Our aims are:

1  To provide our boys with a keen understanding, interest and proficiency in their use of language, both written and spoken.

2  To show them the nature of the society and world in which they live, both through direct observation and through the books, plays and poetry which we teach and which we encourage them to experience independently.

3  To inculcate in them a love for the material they have studied - which will remain with them for the rest of their lives.

4  To enable them to obtain examination results which will allow them to make their own career choices.

5  That the boys will enjoy our lessons and find them worthwhile and stimulating.

English as a subject is unique in that its borders are so vague. Our interests cover both traditional Literature and all forms of media; likewise we are as concerned with the teaching of grammatically correct Standard English as in learning about the history of the language and the origins of its dialects at home and abroad. Similarly, it is hard to say where the classroom stops and where extra-curricular activity begins. The lesson-time debates lead on to debates - through DJN - with the Girls’ Grammar School, Casterton School, and with various competitions. The good speaking and reading encouraged within the timetable appears in readings during assembly and in the carol service. The teaching of a play is often accompanied by seeing it performed in, for instance, Manchester or Preston.

Staff Profiles

Dr Thorn is Head of Department. He has a BA from Sheffield University in English Language, Mediaeval Literature and Linguistics and an MA from Birmingham University in Chaucer Studies. His doctoral thesis was on the Dissemination of the Middle English Psalter. He also has an Advanced Certificate in Education in Specific Learning Difficulties (Dyslexia). He has taught at LRGS since 1997, having previously taught in Kent and the Midlands. Dr Thorn also commands the CCF Contingent.

Mr Novell is the Second in Department. He has both a BA and MA from Lancaster University. His particular interests are Victorian literature, the modern novel and Shakespeare. He has taught at LRGS since 1982. Within the Department, he is responsible for GCSE teaching; he also is in charge of the library.  Mr Novell runs the Hewell Society, which is the school’s debating society, and has coached teams for debating competitions. He is fascinated by films, and makes good use of this interest in his teaching.

Mr Ashbridge has been teaching at LRGS since 1996. Prior to that, he taught in local schools and at Lancaster University and St Martin’s College. His interests include the life and work of Robert Louis Stevenson; he is also interested in contemporary fiction, with – he says – too much of a tendency toward detective novels; he listens to a wide range of music and enjoys the cinema. He is a long-suffering supporter of Carlisle United.

Mr MacDonald is also the Head of Careers and Work-Related Learning. He has a degree in English and Psychology from Natal University. In addition to his teaching qualification, he has a Certificate in English Language Teaching to Adults and a Diploma in Careers Education. His interests in English include the 20th century novel and satire. He has recently taken over command of the RAF Section.

Mr Davies is a musician, originally from Stourbridge in the West Midlands. A graduate of the University of Wales he has research interests in 18th century stage music and is also a composer. During his 30 years at LRGS he has written several pieces for his pupils, including two full length musicals and a body of choral work. He enjoys teaching some English and especially poetry.

English - 11+

11+ Curriculum

All boys in the Lower School study English which follows the National Curriculum. This is divided into three areas: Speaking and Listening, Reading (ie understanding) and Writing. We do have some specific lessons on Language, but our teaching of this generally comes out of the boys’ own writing. We encourage boys to read widely through weekly Library lessons; the texts we study in class give a spread of prose (both fiction and non-fiction), poetry and drama. Talking and hearing what others say is a key part of lessons; boys are encouraged to give individual and group talks and to create their own drama.

11+ Extra-curricular Projects

Each year we have a number of competitions for boys to enter, these include the Short Story Competition and the Poetry Competition, where boys write their own original pieces for a potential cash prize. There is also a Reading Competition where they compete in each year-group for a prize on Speech Day. The winners of this competition are encouraged to read at the annual Carol Service held in the Priory.

11+ FAQ

Do you test the boys’ spelling ages?
All First Years have their spelling tested early in the first term. Those who seem to do less well than they should for their age, have their reading tested. If there are still concerns further testing is carried out to see if there is an underlying problem.

English - 13+

13+ Curriculum

In the Third Year, boys consolidate the work of the previous two years and it culminates in the SAT exam. For this, the boys study a Shakespeare play, for the last few years it has been Richard III, but next year it will be Romeo and Juliet. In all, they sit three papers: Shakespeare, Reading and Writing. The boys are given a Teacher Assessment, which in many ways gives a more accurate impression of their standard than the exam.

