My Old School - Extract 3

So much for ‘stacking’ and ‘jams’. Now let's turn to ‘dishes’. Who cleared the tables after meals ? Who washed the dishes ? Who set the tables for the next meal ? The answer to all these questions is the same -- the boys. No one was employed at the school to do anything which the boys could, no matter how unwillingly, do themselves. ‘Dishes’ was the ultimate horror. Each squad was on ‘dishes’ for a week at a time. Since I was in squad 17 it was some time before I even knew that ‘dishes’ existed, far less was ‘on’ them. Basically the idea was that after each meal the squad was responsible for clearing the tables, washing the dishes, re-setting the tables for the next meal and generally clearing up the debris of the foregoing monkeys tea party. Naturally the division of labour in this exercise was organised in such a way that the amount of work done was in inverse proportion to how old you were. For the junior pleb (eg me aged 11) this meant that I had the job of clearing all the junk off 17 tables. The tables themselves were heavy wooden tables (which had been in the school since before the war - The Boer War) with formica tops which in the main were all cracked, chipped and broken. Greasy motorway cafe standard. It was simply f***ing amazing how much jam, butter, axle-grease and all round goop managed to work its way into the cracks in the formica and how extraordinarily difficult it was to excise said goop therefrom. After a typical tea time at the school you had 17 tables covered in jam, butter, sugar, plenty of the evening meal stomped into the table (see Spaghetti Bolognaise in extract 2 below) in such a way that you needed surgical instruments to remove it: pools, nay lakes, of tea (that's these f***ing bottomless cups again), tomato sauce, brown sauce, stuff that looked like it might be sauce but, rather disgustingly, wasn't, and the other inevitable leavings and droppings and filth that you would expect from 180 adolescent boys who had just spent their time trying to eat food which tasted terrible and the rest of the time grinding said food into the table in frustration at the fact that it tasted terrible. Since I was ‘on tables’ my job was to clear all this muck off the tables and then wash them in order to try so far as possible to avoid any typhoid bacteria from running riot through the school. The first time I tried this I was reduced to tears. I was issued with a metal bowl and a filthy cloth, which clearly had started life as a pair of Y-fronts but had long since become too disgusting for anyone to wear, and I was meant to go round all the tables clearing the debris into the bowl and in turn emptying the contents of the bowl into the bin. Having done that and cleared the primary substantive mess I was then to wash the tables with hot water (using the same cloth) to remove the traces of sticky stuff. The name of the game was speed. Everybody naturally wanted to get away as quickly as possible. Unfortunately I proved to be far too slow in performing this task and while I was engaged in clearing the tables, the job of re-laying them for the next meal was proceeding apace behind me. Soon the table-layers caught up with me. All that happened was that they started laying tables that I had not yet cleared. They simply disregarded the fact that the collected mess from the previous meal was still littering these tables. I was therefore arriving at tables on which the cutlery and crockery had been neatly laid on piles of tea-soaked bread, half-eaten scraps of food saturated in HP sauce, splodges of macaroni and cheese, and all the other filth and debris I've mentioned. I was left there, vainly fighting back the tears, having to de-set the tables, clean them, and re-set them. And even then this was not the end of my problems. Throughout the time that I was on ‘tables’ I was constantly having my own meal times disturbed by summonses to attend at other squads to explain why ingrained jam was still adhering to the formica/vinyl surfaces of their tables. This was something of an inquisition, as you had to stand at some other squad's table and be vilified by all the members of that squad as though you'd committed a serious crime of a sexual nature. There was little point in trying to argue. I was summoned on one occasion by a nasty wee individual called G. It was the usual story with G wanting to know something about some jam on the table. When I pointed out that the jam was so deeply ingrained that it had obviously been deposited there before I was born, G’s response was to invite me to lick it off the table. Invitations of that nature from G were not of the sort which could be politely declined. As I leaned over the table to sample this unusual jam butty G struck me viciously across the back of the head with a spoon. He nearly knocked me out the wee bastard. As I said earlier, the difficulty of the task to be performed on ‘dishes’ was directly related to which ‘year’ you were in - The Chief was merely the supervisor and this onerous task was discharged by him sitting with his feet up on a table, scratching his balls and reading the Beano while everyone else laboured. The more senior of his minions amused themselves in the kitchen ‘washing’ the dishes. The kitchen itself was without doubt the filthiest place I have ever been in. Generations of bacteria were born and brought up on the floor and walls entirely unmolested. When dishwashing was in full swing and water was swilling merrily about the floor the effect was similar to being on the old terracing at Hampden Park on a wet Wednesday night. You were really best advised to wear wellie boots in there. One of the boys (usually the one who was most ‘intellectually-challenged’) would have his sleeves rolled up and be plunging filthy ashets and metal pots into a large deep sink full of evil looking water. Naturally this particular duty was called ‘Sinks’. The real laugh was the actual dish-washing. It seems that in the 19th century some benefactor had gifted the school with a prototype dishwashing machine. This amazing piece of machinery had been used three times a day for donkey's years. It was a fantastic Heath-Robinson device with only one drawback - viz: it didn't work. Racks would be loaded up with all manner of plates, saucers, cups etc and would be fired into the belly of this monster. Clouds of steam shrouded the kitchen as patent evidence that something was going on. There would be grinding noises of moving machine parts in motion and the slooshing of water swilling about internally. All to no avail. Within minutes the dishes would be spewed out of the other end of the machine, with no noticeable change in their condition. This is where the real experts came in. These were the 5th year 'driers'. One would stand on each side of the machine, each armed with a filthy rag (more superannuated Y-fronts), which for these purposes was called ‘a dishcloth’. Taking careful aim they would flick their cloths in the general direction of the dishes as they were fired out from the innards of the belching monster and, hey presto, the dishes were dried and ready for use at the next meal. Some of the ‘driers’ achieved an almost ballet –like choreography in their performance which filled me with awe and wonder.