Nothing But The Truth
by Alasdair McPherson
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: Who pulled down the pillars of the temple?
_____________________________________________________________________
In the good old days when 'blue' in a title indicated racy content rather than a communications system, I became a teacher. I was not offered the Ph.D. place that I really wanted so I decided, in a fit of pique, to devote my life to the education of other, perhaps more worthy, students. An epiphany, you might call it: in any event my resolution lasted nearly two years after which I left the classroom to enjoy myself doing research.
At that time, each Local Council appointed a councillor as Head of the Education Department and he took a day-by-day interest in what the professionals were up to in the county schools. We were a working class area so the entire council was Labour; the division was on traditional lines with Rangers supporters on the right and Celtic fans on the left of the Council Chamber. Education changed very little with the years and was considered to be an undemanding brief so it tended to be awarded to a loyal supporter not bright enough for a more exacting role.
He was probably not the only councillor who moved his lips as he stumbled through the Daily Record – they all carried the Bulletin on conspicuous show but never got beyond the cartoons on page two. The Council Leader was the only exception – he carried a Glasgow Herald but I do not, myself, believe that it was the same copy every day. It was certainly too clean to be a rescue copy from his fish supper. Even in those far off days, to give them their due, they were all adept at adding – and padding – their expense accounts.
What went on in schools was important, of course, although good order and discipline were rated much higher than mere academic achievement. Except, that is, in Religious Education which was a highly sensitive subject because of the denominational division in the debating chamber. In any event, the only serious offence a Head of Education could commit was rocking the boat.
Shortly after I joined the teaching staff a small cloud appeared over the school's horizon. An inspector arrived; he was a personable young man made welcome by the Mathematicians and Scientists partly because he naively lost money to us at penny brag but mainly because he was checking Music and RE. The Scottish Education Department, being based in Edinburgh, was a secular organisation with an unwarranted conviction that Hearts and Hibs could play football.
In their wisdom, they decided that Religious Education was to be treated as a sort of addendum to that proper job of inspecting a more worthy subject: Music, in this particular case. Our inspector loved music and he was punctilious in pursuit of the last semi-quaver when the Higher Class offered a part-song under the nervous guidance of the Head of Music – well, the only music teacher in the school, if you must know.
He was, understandably, more wary in his approach to RE. Of course you could not grow up in Scotland at that time without a smattering of religious knowledge, not all of it bawled at the top of a raucous voice after an Old Firm match. To be on the safe side, the inspector asked the simplest question he could think of.
“Who pulled down the pillars of the temple?” he asked a first year class of non-quallies.
Looking round at the semi-circle of anxious faces in front of him, he was just beginning to think he had set the bar too high when a big lad near the front stuck his hand in the air.
“Yes?” he said, smiling brightly. “Tell me your name and then give us your answer.”
“Am Willie, and it wisnae me!”
The inspector looked at the class teacher, who stood up, finger already rigidly pointing, and moved to loom over Willie now carelessly picking his nose and flicking bits of snot at a wee girl he fancied.
“Tell the truth, Willie Smith,” the teacher started at about half-rant level. “Or you'll get a hammerin' you won't forget in a hurry!”
Distracted from his imaginative wooing, Willie stood up and solemnly crossed his heart.
“Ah know nothing about any rotten temple. Ah wisnae even near it.”
After another moment or two when his furrowed brow signalled deep thought, he added: “When did it happen? A bet you a have an alibi.”
“He disnae have the muscles to pull doon a blind”, added his light of love – an intervention that put paid to a promising romance.
The rest of the class, always alert for a source of disruptive fun, were by this time taking sides and making interjections for and against Willie. Several of these philosophical exchanges became heated and the teacher had to intervene using the traditional method of picking on four of the most easily cowed boys and giving them six each with the Lochgelly belt.
The calming effect of watching others being unjustly punished worked its usual soothing magic so order had been more or less restored so that, when the bell rang to end the lesson, there was no tension left that could not be dissipated by a bit of tripping and pushing on the way to the next class.
There the matter might have ended if the inspector had not been invited to a champagne reception in the Town Hall where the whiskey was served by the tumblerful. After a few nippy-sweeties he found himself next to the Head of Education and, in his somewhat muddled state, decided to confide the story of Willie and the pillars of the temple to that august personage. The councillor, being in better practice, was in complete control of his faculties; he immediately sensed that here was a wave that could rock the boat of state so he assured the inspector that there would be a full investigation. Meanwhile, he suggested, it would be best if nothing about the incident appeared in the official report.
You will have guessed that 'Willie Smith' is not the boy's real name. Any Scot reading that would have been able to guess his affiliation so all I am prepared to tell you is that he and the Head of Education kicked with the same foot.
The councillor went to the school the very next day to apply the third degree to the protagonists. He was inclined, at first, to ascribe the blame to Willie since he did not have the vote but he later discovered that Willie's dad was an old school friend of his. That and the wise decision of the headmaster to serve a worthy single malt to the visitor at morning break meant that the investigation ended with mellow feelings of goodwill all round.
A week later, the inspector received a letter from the head of Education on expensive headed notepaper in the following terms:
“As promised I have thoroughly investigated the matter of the pillars of the temple. I have to tell you that Willie Smith is a fine young man from a good family and I can assure you that when he says that he did not do it he is telling the truth.
“You will have to look elsewhere for the culprit.”
Swearwords: None.
Description: Who pulled down the pillars of the temple?