In the Fourth Year, they begin a two year GCSE course. This is taught as two separate subjects, English and English Literature; however the way the course is structured, some of the coursework counts towards both subjects, so there is some overlap. The way the English Department structures its work from the First Form onwards is a preparation for the two GCSE subjects. Poetry is studied from an anthology provided by the Board.

13+ Extra-curricular Projects

Each year a theatre company is invited into the school to do a shortened version of the SAT Shakespeare play as part of the revision programme. Fifth Years are taken to watch a Poetry Live event in the Lancaster town hall most years when the calendar allows as part of their revision. They have an opportunity to hear many of the poets they have studied recite and explain their own work. All boys are able to compete in the competitions which were outlined in the 11+ years. A number of boys have had work published in various poetry magazines.

13+ FAQs

Which GCSE exam board do you follow?
Students at GCSE study the AQA Specification A syllabus for English and the same for English Literature. All boys are entered for the Higher Tier.

Is English GCSE changing?
Yes; a new qualification will be studied from the September of 2010 onwards. This will include a ‘Functional’ element.

English - Sixth Form

Sixth Form Curriculum

At present we are studying the AQA Specification A English Literature course, however the Lower Sixth from September 2008 will study the revised specifications, and we have chosen from then to do Specification B.

In the Fourth Year, they begin a two year GCSE course. This is taught as two separate subjects, English and English Literature; however the way the course is structured, some of the coursework counts towards both subjects, so there is some overlap. The way the English Department structures its work from the First Form onwards is a preparation for the two GCSE subjects. Poetry is studied from an Anthology provided by the Board.

Sixth Form Extra-curricular Projects

Sixth Formers are encouraged to read other books than those on the syllabus, since a wide reading allows greater depth and maturity of interpretation of those being studied. Extra lunchtime lessons are put on for those considering reading Humanities at university, especially potential candidates for Oxbridge.

6th Form FAQs

Do we teach English Language at A-level?
At present, we only do English Literature for staffing reasons. However, it is possible in the future that we might be able to offer a combined course.

English - Samples of work

Winning Entries in the Short Story Competition

A Wild Goose Chase, by SR Shelmerdine, 1G

The geese lay in the field safely, after being brought from their normal dwelling to the calm, peaceful environs surrounding Luke’s house in the middle of the countryside. This was true for about five minutes anyway. Luke’s mother walked the dogs, Luke watched the television and one of the geese ruffled its feathers and took off into the valley. Luke’s mother got back, the goose was gone, and all hell broke loose.

As soon as Luke found out he got up, put his shoes on and then sat back down again. After a while his mother persuaded him to go out and search for the goose. He checked around the field and finally once he’d decided it wasn’t in the ditch, he set off down the valley. A nice walk he’d always thought, down to the river, he enjoyed the birds singing happily in the trees but this time he heard a sort of duck noise, it was either a lapwing with constipation or the goose. He went with the more reasonable idea and went towards the noise.

He crossed the footbridge and walked along the river, then caught sight of it, the goose, it wasn’t fully grown yet and still had brown feathers, it was happily sitting next to a fire with a frying pan in it’s mouth and a fish slowly roasting inside. Then it hit him, having the reactions of a blind cow it took him a while to realise, geese weren’t supposed to do that! He looked in amazement as the goose flipped the fish out of the pan and it landed smoothly in its mouth. After gulping the fish down it glanced at Luke, ruffled its feathers and got out a pipe, then something else hit him, but, this time it wasn’t metaphorically, it was real, something hit him and hard. He crumpled and started snoring, not the usual thing an unconscious person does but then, Luke was rather strange.

