John Goodfellow

John Goodfellow

The inspirational teachers rarely get the glory they deserve and it seems rather offensive that there is a Teacher of the Year Award. This is an award that quite clearly states that some teachers are better than others. But what qualities must that sole recipient of such a prestigious award have?  How is a teacher judged to be good? What is success for a teacher? Is a good teacher one that gets good exam results? Is a good teacher one that inspires young minds? Is a good teacher one that challenges young minds and gets them in turn to challenge their world?  Is a good teacher one that fosters independent thought in young people? Of course the answer will come from what a society or culture wants its education system to produce. In a capitalist society education has to produce a workforce; there is little room for education for education’s sake - it is often seen as a luxury.

The most inspirational teacher by whom I was fortunate to have been taught had a gift, and the theatre’s loss was my gain. A group of us were deeply affected by this charismatic man. However, like most teachers there are always pupils that don’t like them. There are comments on Friends Reunited about him ranging from the bizarre to the plain stupid. One female pupil who hated him and his lessons, got his real name wrong, but his nickname right, which was Granddad. I never understood this choice of name as John Goodfellow was about as far from an old man as it was possible to be. He was so full of life and energy. Being a heavy smoker, his explosions of enthusiasm often ended in red-faced coughing fits. He was a passionate energetic man. In later years he did sport a goatee, which along with his paunch, made him the spitting image of Falstaff and I suppose made him look older. He enjoyed life and a good glass of something took its place in that enjoyment.

He was deeply passionate about literature and drama and his reading lessons destroyed any hope that the BBC would have us live happily listening to its drama and short stories in years to come. He was a consummate actor and reader and there have been very few programmes on the radio that have come close to his mesmerizing performances. Strolling round the room, book in hand, he brought to life the mist-covered moors of Jamaica Inn, the tension of Hannay’s chase on the steam-shrouded bridge, the slow sultry heat of the South and Tom Sawyer’s naïve but honest intentions. And lost from the great and memorable pantheon of performances of Lear’s heath speech, is his. Most remarkable of all was his fluency in reading Middle English. Chaucer lived and drew breath! I knew the wife of Bath – she was a neighbour. The shitten Sheppard changed my life. This was a man with a large and generous heart – he gave everything he had freely. We were not the élite, we were not even grammar school children, we were secondary and on the whole not that bright or interested - but we got the very best that he had to give. Some of us listened.

There are few days that go by when I don’t think about him. He put poetry in my life, gave me new worlds, and gave me autonomy. I am probably close to his age now when he died. I am amazed at how little I actually know about the man who had such a profound effect upon my life. But in truth, perhaps all that matters is the passion and love for literature and life that he passed on to me.

More importantly one day he said to me - I believe you can do anything you set your mind to.