We called our maths master *** happy Chappie,  Mr Chapman stank to high heaven like an ash tray and smoked like a chimney even while taking class.

We called the English teacher Jesus because he was young, bearded and wore a white suit. One of the lads flicked ink all down his back one day without him noticing as he walked up and down between the desks.

Another English teacher took it on himself to teach *** education. He advised us not to ******* the night before an exam. He doubled up as a career adviser and told everyone to go into banking or insurance.

The history master liked to nod off in lessons when he was supposed to be teaching us and we had to stay completely silent. If anyone made a noise he would yell at us, and he would sometimes hit us with a tennis shoe with a golf ball jammed in it.  He wrote Stoke City for the cup in chalk mirror writing on the sole so that it would come out on our backsides when he whacked us.

The first headmaster was nice, we liked him, he was human. But then *** took over. He tightened up the rules about school uniform, no coloured shirts, things like that, but wore luminous green socks himself, the silly *******. He gave me the slipper for sciving off an afternoon once, I hated him. I think if I'd had a gun I might have shot him.  Someone said they think he's dead now, and I thought good, I hope he died in agony ha ha.

Then there was Mr Eaton, another English master. He was one of those truly inspiring teachers whose enthusiasm for his subject was infectious.
On the day he introduced us to Chaucer's  'The Prologue '  he gave us the text and proceeded to recite from memory the whole thing.  I never forgot that.  

It was a mixed experience, Grammar School in the 1970's.