A great mind lost in the mediocrity of our realm

It was with great sadness I learned that my high school history teacher, Mr Tarbett, had passed away. He lived his life so thoroughly and keenly it is perhaps surprising he didn't pass away sooner, but sad it still is.

Ones first impression of Mr Tarbett was often unfavourable. Giant, bearded and aggressive, he stormed around the school in a tattered, chalk-dusted academic gown glaring at anyone who failed to meet his approval (that is, most people), in a world where teachers were otherwise gentle folk in summer dresses or lounge suits.

His lessons were enigmatic and confusing. In particular, A Level history lessons were often little more than personal rants about his personal life: the machinations of his ex-wife, plots to bludgeon the teenage thieves of his wine-by-post deliveries with a weighted baseball bat, an ongoing appeal to raise funds to have a hitman assassinate the head, Mr Franklyn. That sort of thing.

One might almost have imagined these were clever historical metaphors for what we were learning in class, but as little was ever discussed in class I don't think this could really be the case. I do however recall board rubbers thrown at Damien's head, off-colour comments on Simi's breasts and a long stick used to poke the inattentive during lessons.

Homework was where the learning came in: we were set essay questions to research and write, and real research was necessary. Unlike literally every other lesson, we hadn't already been given the answers. Mr Tarbett was also a strict marker. Where in other lessons one could routinely get 90% for little to no effort, Mr Tarbett was scoring me 40% on history essays where I couldn't really imagine doing any better. I mentioned all the facts, answered all the questions.

It took me a term or two to start to figure it out, but we were being taught far greater lessons than what happened in the past. Through his criticism of our essays we were learning how to think, argue and write. How to evidence, quote and persuade. I'm sure we learned far more than we needed to ace the course, and indeed what I learned from Mr Tarbett ensured university was a very easy ride. Arguably much of my twenty year career has been too. Really I'm still writing history essays at heart, just the history is a lot more recent.

When I decided I wanted to apply to Cambridge - on the day of the deadline for doing so - the head of sixth form refused and said I would only embarrass myself and the school. I stormed round to see Mr Tarbett at lunchtime and he stood up for me, forced Mr McLintock to give me an application paper and just told me to go for it. Everyone else had received weeks of support and encouragement, I was given half a lunch break to scribble down my essay.

Whenever anyone asks which teacher had the most impact on my life the answer is never hard to find. I only hope now he's gone that there will be others in future generations to replace him.

Music and Me

We were not raised with music in our household. The radio was only turned on at breakfast if it was snowing and we hoped it might be announced the school was closed, and in the car we only ever had talk radio, probably Radio 4. So entwined is that experience with my acute motion sickness that I still cannot listen to bass-heavy news radio without feeling nauseous.

Exploring my godmother's cupboards as a five year old child I came across the soundtrack of the Jungle Book, which she gifted to me there and then and thus became one of only two vinyl records I have owned in 40 years. I listened to it twice, as it was such an effort to persuade my parents to get the record player down from the attic.

Of course we ate breakfast cereal, so in 1985 we collected the tokens to get all of the Weetabix Top Trax cassettes. Sadly we had no cultural context for listening to music, so these tapes were put away in a cupboard along with the rest of the toy collectibles and barely ever listened to. In fact I only recall listening to the tapes once, early one Saturday morning when everyone else was still in bed. I pulled out a tape and quietly listened to L'il Michael Jackson sing 'ABC', then put the tape back where it belonged and did nothing more about it.

Imagine if it had been any other song, perhaps some avant garde piece by the Flaming Buffalos, and this could have been a story about a musical epiphany that led to a lifelong fascination with the musical craft, rather than a story of a child who felt listening to music was an act of mischief and not especially rewarding, who three decades later cannot name a single genuinely inspiring music act, and so has to make up the improbable-sounding Flaming Buffalos.

The other vinyl record I owned was the Sam Brown cover of 'Can I Get A Witness', which I bought in a slight fluster in 1988 at a new (and naturally doomed) local record shop which had opened in town. I was aware music was something people my age should be interested in and decided it was important I should participate, so entered the shop accompanied by friend Scott Barron to provide moral support. It was a bit of an impulse buy and I have no idea if it was any good as the needle on the attic record player was broken by that point, so I never got to play it.

I was no better at playing musical instruments either. This was not something that was ever encouraged, and while we were given plastic recorders in primary school and tutored in their use for six or seven years, I never regarded it as being something of any particular importance. I would toot on it at random for brief amusement, then get on with my real schoolwork.

I recall this all came to a head in the third year of Middle School, when the waxwork-skinned music teacher Mr Campy tested is all in class: each pupil had to perform a piece, and then they got to leave and play in the yard. I was really anxious as I'd done no practice, and he worked through each classmate until it was just me and him left in the room.

"I saved you to last so you wouldn't be embarrassed," he said in all seriousness, then looked me on the eye: "Because I know you'll be terrible".

I blew randomly on the recorder and then fled the room in tears, and hid in the toilets.

Thankfully I look back and feel I can now confirm this had no lasting effect on my overall academic record. However, I've never played a musical instrument since.