Our short story takes place during the winter of 1989-1990 in a school in Worcester. A private school for boys to be precise, though not one that is especially well-known. I was nine years old and in my first term, having arrived from a tiny village school that September. It had taken me weeks to settle owing to the fact that I knew nobody in my class and was somewhat overawed by the sense of grandeur, formality and at times intimidating way that the school was run. But enough of that, this is not the time for self-indulgence. Where I was able to gain a foothold and even at times flourish, was in my schoolwork. Anything involving creativity and expression, or touching upon my love of history, was greeted by my full and uncontested enthusiasm and slowly I began to make my way in these strange new surroundings.
Of course, one of the big changes from my first school was the sudden introduction of a host of new subjects, some of which introduced specialist masters (for they were masters, NOT teachers). One of these was geography, where we were taught by none other than Mr Wickson.
Mr Wickson was a remarkable looking gentleman. Tall and well-built with an ancient looking face, full of crags and lines, he always sported a twinkle in his eye that belied his theatrical approach to classroom teaching. Imagine a cross between an older Paddy Ashdown and and even older Michael Portillo. If I recall, our lessons that year were mainly concerned with countries, continents, large mountain ranges and rivers. High level geographic context-setting if you will. Of course, at the centre of everything were maps, and Mr Wickson’s approach to map drawing was really quite extraordinary.
Now, I should point out that I do not expect a geography master to be able to create a perfectly accurate scale drawing of Western Europe on a chalk blackboard with the accuracy of an experienced cartographer. Nonetheless, it was fair to say that his efforts were something of a cop out at best. The United Kingdom for instance comprised of two triangles on top of each other resembling an egg timer, whilst Africa was simply one single giant triangle. We would sit there chortling whilst he flayed his arms around frantically, the elbow pads on his tweed jacket expulsing chalk dust as he went. Incidentally, I have since come to recognize that tweed jackets with elbow pads seem to be the de facto choice of socialists, whereas conservatives have no need for this feature in their tweed. I may expand further upon this one day…
So it was that I found myself presented with a homework assignment midway through that year with the task of drawing a map of the United Kingdom in my green geography exercise book. That evening I took my work out and set to the task, happy in the knowledge that my map bore far more resemblance than his. Once it was finished all that remained for me to do was to draw a compass in the top corner. Here, I paused and considered my options. Mr Wickson’s compasses were usually a tad on the spartan side, but here I had the opportunity to add a little more flare and finesse. Taking inspiration from the Chronicles of Narnia books that I had begun reading that year - in which the maps that preceded the opening chapters often had elaborate compasses with all sorts of flourishes - I got to work. It took me two hours (far longer than I would ordinarily have spent on homework) but the finished piece was magnificent. Each and every point of the compass was fashioned into a beautiful point, centring on a circle full of swirls, strokes and serifs. Completing my masterpiece was a cloud with eyes and a mouth alongside it, blowing a gust of wind towards the compass as if to encourage a weather vane to move from east to west.
“There"!” I announced, staring proudly at my piece of work. “Now THAT’S a map!”
Naturally, I was rather more eager than usual to receive my work back the following week to see what mark I had received. You can imagine my dismay therefore when, on finally receiving the book back (they were thrown violently across the room by the masters in those days - none of this “handing them back” malarkey), I saw that I had received a somewhat modest mark of 8 out of 10. Apparently my map was too detailed and I had added some cities unnecessarily (Id taken the opportunity to curate these based on whether I approved of them or not - for instance York and Winchester had made the cut but Liverpool was nowhere to be seen). However, his critique of these finer points paled into insignificance when I noticed his reaction to my compass. A single red line had been drawn over my beautiful piece of artwork and alongside it he had crudely scribbled an arrow pointing upwards with a lop-sided letter “N” above.
I don’t believe the word “bastard” had quite entered my lexicon at that point, but in the interest of measure and proportionality let’ s assume for moment that it had.
You complete and utter bastard.
I seem to recall staring in disbelief for some moments before deciding that it was the final time Id ever make an effort in geography again. The sheer temerity of this fusty old fool treating my work with such utter distain… why would anyone do such a thing?
I suddenly realised why. Because he wasn’t remotely interested in anything artistic. Geography was, as far as he was concerned, a science. And as a science it existed purely to deal in facts, data and information. A map wasn’t there to look pretty, it was there to convey information pure and simple. A compass was there to point in the direction of north, to lend an aspect of relativity to the diagram and nothing else. Never mind the fact that a nice looking map might make it more likely for someone to pick it up and study it, or that they might enjoy reading it more than something more bland - this sort of thinking would never enter his head.
It dawned on me at that moment that there were two kinds of people in the world - those who want things to look beautiful, who admire and appreciate art and culture and then those who see the world as a giant calculator, solvable by finite numbers, where everything else is irrelevant. This second group I would argue have largely dominated society ever since which is why we are surrounded by ugly glass and concrete blocks, wind turbines and under perpetual assault from an onslaught of garbage through the various mediums of light entertainment and news. They reject anything that cannot be measured or broken down into a sub-atomic level which is why they are ultimately godless, anti-human and miserable.
It’s a lot to pin on a man just doing his job as a geography teacher I know. But in a way Id like to thank him for revealing to me the way the world is and how I am wired to respond to what I see, hear and feel. I have no doubt that functional benefits can be attached and attributed to many of the things I regard as being ugly. However, just how many things have we produced in the past few decades that will still be in existence in hundreds of years time and to which people will gather and say “look at how beautiful that is”?
Moreover, it isn’t merely tangible aesthetics which were defined in that moment. The ability to merge and see value beyond one single tangible metric has, I believe, served me admirably. For instance, during the summer of 2020 when most inhabitants of Planet Earth lost their marbles and began to wear masks every time they stepped outside their front door, I instantly recognised the folly of doing so. Even if there were to be a recorded benefit to wearing the ghastly things (hint: there ISN’T), then that would need to be weighed up against the significance of having everyone walking around like robots, their faces hidden from view, the very fabric of what it is to be uniquely human downgraded before our eyes. That it would destroy us as a people. I felt at that moment that if a spiritual connection could not be made on that very point, then it was proof that the world had been overcome by the spawn of Mr Wickson and his blandly scribbled compass.