Anthony Glover (RGS 1958-1965)

I left RGS in 1965, though in many ways it has never quite left me. I still have the long school photograph from that year—the one with all the pupils stretched across it—and whenever I look at it, I can almost hear the noise and feel the atmosphere of the place again.

During my time there, I was part of the CCF. I began in the Army section, doing the obligatory “square bashing,” and later transferred to the RAF section, convinced at the time that I’d make a career in the RAF. It didn’t turn out that way, but the ambition was real enough then.

I’ve kept a surprising number of things from those days. There’s my Army Proficiency Certificate, and my Proficiency Certificate for Gliding, which records that I completed three solo circuits at Kenley Aerodrome—something I was immensely proud of at the time. I also have my RAF Section Certificate of Training and my RAF Certificate of Advanced Training. One of the things I value most is a Certificate of Merit from the RAF Small Arms Association. I was part of the team that won the Assegai Trophy, competing against RAF sections across the country. I even still have the target I shot. Neither is dated, but it must have been around 1962 or ’63—before my eyesight began to deteriorate a little during A levels, which affected my shooting.

There were all sorts of characters at RGS. My best friend was Derek Bland (RGS 1958-1963), a very studious chap—he’s gone on, rather wonderfully, to make knots. Then there were Dick Dearsley (RGS 1958-1963) — who later became a publican in Mawnan Smith—and Bari Sparshot (RGS 1958-1965), who ended up a professional photographer after starting out as a drummer. They, along with a couple of others, always seemed to orbit just outside the rules which many of us admired.

The masters were unforgettable in their own ways. The Headmaster, Mr Holland, known as 'Clogs' had an extraordinary memory for names—nothing escaped him. Then there was Charlie Hart, the Assistant Headmaster. He was the undisputed alpha of the place; when he spoke, the entire school fell silent without hesitation.

We also had Sgt Major Jock Creamer, the caretaker, and Colonel Gutteridge, always recognisable by his glasses and moustache. And then there were figures like Mrs Knight and Doris, who seemed to come as a pair.

School life wasn’t all discipline, of course—there was plenty of mischief. Someone once managed to get desks and chairs up onto the roof ridge, which was no small feat. On another occasion, a skeleton appeared in the cellar under the English corridor—no one ever owned up, but it caused quite a stir. There was even a bit of quiet rebellion in writing: “Clogs must go” which appeared painted in large black letters on a black wall, and, more cleverly, the same message was hidden in the school magazine, the Pilgrim, with each line’s first letter spelling it out.

Some of the lectures we were given were memorable for all the wrong reasons. One on nasal hygiene sticks in my mind, along with another on the importance of mastication— the art of chewing slowly, odd topics that seemed to come out of nowhere.

Outside the classroom, there was plenty going on. I remember the rifle range at the school, where I spent a fair amount of time. There was also the Film Club Derek and I went to in the sixth form—Wednesday evening film nights that felt quite grown-up at the time.

The CCF gave me opportunities I’d never have had otherwise. I went to an RAF camp at Wildenrath in Germany, and on one occasion flew to Scotland in a Canberra—though we managed to go off course by about 200 miles, flying in a great curve. I also flew in a Chipmunk at White Waltham, though I can’t say I covered myself in glory—I was sick in the cockpit. Less dramatic, but more satisfying, were the two-seater trainer flights and, of course, those three solo glider flights at Kenley.

There were lighter moments too—“field days” that often ended with a final destination of The Sportsman at Mogador or The Skimmington Castle. And then there were the ordinary rhythms of school life: dinners at Annandale, just over the road from RGS, with their unmistakable smell of gristly meat and onions; the steam train journeys from Redhill to Coulsdon; and the small luxury of Domino cigarettes, which I could just about afford from my pocket money.

I remember people like Aubrey Scrase and Robin Bligh—Robin was an outstanding cricketer—and the scout trip to Germany they hosted. I was in Wray House, and there was a lad who went on to the Army’s musical college.

Looking back, it’s a mixture of structure and mischief, ambition and uncertainty. At the time, it all felt immediate and sometimes trivial. Now, it feels like a very particular world—complete in itself, and still vivid after all these years.

Anthony Bruce Glover sadly passed away in May 2025 but we were honoured that he was able to moment with us to recount his fond memories of RGS.

Register/Login with the Reigatian Hub to visit our Archive