He woke up, he was lying in a field the grass tickling the back of his neck, he felt the throbbing pain on his head, his eyes came into focus, towering over him was his horses, his chickens, all his geese and for some reason a badger. All his animals gawped at him in amazement, and then all tilted their heads to look at the badger, the badger was still looking at Luke, as soon as he realized he backed away slowly then ran on its hind legs across the field. Luke had to use all his strength to stand up; the animals were once again looking at him, he looked around to see where he was. To the left of him was a forest so dark and murky he could barely see into it even though the sun was beating down onto the earth, to the right was a river trickling over rocks reflecting the suns awesome power. All in all he hadn’t the slightest idea where he was, or why all the animals were here. Suddenly all the animals sprung into action, the geese started to do a back beat with their cackling and hissing, the chickens gave the backing harmony and the horses were whinnying to give the main tune. It was a beautiful piece full of deep emotion and a lot of other stuff Luke wouldn’t care about, only, animals don’t do that. All meaning had gone out of the window twice round the garden and then off into some different dimension. But to be honest Luke didn’t realise, it was possible in cartoons (in fact something like this had happened to bugs bunny that very same day,) why couldn’t it happen in the real world! After he had argued this in his head he looked around, the animals had gone! Except for a horse which had taken to rolling over in the mud and when that realised all the animals had left he scampered of too. Great, all alone in some random place - with nothing but the country to comfort him. Wait! There was his house! Not being much of a walker he hadn’t noticed anything beyond a mile radius of his home. His house looked particularly small from here, maybe two days’ walk, well that’s what he thought, it probably would have taken him an hour, but then Luke was rather strange. He set off for his house having a strange feeling someone or something was watching him.

The badger watched as his enemy walked towards his den, strange how the enemy walked, on its hind legs with ease. Strange, but still his mission was to destroy the target, he followed in pursuit of the enemy he got down to the small ridge, this wasn’t good, this was near the badger’s den. He had to make his attack before it was too late. He hid behind a tree, waited for the perfect moment then jumped.

Luke strolled down and found a small ridge, he clumsily fell down and landed on his back, he then got up, brushed off the dirt and walked on, he was already tired but he needed to find shelter before nightfall. Suddenly something jumped at him and clawed onto his arm. He shook it off and looked, it was that badger! The badger that had been there with the other animals, it was readying itself for another charge. Luke dodged with ease, and kicked at it; the foot hit the badger square in the head and sent it flying. Pleased with his efforts Luke marched on. A couple of hours later he sat down to rest. Luke had managed to go at least four miles a fortnight up until now. So he decided to think - a rare thing for him - about the badger incident. He wondered why it had attacked him and… well to be honest that was about all he thought and that took most of his brain power. He slept that night not knowing how close he was, if he had just looked over the top of the hill he would have seen the house and have a bed to sleep in. But he didn’t know that. He awoke the next morning to find once again the animals surrounding him, they sang once more and then ran off. This time a chicken stayed behind and pottered along after Luke for a while then flew off.

The chicken flew back to his master, the mighty badger, to tell him the news that the enemy had almost reached its den. The badger was furious with this news and ordered an attack on the enemy immediately, all the chickens lined up in their order. Corporal cockerel, Cock Spock was in charge of the frontline attack, the badger would watch it from a distance flying with Barbara, the lady of his rather large home. They took flight and headed for the enemy, soon it would all be ended.

Luke saw his house and for the first time in a long time he ran. Up until he heard Cock Spock doing his morning call (with a difference,) he watched in amazement as the chickens lined up, then darted through the air towards him. In a moment of panic he picked up a conveniently placed large wooden pole and swung it, taking out Milly, Molly and Mandy all at once. Cock Spock was not in the least bit happy and he charged himself only to be conked on the head by a large wooden pole. Luke swung and swung, the badger watched in amazement as the enemy took out all his troops. He realized he would have to take matters into is own hands. He jumped off Barbara and ran at the enemy. Luke looked round just in time to see the badger; he swung his wooden pole, missed and got it stuck in a fence. The badger had now clawed onto his face. He peeled the badger off and threw him on the floor. The badger looked up, it had come to the last resort, he would have to use “the way of the badger” a style that had been passed down through his ancestors. He tried it, and it worked.

Luke saw that the badger was rolling round on its back; it looked so cute, with its little nibbly teeth. He walked over to it and picked it up, and then he took it inside and kept it. It was of course the badger’s intentions all along; make it seem to the enemy that he’s like a cuddly toy, and then pounce. For so long the badger had wanted the enemy destroyed for that thing that it had done all those years ago, he had cooked and eaten Lily, the old lady of his home, the best chicken he had ever known, now he wanted revenge. “The way of the badger” had got him one step closer to his goal, he thought to himself, “Pure genius”.

