My influences: Fred Wedlock

As reported elsewhere in my blog, I attended Bristol Grammar School from 1955 to 1962, and was placed in Booker's House (the black house), whose guide and mentor was Michael Booker, also referred to elsewhere in my blog.

The majority of boys (we were all boys then - the School went co-educational a few years later) had school lunches. We ate in the Great Hall in two shifts - the first and second years in the first sitting and everyone else in the second sitting. We sat in houses - each house had seven or eight tables of eight people each and each table was presided over by a table prefect. Fred Wedlock was one of these, and I was usually successful in the competition to sit on his table. Fred, later to achieve fame and fortune with "The Oldest Swinger in Town" and a number of other singles and LPs was, up to that point, the funniest person I had ever met. Indeed, he remains one of the funniest people I have ever met. I can't remember any of the conversations we had, but I do recall often returning to my form room for the afternoon's classes weak with laughter, in a way that only teenagers can manage.

However, one anecdote springs to mind. Michael Booker, our house master, usually sat on one of the tables for lunch and, on this occasion, we were joined by the then Headmaster, John Mackay. I don't know if John Mackay had a sense of humour - I never had the opportunity to discover - but he showed no evidence of it on this occasion. The main course passed off uneventfully - then came the sweet. The School was in the habit of serving a kind of hard shortbread, affectionally known as "concrete", as a sweet. The only way of attacking this (we weren't allowed to pick it up) was to grab one's spoon firmly and jab the concrete with the point. After several jabs a fault line would appear and, using this technique, one could break the slab of concrete into pieces small enough to eat. However, boys had suffered a number of shrapnel injuries from the concrete when it shattered explosively; in order to reduce the rate of injury, it was muffled with a sort of pink custard, which kept the pieces glued to the plate.

This lunchtime, Michael Booker was sitting next to me, Fred opposite me and the Headmaster next to Fred. Using the approved technique, Michael grapped his spoon and jabbed the concrete. The first time, nothing happened. The second time, the concrete shattered. However, the pink custard wasn't up to the task and one half of the concrete, with its coating of pink custard, struck the Headmaster in the middle of his waistcoat and the other half hit Michael Booker in the identical spot. I looked at Fred. Not a wrinkle! I held my breath, or bit my tongue, or did something else to retain my composure. Michael and the Headmaster left the table to repair the damage. To my regret I can't remember what Fred then said but I laughed for a week!

I occasionally came across him around Bristol or at social events and it was always a joy. He appeared to have enjoyed those lunchtime encounters as much as I did.

Fred died last year, much mourned by Old Bristolians in particular and all Bristolians in general. What a lovely man. I feel really privileged to have known him well for a couple of years.