John Passey RIP

I met him at secondary school. Central Technical School for Boys in Gloucester. A school that was staffed by a weird collection of misfits, incompetents and sadists. Most teachers had their own preferred instrument of violence (often referred to by pet names) and particular method of inflicting pain and humiliation. I recall being beaten with various sticks, a plimsoll, large books and a board compass (as well as being punched and kicked). They repeatedly told me I was useless and stupid, that my lack of learning was my own fault.

Amid this sea of educational darkness there was a shining light. He was John Passey: the English teacher. John was full of enthusiasm and encouragement. He loved poetry, particularly Gerard Manley Hopkins, and he instilled that love in me. He also encouraged his pupils to write poetry and short stories, no mean achievement for 14 year old boys who thought they were tough. And when, full of fear, we read our work out in class, he praised it highly. My adolescent poetry was, of course, dire and highly derivative. But through John, I left the school believing that, although I was stupid, I did have a story to tell.

John Passey's funeral took place in Gloucester Cathedral last Friday. He was a talented and generous man and had touched many lives. The tribute was delivered by his son, Alan. He explained that John was so very proud of the boys he taught and what they went on to achieve. And despite the limitations of that school, these achievements were many.

In his will John had asked for his coffin to be carried by us. Unfortunately, this was vetoed by the Cathedral. But as professional pall-bearers transported John's coffin through the nave of the cathedral, two long lines of 'old boys' formed a guard of honour. It was a fitting send off for the man.

Chris O'Ryan, John Taylor, Dave Ballard and myself (with Alan Passey on my back): a chance encounter with the Passey family in Weymouth.