Luke carried on living as normal, eating mainly, still he had no idea what the hell had happened before, he thought it was all just a day to day thing, a wild goose chase turning into well, what would you describe it as, weird I know, but, Luke was rather strange.

Routines, by Matthew Atkins, U6RSH

Picture the stereotypical office. Rows of workers, all wearing the same clothes, sitting in chairs, all from the same supplier, at desks, all from the same supplier, typing to machines, all from the same supplier. Machines talk to machines and the world goes round.

Sitting at one of those desks, on one of those chairs, wearing his semi-smart clothes, he stared at a screen. The letters had lost shape and meaning. They fizzled and buzzed, like a dancing multitude of men in black suits, jostling for position. Under them, a canvass of a million points of bright, white light was imprisoned neatly by an orderly, grey plastic box. His eyes were aching, he had to look away, and he knew where he would look.

It was almost ritualistic by now. He raised his eyes and moved them those few degrees to the left, his pupils flickered and focused on that particular distance, and his heart-rate quickened by a couple of well known beats. He looked at her. He gazed intently at her shoulder-length, deep, brown hair, her placid, brown eyes, the freckles on her soft cheeks, and the comfortable smile on her small, pale lips. Somewhere in the back of his mind he counted carefully to twelve, then moved his head back panoramically to the right, past the screen, to look out of the window. Any longer than twelve and he would begin to worry that someone would notice him staring, and besides, he liked the number. It had all those archaic and imperialistic connotations, none of the regular monotony of this post-metric world, measured in tens and spoken in binary.

As usual, he had never really focused on the window, merely slipped into easy conversation with his brain. Somewhere around one hundred he would look back at her, but it could easily be longer if he became too involved in the discussion. Today, it was one of his favourite subjects: why her? True, there was little else to look at in the office. Generic flat-pack furniture or a pot-plant, so long dead it was unrecognisable, and he certainly did not wish to look at any of those other hairy and inherently annoying apes with whom he worked. Nor was the view of the dingy, litter strewn car park all that enticing. And yet, why her over all the other girls in the room? Several of them could have been considered attractive. Indeed, some were perhaps more conventionally beautiful than she was. To him, however, the lines of beauty found on models and poster-girls seemed harsh and angular, and definitely not as alluring as her curvaceous prettiness. Then, as he often did, he began to wonder why he felt like this, but he thought he knew the answer, and he didn’t like it much. He glanced back for another twelve then returned to work.

Once more he was distracted from the screen, but surprisingly, not by her this time. He had just performed his ritual, but that didn’t, by definition, prevent him from repeating it almost immediately. Unusually, though, he was listening to the chatter of some of the younger apes. As seemed to be the norm for this time in the week, they were discussing their conquests from the previous Friday and Saturday nights. He had often noted how they were perpetually disappointed with the way their partner had performed, and consequently, how their relationships never lasted long. Some had a partner for a few months, some had a partner for a few weeks, and one or two had a new partner every night. The method was different, but the result was always the same. They all got what they were looking for, the long-termers just spent more.

There was a new ape in the office. Immediately welcomed into the troop by the others, this was an especially unpleasant baboon. It had actually joined the company some time ago, but he hadn’t cared until now. On the advice of its fellow primates, it had sloped up to her and asked her ‘if she wanted to meet up later in a club?’ Considering that was why she had been recommended, her response was not altogether unpredictable. He was aware that she had ‘dated’ a high proportion of the apes, even compared to the other girls in the office, and was also aware that each time, the result had been the same. They arranged a time and a place, and the result would be the same.

He grimaced, and, returning to work, proceeded to converse solely with his machine for what seemed like a very long time. At least, in that particular period of time, he accomplished much more of his work than he normally would have done. Thus, when eventually he did get side-tracked, it was by his own thoughts and not by her. He began to consider the creature of metal and plastic that sat humming contentedly in front of him. He thought of how the machine performed the same functions day after day and never got bored. It started up in the same way, shut down in the same way, and in all the time in between it followed the same routines. He would enter information and the machine would pass it on to a more important machine. This important machine would then register the arrival of the information and tell another machine to pay him. Beyond that, something similar would happen amongst all of the millions and millions of other machines world-wide, just on different levels. The details might change, but the essential pattern never would.

