Never dig out that old school tie

I know it's not the ideal way to start today's File, but there's method, not to mention Methodism, in my madness. Anyway, summing up the great cosmic joke that is human existence, it goes along the lines of life being merely a shaft of light in the eternal darkness.

Right. I like it, so will lay claim, until some bright Herbert or Herberta writes in and provides evidence to the contrary.

Nevertheless, this business of not being around forever certainly concentrates the mind, especially when, in those quieter moments sat on riverbank or armchair, one reviews the passing years and thinks of the glories lost, won or just plain missed.

Edith Piaf sang a whole song dedicated to this idea and what a fraudulent dirge it was after all, who, in all honesty, can say they have no regrets? Piaf? Piffle more like. And before someone writes in and gives me a good telling-off, let me quickly affirm that I quite like the leetle sparrow of old Paree.

Anyway, I have plenty of regrets, as it happens. For example, I once wanted to wear a zoot suit and play rasping baritone saxophone la King Curtis it never happened. I'd have loved strong curly hair which, when dipped in brylcreem, might have become the finest quiff in Christendom. It was never to be.

The list could go on, but space militates against it. However, here's an event that has never come about, and something that is now highly unlikely ever to take place. Dan-da-dan-dan it's the school reunion.

Now let me set the record straight. I've nothing against get-togethers among people who have shared experiences. Former employees do it, graduates do it, ex-service people do it.

And what fun it must be, as grey-templed veterans swap yarns about the day when Old Stinker Stainsworth pranged a Spit at Coltishall in 1940, or the time when Roger Ramsbotham was caught in flagrante with Doris Duckworthy in the stockroom.

Yes, great stuff. In fact, I can imagine a time when a geriatric port-marinaded Phillpott might hold forth in the backroom of The Old Writ and Libel, chin-wagging with other clapped-out hacks, talking about the good old days of hot metal typesetting, when a chosen few knew the difference between a pica and a mutton rule.

But school reunion? No. Not a chance. Let me elaborate.

For a start, I didn't enjoy my school days very much, which is probably why I spent most of the time mucking about. For one thing, I could hardly find my way around the Lawrence Sheriff School, Rugby, because, being a country boy used to only two streets, I found myself completely thrown by the topography.

This sounds pathetic, as indeed it is. But you must bear in mind that, at the age of 11, I could hardly cross the road. I would stand on the edge of the pavement in Clifton Road and wouldn't move until there was no traffic in sight.

This might mean I could be stuck there all morning, for the number of vehicles was not inconsiderable, even in 1960. All right, I'm joking... perhaps.

Once inside this academy, depending on whether I could understand the mysteries of the timetable and turn up in the right room, lessons would commence.

English was a breeze, history likewise. But maths was bamboo chips down the fingernails. Agreed, French and geography were endurable, but physics with George "Pipette" Peters (not his real surname) was a nightmare, especially as he would thrash us en masse when the experiment to find the coefficient of linear expansion went haywire. Which it always did.

No. Who would want to renew acquaintances with former tormentors such as these. And even the English teacher fell from grace after he refused to publish one of my poems in the school mag. This scurrilous sonnet ended up on the headmaster's desk, in fact.

Then there are one's confederates, old sweats from the class of '65. Heaven knows how many are still around. I remember at least two died in motorcycle accidents, a couple in car crashes.

Nigel Makepeace joined the Army, Phil Soapy Olive went into his dad's firm and Mick Bradders Bradley drummed for Steamhammer, a top rock band of the late 60s.

He, too, died young, being claimed by leukaemia before the age of 25.

Then there was Pebs Stone, Tub Dew, Boggy McGuire do schoolchildren still give each other obvious, silly nicknames? plus innumerable reprobates who were to part company early with the school that had once vowed to teach us how to be Christian English gentlemen.

But it still begs the question. After all these years more than 35 summers and winters have now passed what would we say to one another if we suddenly found ourselves in the main function room of The Coach and Horses or The Dun Cow, two hostelries situated in my old bailliwick?

How would the passage of a third of a century, involving any number of disparate experiences, reconcile themselves as we queued for the bar, engaging in too-jolly conversations... let me buy you a drink; no, I will; yes, I insist; oh lovely, that would be fine; pint then?

Then, as we sat down to the prawn cocktails, would the talk flow smoothly, oiled by the cheaper Chardonnay. Or might the words falter and fall to floor, like the crumbs from the regulation roll and butter?

I have this feeling that the school reunion is a flawed concept. Like the seed head of the thistledown, leaving school should allow us to be blown on our way by the four winds, destination destiny.

School is a transient few years, a blip on life's screen. There are no real experiences, at least not those that would stand up to scrutiny or comparison in later years.

A reunion would expose your old muckers to all the ravages of ageing, when they should be frozen in time with Beatle haircuts, shiny trousers and ink-stained blazers. They should have spots instead of crows' feet and broken facial veins, mouths full of teeth, not dentures.

The last time you saw them, Ford Anglias and Triumph Tiger Cubs travelled the roads. How could these lost legions of grammar school scholars fit into a world of Ford Mondeos and Calibras?

How did all this start? Ah yes, it was reflecting on life, and how this epic journey seems to gather pace as the years go by. And there's nothing you or I can do about it.

Except this. Whatever you do, if someone invites you to a school reunion, have that answer ready....