastic at the first-form Christmas Dance.'
Christmas Dance? With girls?! Our scrawny, half-dressed bodies, already fagged out by the rigours of a cross-country run, shrank even further. Thirteen willies trembled in unison. Thirteen imaginations foresaw the horrors of this latest nightmare of life at LEGS.
Hopkins broke the silence with a question: 'Sir, can we do the Twist, sir?' A snigger passed around the changing room.
'This will be real dancing, Hopkins, not your Chubby Checker nonsense. Now, finish getting changed, boys, and I'll be back in five minutes - anyone still here gets 20 press-ups.'
With that, Mad Ron left. As we pulled off the rest of our togs, Simpkins lightened the atmosphere a little with an energetic interpretation of the recent No. 1, 'Let's Twist Again Like We Did Last Summer.' Marriot and Hayes accompanied him on rhythm and bass tennis racquet respectively, while Hopkins beat the bongos, in the form of a basketball between his knees. I laughed from the corner but didn't join in. Pulling on my grey flannel shorts, I counted the days. December 15th. 12 days to D-Day. D for Dance. Just when I could glimpse the Christmas holidays on the horizon, another dark mountain had loomed up from nowhere to block the way. Maybe on December 14th I could ask my Dad to make some trifle, then I'd stick my fingers down my throat and be off sick. Anything but dance with the six-foot Deborah Kirkbride or, even worse - and I trembled at the prospect - with the Two-Ton Tess of 1A, Rosie Ranshaw.
The Wednesday of the dancing lesson dawned grim and cold. At quarter to two in the afternoon, a damp chill still clung to the school hall, as fifty first-form boys trooped in and glued their bottoms to the row of benches along the right-hand wall. Fifty first-form girls glued theirs to the benches opposite. We glared at each other across the brown gulf of polished Parquet tiles that lay between. Not even the shared fear of a torment to come could bridge the chasm between the sexes at LEGS.