He was bored with the documentary now. It was dark and he was home alone with his TV. The nature programme about monkeys that he was watching had reached the cliched section about mating. The part where the alpha-male tries to keep the young males away from his harem of females, and the females accept whichever male is most successful. But there was nothing else to watch. The choice was this, a comedy panel show, a soap, a talentless competition or a drama with a script in which sex and violence occurred as regularly as the letter E. Later there would be a talk-show. He couldn’t face it. All he could think about was her, and it, beauty and the baboon. He rose, turned off the TV, and left the house.

Arriving in the centre of town, he regretted his description of the drunken creatures that reeled around there as apes. These animals had none of the grace and presence of apes. No one would travel thousands of miles to see them, let alone start a charity for their conservation. Indeed, he would most likely advocate their extermination. However, picking his way carefully around the pools of vomit and shards of glass, he reached his destination: the club where she had arranged to be that night.

Entering the building, he encountered all the sensations he had expected. First of all, the predictable pounding of the so-called music hit him. The sound of a beat, intertwined with some vaguely tuneful rhythm, that seemed to stretch away into eternity, interrupted at regular intervals by an extract of real music, failing to disguise the lack of a melody. Then the smell followed the noise. The smell of sweat, alcopops and cheap cologne, the whole sordid stench of a breeding ground for alcoholism, drug addiction and sexually transmitted infections.

Right in the middle of it all, he could see her. She was dancing with the thing from the office in that seething mass of gyrating, drunken monsters that is collectively known as a ‘rave crowd’. In it, all of the females moved in a way that closely mimicked the act of sexual intercourse, while their male stood nearby, hardly moving, and passively drooling. In fact, he began to wonder why they didn’t all just go home, inject themselves with methanol, then pleasure each other to the sound of a giant, hyper-active metronome, it would waste less time. However, he knew that, that, or something similar, would come later in the evening. So why rush things? It wouldn’t change them.

He reached twelve, and returned to work. Having finished his ritual, he was briefly reminded of her relationship with the baboon (the result had been the same) and more particularly of his trip through the gates of Babylon and into the depths of hell. He thought of how strange it was that the apes (in the clear light of day he had decided that the term was too useful to be discarded) kept returning to hell for their ‘nights out’. Both he and they got up in the same way, spent the day at work in the same way, and ultimately would rest in the same way. During the evening, however, they insisted on spending their time drinking themselves to death and adding notches to the yardstick of their own shallowness. He, on the other hand, was content to let his life drift away while he watched TV or read about a world that did not exist.

He was interrupted from his musings by the sound of the young apes, trying to sound sincere. Commenting on its latest partner, one claimed that she was something special, and that their relationship could last. He had heard it before, but the result, thus far, had always been the same. He turned away from the chatter, and completed the task he was working on. Machines talked to machines and the world went round.

Private Duffy, by Basil Davies, 4R

The tiny, pale flame survived only seconds in the cruel cold of the morning before it began to shiver. For a few agonising moments it flickered in and out of existence whilst his hands wavered nervously around it. Then he blinked, and found the flame had vanished to be replaced b; a tiny column of smoke that was instantly swept away. He gave a grunting sob of frustration and clumsily shifted his bulk in front of the wind to begin again.

All around him the day dawned and the sun climbed onto the lip of the world, exposing a raw, frozen earth. Mud stretched away in all directions, broken only by the occasional scorched black trunk standing stark and alone. Night had spread a sheet of ice over the puddles that had gathered at the bottom of the shell craters scattered across the dead, blasted landscape.

But he saw none of this as he crouched in his trench, head bent and eyes fixed. He only saw his fingers, fat numb sausages. blotched purple with the cold as they tried to coax some heat from his makeshift stove that sat unsteadily on the rotting duckboards, teetering ominously.

Eventually a splint managed to stay alight long enough for another one to take. He reached out and slowly curled his fingers round a half empty tin of corned beef and pried it out of the mud that had half consumed it. He knew he wouldn't find a spoon so he reached his fingers deep into the grey mush and began to claw it out and into the small tin foil pan.

