Weren’t school assemblies great?

Before I carry on, I’d like to assure you that this isn’t a Stuart Maconie talking-head style “didn’t we all ride around on Chopper bikes and then your mum would call you in for fish fingers” article. See this video for his masterful command of talking-headery. What I’ve got in store is far more tedious than an 8 minute video of a publicity obsessed idiot talking about Morrissey.

For those of you who were spared the wonder of a Church of England education, assembly was one of your religious five a day, where the whole school gathered in the hall (sitting on the wooden floor, unless you were in the top year, in which case you got a wooden seat. The bastards.) One poor teacher had to lead the thing, while the others got 15 minutes of beautiful peace and quiet to smoke in the staff room. Seriously, who wants to entertain a roomful of kids at 9am? So it was a disinterested teacher talking God-bothering to disinterested kids. Perfect.

It was in school assembly that I first heard the expression “silent but violent”, and learned with almost devastating consequences what it actually meant.

It was the place where our headmaster emptied a tube of toothpaste into the hands of some poor girl. Supposedly he was proving a point about not being able to put the toothpaste back in, but it’s far more likely that it was a weird wank fantasy.

Oh, and Mrs. Wilding (nickname: Mrs. Wild Thing. We were awesome even then) stood in the bin.

Both the best and worst bit of the assembly were the hymns. Like in a church, but with people who don’t want to be singing, and are too young to even contemplate the notion of an omnipotent creator who definitely doesn’t exist.

Despite an overly long introduction, without further ado, and in no particular order, here are my top five hymns. Chosen mostly because even now, ten years since I left any form of school with compulsory Goddery, I can still remember the bloody words and how we’d subvert them in what I’d like to think was a stand against the system, but was probably just because the big kids did it.

Give Me Joy In My Heart

First Verse:

Give me joy in my heart, keep me praising,
Give me joy in my heart, I pray,
Give me joy in my heart, keep me praising,
Keep me praising ’till the break of day.

Why it was fun:

The chorus ran like this:

Sing hosanna, sing hosanna,
Sing hosanna to the King of kings!
Sing hosanna, sing hosanna,
Sing hosanna to the King.

But being kids and not really paying attention to the hymn books, someone would always forget that the second and fourth lines were different, so at the end there’d be a really loud “OF KINGS….”, trailing out as they realise that nobody else is singing it. Every. Single. Time.

When I Needed a Neighbour

First Verse:

When I needed a neighbour
Were you there, were you there?
When I needed a neighbour
Were you there?
And the creed and the colour
And the name won’t matter
Were you there?

Why it was fun:

Almost without exception, this hymn was introduced with the words “sing verses one, two and four.” Why not three? Because it had the word naked in:

I was cold, I was naked
Were you there, were you there?
I was cold, I was naked
Were you there?
And the creed and the colour
And the name won’t matter
Were you there?

Not that the teachers couldn’t be trusted with the word naked around kids – paedophilia hadn’t been invented back then – but because the hymn, and by extension the whole assembly, would be over as the room dissolved into fits of giggles over some unknown person stood there naked and cold. While we were there.

“Of course he’s cold!” we would have said if we could stand up, Robin Williams in that one where he’s a crazy teacher style, “he’s naked!”

From the Tiny Ant

First Verse:

from the tiny ant
from the tiny ant
to the elephant
to the elephant
from the snake to the kangaroo
from the snake to the kangaroo

Why it was fun:

Notice how everything up there is in twice? The assembly room was split down the middle – there was active cheering when the teacher did this, cheering a bloody hymn. I’d like to go back and slap every single little bugger in there. Everyone on the left sang the line once, and then everyone on the right sang it back to them. Why? I don’t know. It was like a prototype rap gig or something.

Also, the final verse ended with “care for them, it’s up to us”, which it was traditional to stretch out as much as possible, with the “ssssssssss” continuing long after the piano had stopped, pausing to inhale as much breath as possible and continuing with another burst. “sssssssss”. Resulted in numerous bollockings, and is as pointless an exercise as I can think of. Except singing the sodding thing in the first place.

Autumn Days

First Verse:

Autumn days, when the grass is jewelled
And the silk in a chestnut shell
Jet planes meeting in the air to be refuelled
All these things I love so well
So I mustn’t forget
No, I mustn’t forget
To say a great big thank you
No, I mustn’t forget.

Why it was fun:

For some reason, it was the only hymn that we were allowed – and in fact encouraged – to tit around, bellowing some of the lines out at the top of our voices. Looking back, this was a bit strange, and probably some quite clever reverse psychology to get us interested in it all.

Look at it, the lyrics don’t even work. Jet planes meeting in the air would probably cause a spectacular fiery death. Who do we thank for that? And even if they were refuelling, it still doesn’t answer who we should be thanking. Thanks God, for creating engineers. Or rather, thanks engineers. For creating God.

We Three Kings

First Verse:

We three kings of Orient are;
Bearing gifts we traverse afar,
Field and fountain, moor and mountain,
Following yonder star.

Why it was fun:

We Three Kings was a festive treat, a hymn made so much more fun by the very fact that you couldn’t play it at all from January to November. Unless you’re the knobhead DJ I saw in Coventry a few years back who ironically played Slade’s Merry Christmas Everybody on a Monday night in the middle of June, on the hottest day since records began. Hilarious.

The scope for changing the lyrics of We Three Kings is enormous, but the favourite in our school was:

Oh, star of wonder
Star of might
Fill your pants with dynamite
Light the fuse and off we go
Skiing in the winter snow

It doesn’t even make sense. Advocating blowing your cock off for the sake of an extreme sports holiday? Pah. Skiing wasn’t even invented back then, so why would those three kings who really did exist and really did visit Jesus who really is the son of God decide to go skiing? Actually, it’s as plausible as the rest of the story, so we’ll give them that.

The Internet reliably informs me that

We three kings of Orient are
Tried to smoke a rubber cigar
It was loaded, and exploded
Now we’re on yonder star.

was also in use, but we wouldn’t know what a rubber cigar is, and to be honest I’m still a bit confused. So don’t sing that one.