_____________________________________________________________________
In the good old days when 'blue' in a title indicated racy content rather than a communications system, I became a teacher. I was not offered the Ph.D. place that I really wanted so I decided, in a fit of pique, to devote my life to the education of other, perhaps more worthy, students. An epiphany, you might call it: in any event my resolution lasted nearly two years after which I left the classroom to enjoy myself doing research.
At that time, each Local Council appointed a councillor as Head of the Education Department and he took a day-by-day interest in what the professionals were up to in the county schools. We were a working class area so the entire council was Labour; the division was on traditional lines with Rangers supporters on the right and Celtic fans on the left of the Council Chamber. Education changed very little with the years and was considered to be an undemanding brief so it tended to be awarded to a loyal supporter not bright enough for a more exacting role.
He was probably not the only councillor who moved his lips as he stumbled through the Daily Record – they all carried the Bulletin on conspicuous show but never got beyond the cartoons on page two. The Council Leader was the only exception – he carried a Glasgow Herald but I do not, myself, believe that it was the same copy every day. It was certainly too clean to be a rescue copy from his fish supper. Even in those far off days, to give them their due, they were all adept at adding – and padding – their expense accounts.
What went on in schools was important, of course, although good order and discipline were rated much higher than mere academic achievement. Except, that is, in Religious Education which was a highly sensitive subject because of the denominational division in the debating chamber. In any event, the only serious offence a Head of Education could commit was rocking the boat.
Shortly after I joined the teaching staff a small cloud appeared over the school's horizon. An inspector arrived; he was a personable young man made welcome by the Mathematicians and Scientists partly because he naively lost money to us at penny brag but mainly because he was checking Music and RE. The Scottish Education Department, being based in Edinburgh, was a secular organisation with an unwarranted conviction that Hearts and Hibs could play football.
In their wisdom, they decided that Religious Education was to be treated as a sort of addendum to that proper job of inspecting a more worthy subject: Music, in this particular case. Our inspector loved music and he was punctilious in pursuit of the last semi-quaver when the Higher Class offered a part-song under the nervous guidance of the Head of Music – well, the only music teacher in the school, if you must know.
He was, understandably, more wary in his approach to RE. Of course you could not grow up in Scotland at that time without a smattering of religious knowledge, not all of it bawled at the top of a raucous voice after an Old Firm match. To be on the safe side, the inspector asked the simplest question he could think of.
“Who pulled down the pillars of the temple?” he asked a first year class of non-quallies.
Looking round at the semi-circle of anxious faces in front of him, he was just beginning to think he had set the bar too high when a big lad near the front stuck his hand in the air.
“Yes?” he said, smiling brightly. “Tell me your name and then give us your answer.”
“Am Willie, and it wisnae me!”
The inspector looked at the class teacher, who stood up, finger already rigidly pointing, and moved to loom over Willie now carelessly picking his nose and flicking bits of snot at a wee girl he fancied.
“Tell the truth, Willie Smith,” the teacher started at about half-rant level. “Or you'll get a hammerin' you won't forget in a hurry!”
Distracted from his imaginative wooing, Willie stood up and solemnly crossed his heart.
“Ah know nothing about any rotten temple. Ah wisnae even near it.”
After another moment or two when his furrowed brow signalled deep thought, he added: “When did it happen? A bet you a have an alibi.”
“He disnae have the muscles to pull doon a blind”, added his light of love – an intervention that put paid to a promising romance.
The rest of the class, always alert for a source of disruptive fun, were by this time taking sides and making interjections for and against Willie. Several of these philosophical exchanges became heated and the teacher had to intervene using the traditional method of picking on four of the most easily cowed boys and giving them six each with the Lochgelly belt.
The calming effect of watching others being unjustly punished worked its usual soothing magic so order had been more or less restored so that, when the bell rang to end the lesson, there was no tension left that could not be dissipated by a bit of tripping and pushing on the way to the next class.
There the matter might have ended if the inspector had not been invited to a champagne reception in the Town Hall where the whiskey was served by the tumblerful. After a few nippy-sweeties he found himself next to the Head of Education and, in his somewhat muddled state, decided to confide the story of Willie and the pillars of the temple to that august personage. The councillor, being in better practice, was in complete control of his faculties; he immediately sensed that here was a wave that could rock the boat of state so he assured the inspector that there would be a full investigation. Meanwhile, he suggested, it would be best if nothing about the incident appeared in the official report.
You will have guessed that 'Willie Smith' is not the boy's real name. Any Scot reading that would have been able to guess his affiliation so all I am prepared to tell you is that he and the Head of Education kicked with the same foot.
The councillor went to the school the very next day to apply the third degree to the protagonists. He was inclined, at first, to ascribe the blame to Willie since he did not have the vote but he later discovered that Willie's dad was an old school friend of his. That and the wise decision of the headmaster to serve a worthy single malt to the visitor at morning break meant that the investigation ended with mellow feelings of goodwill all round.
A week later, the inspector received a letter from the head of Education on expensive headed notepaper in the following terms:
“As promised I have thoroughly investigated the matter of the pillars of the temple. I have to tell you that Willie Smith is a fine young man from a good family and I can assure you that when he says that he did not do it he is telling the truth.
“You will have to look elsewhere for the culprit.”
About the Author
Originally from Dalmuir, Alasdair McPherson is now retired and living in exile in Lincolnshire.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned two novels and is now trying his hand at short stories.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned two novels and is now trying his hand at short stories.