Mound him other men were silently rubbing down their bayonets and checking their rifles. There was a smell of oil and leather and the foul damp rags used for that kind of work. Bracey, his face drawn, was fumbling with the straps of his bag, trying to fasten them but his fingers kept slipping. Pickering rummaged through his ammunition pack and re-tied his boot laces.

Bracey looked up from his rifle. ‘Hey, Duffy. What the hell are you doing? Why don't you let us use that heat for something useful?

Duffy kept his head down, bent over the little stove. He stared into the pan at the cold grey meat. Bracey lurched over towards him. ‘What do you think you're doing?' What's the point in stuffing your fat face now? We're all going to be dead in five minutes.

Duffy said nothing; he kept on staring into the pan. He hunched closer so that the meat and the little pan filled his whole vision. He stayed there, trying to keep it like that, trying to blot out Bracey's voice, the stink of his whisky breath.

 'Not scared are you, Duffy? Not scared that you?re going to be dead in five minutes?'

Again Duffy said nothing. He felt that if he said anything he would lose his connection with the corned beef with the business of cooking it, and he knew he musn't do that. But Bracey kept on speaking, his words stirring the fear in the pit of Dully's stomach so it bubbled up inside him, filling his chest and catching at his throat. He kept staring at the pan, tears pricking the back of his eves. He knew Bracey was frightened too. He could smell his fear on his whisky breath. He knew Pickering was frightened, he'd seen him throwing up in the mud ten minutes ago. They were all frightened. He knew that.

'Line Up.'

All around him there was the clatter of bayonets and the squelch of boots moving in the cold sloppy mud. The corned beef was beginning to bubble a little now at the edges.

'Fix bayonets.'

A darker, brownish crust was beginning to form in places on top of the meat. it was bubbling quite fiercely now. It smelled good.

The whistle cut through the dawn, but to Duffy, when it came, it was muffled and seemed very far away.

And everyone went. Bracey and Pickering and all the others. In a thunder of boots and soggy heavy coats and bayonets they went and as soon as the first were over came the sound of the machine guns. Dully saw his own rifle lying in the mud. He knew he had to pick it up now. He knew he had to pick up and go now with all the others but he couldn't move.

He couldn't move when the military police came, shouting at him, telling him to move it. The smell of the corned beef was strong now. It was nearly ready. They kicked him in the back of the knees, pushed his rifle against his chest, told him to move it, now. In another minute the corned beef would be ready. The gun they put to his head was cold. One of them kicked the stove, sending the pan into the mud. The corned beef spilled out in slow bubbling tide. Now Dully was down in the mud too, cramming it into his mouth, the meat and the mud, and they were kicking him and telling him it was time to go.

Winning Entries in the Poetry Competition

My Shadow, by Chris Kennedy 4T

...And like a shadow through my mind,

You came and went: left me forsaken to fester

In my mental scar tissue of your wake.

You forced me to cry:

You never said why, but I knew you would go.

With thunder running from my veins

I remember the kiss that we shared in the rain.

My heart was now broken, shattered for what?

I dwell in the memory of things you've forgot.

I drew the blade across my wrist.

My head now spinning in bloodstained bliss.

You left me bleeding: it bled me dry.

I cried out your name to the star-crossed sky.

No man can feel as great a pain as I,

You left me alone, my angel, to die.

The Angel of my Dreams By Philip Gaydon L6 DJN

For some reason sweet smelling snowdrops grow on the sandy shore,

Somehow their roots grab onto the fine, warm sand,

For some reason the stars shine bright in a sunlit sky,

Somehow their diamond forms are not masked by the life giving light

For some reason I feel no pain as I stand barefoot on jagged rocks,

Somehow my senses feel the thriving life in the rock pools and not the sharp edges trying to entrap it,

For some reason I am smiling,

For some reason my eyes are lit up with joy,

For some reason my heart has skipped a beat,

For some reason my soul feels warm and my body feels safe,

Somehow I am in heaven without having died,

And there you are,

Somehow you are more beautiful than this perfect world

The angel of my dreams.

And I wake, And see your smiling face.

My Last Wish by Adam Bateson, 1T

Please don’t weep,

Do not let your tears seep,

For although I have gone,

You are still my only one,

We’ve spent many years together,

Through all types of weather,

And although my time has passed,

We still have a friendship that will always last.