The other day while visiting Eastbourne I had occasion to be driving past Central Avenue in Old Town and had occasion to remember a house cross-country in, I think, February 1960. It had been decided on a chill, overcast afternoon that, as Hampden Park was frozen and therefore football would be impossible, there would be a house cross-country, each house fielding a team of 12 from the Lower VIth. The course was to be from Central Avenue up to the top of the Downs, across to somewhere near Summerdown Road, then across Old Town, up Watts Lane and back to Eversley Court. Unfortunately, I was picked for the Devonshire team. I’m a bit vague about the course because I had no intention of participating as I had always loathed cross-country.

Anyway, we changed and headed over to Victoria Drive; on the way I mentioned to Vince Wernham that I was going to sprint up Central Avenue, be first round the corner of Royal Sussex Crescent and then dive behind a hedge before walking back to school. Vince said he was dying for a fag and, in fact, had a packet of 10 Senior Service in his pocket.

At the starting line I was approached by fellow team members Terry Gilsenan and Mervyn Chisnall who informed me that the Devonshire team would set a cracking pace up to the top of the Downs, by which time we would have established ourselves as pack leaders and taken control of the whole run. If only life were this simple. I nodded agreement and thought to myself “S*d that for a game of soldiers”.

“On your marks, get set, GO!” yelled Wizzy – or as close as he ever came to yelling. Vince and I took off like rockets, the last thing I remember hearing from the other runners was Gilly shouting for me to slow down. As we turned the corner into Royal Sussex Crescent we were at least 50 yards ahead of any other runner. A few seconds later, we dived behind a hedge in someone’s front garden while the 46 other runners went by.

As we strolled back down Milton road to Vince’s house in Baldwin Avenue, he had already lit up. After all, we weren’t in school uniform! It was agreed that we should probably head for the bottom of Watts Lane and surreptitiously join the pack as it passed.  Our timing was way off because, when we approached Mr Renford (who as usual was doing his Peter Glaze impression) he asked if there were any more runners behind us. As he spoke, about half-a-dozen other tailenders appeared, but I can only remember Roger Quaife, Keith “Clerge” Cramphorn, Ken Walder and Clive Spence. Clerge was highly upset as he said that he too would have preferred to duck off for a cigarette rather than run across the top of the Downs on a cold afternoon. Vince and I were by this time getting cold, so we had to run up the hill to raise our body temperature. Difficult to imagine that I was ever capable of running up Watts Lane!

At the finishing line Vince and I ended with a position of joint 44^th. During the long wait for the last half-dozen runners, Vernon Davies was heard to remark “whenever Connell appears, he will be laughing”. And why not? I had dodged yet another cross-country run.

 

Phillip Connell (1954-61)