H.

A one off, a real character, H. Ellis Tomlinson was born in Cheshire, and moved to the Fylde in 1928 when his father was posted to ICI at Thornton. He attended Baines' as a boy, became Senior Prefect in 1933, and returned as a master in 1940 becoming a legend in his own lifetime affectionately known to generations of boys as 'Toss.'

In my time at Baines' he taught French but had clearly been something of an all rounder in the past, his knowledge of most subjects was encyclopaedic. He was coach to the Junior School football teams, a Founders man and form master of 2S, as a result we saw quite a lot of each other. His shouts of SHOOT could regularly be heard on school touchlines all over the Fylde, he devoted many hours to training, refereeing and watching his protégés, giving the young players of Baines a sound basis on which the coaches of the senior teams could build. Our teams became feared throughout schools' football.

In his spare time he followed Blackpool FC all over the country starting a love affair with the club when he first arrived in the Fylde up until his last game shortly before his death, a span of 68 years. In 1987 he was asked to write the Centenary History of the club entitled Seasiders: The First 100 Years. At a centenary exhibition at the Grundy Art Gallery he signed copies of his book in his characteristic purple ink and mixed equally well with players and supporters alike.

Outside of teaching and football he was one of the country's leading heraldic experts, having been commissioned to design Coats of Arms for countless local authorities, councils, and a myriad of sporting bodies at home and abroad.

On HET's retirement in 1974 the Editor of the Poultonian made the following observations:

He is himself unmistakable, a schoolmaster of the older style, a scholar, a character. Many generations of boys must have listened with awe to his words of learned length and thundering sound, to his scholarly exposition, to his comic comparisons, irreverent nicknames and exuberant phraseology. We are sure they listened to him with profit as well as pleasure. Though "Boot!" as anguished exhortation to immediate physical action, gave place over the years to the more supplicatory entreaty, "Think!", and both yielded in time to the compromise newcomer "Control!" which in turn expired before the permissive "Have a dabble!", the message has always come over loud and clear. Do whatever worthwhile you attempt with all your powers of mind, body and spirit.

In January 2004 Eric H (no surname given) a Baines' boy 1950-57 raised more than a few smiles when he sent the following recollections.

He was one of the few staff worth their candle and I liked him enormously - even though he seemed near geriatric even then. He was a cracking teacher and, yes, even then he used purple ink - also minuscule dog-ends of pencils that we dutifully provided when they were too small for us to use. He also had wonderfully silly names for jobs farmed out to lads in our form - the Bell monitor was the 'Tintinabulator', the Chalk Monitor, the 'Calcispect', the Window Monitor, the 'Fenestrator' .... and so on. He also wore ridiculous boots with an antediluvian shirt and shorts and used to shriek, "Shoot!" as his coaching manual. He gave me an interest in heraldry that I still have more than half a century later.

The final part of this affectionate tribute was written by Alf Megson for the Poulton Writers in response to the news of HET's passing in 1997. It succeeds admirably in capturing the essence and eccentricities of the man. Thanks to Alf for allowing me to use his words.

"Parti-ciple Palace!" The palm of a hand pounding the desk lid with alternate syllables like a bass drum with the rolls. The rage perceptibly drained away. "Par-ti-ci-ple Pa-laaaace!" came the sneering reminder.

At first glance anybody chancing on one of H. Ellis Tomlinson's class exercise books would struggle to identify the subject which he taught. Butterbean shaped heads in tortured agony, rupturing their invisible diaphragm as they vomit the word "vingt". Football scarves idly prompting us the polite use of "tu". The tomb stone like a sign post of comings and goings and which past participles conjugate with "être". And the perplexing Participle Palace.

Anybody alive who attended Baines Grammar School will know the name "Toss", the iconic pseudonym of Mr. Tomlinson, French teacher. To describe Toss as a French teacher is like describing Leonardo da Vinci as a painter. A frightening man who could enthral. A martinet of cunning esprit, élan and europa. An authority and a maniac.

Nobody ever saw the nail protruding from the blackboard. On ones first day at a new school there is too much anxiety for attention to such details. As soon as his presence was felt , Toss was in command. Ageless but old, amorphous and large. The head of a mythological monster dressed in tweed with polytechnic patches. Toss enters the room. His audience hushes. Without a word spoken he walks to the blackboard and draws a hook in chalk, removes his coat and hangs it on the hook. They are his.

The rules of engagement are quickly established. All work will be written with a fountain pen. All work titles will be underlined with a single line. The body of the work will commence on the next line. There will be no line spacing between paragraphs. At the end of each work a single line spacing will be left and a ruled line will be drawn across the whole page. The next work will begin on the next line. Work submitted which does not comply to these rules will be disqualified. And it was. Toss was famous for his use of purple ink. Many will remember finding not a purple mark out of ten or twenty but a capital "D" at the foot of their work.

Lessons would take transfixed classes on odysseys of discovery. Wandering between language and culture. Tales of chocolate ants horrified any potential francophilia from pupils of a time when holidays were spent at home. Words became pictures of history. Names became portraits. Latin was resurrected for forty-five minutes a day. The little that he didn't seem to know diminished with queries from the audience. A continuity presenter on Granada Television had the name Michael le Moignon. He once claimed that his ancestors were pirates. When asked what the name le Moignon meant, Toss could not explain. The answer came several days later. "Peg-leg".

The only thing more awesome than having Toss for French was having Toss for games. He would referee or umpire with the same single line discipline but passion for the game frequently obscured his despotism. Any centre-forward unfortunate to find himself in possession in the penalty area would tremble at the sound of a hitherto impartial referee, "SHOOOOOOOT!" When a wet laced football weighed more than a satchel full of books, footballers flinching beneath a descending mass would receive a demonstration of how it was possible to head a cricket ball. Toss would not be undermined but if he had an Achilles Heel it became apparent at cricket. If caught or run out Toss would not allow a batsman to walk unless he himself had given him out. It was here that perhaps Toss authority would fail him because any batsman wanting to extend his innings would start to walk knowing full well that he would (at least the first time) be called back.

Boys would rummage through their dictionaries before they dare allow their parents to see what their French master had written in their term report, sometimes disarmed, sometimes injured but all too frequently disappointed at the dictionary's inadequacy. In his obituary he was described as a Polyglot, Polymath, Pedagogue and Personality. Perhaps the unalliterate title autodidact should be added to this list because he certainly had no mentor.

His legacy is so much more than the memories of his former pupils. Probably unknown to them he had an international reputation in Heraldry. His work can be seen on flags and shields of nations towns and organisations around the globe, Poulton-le-Fylde being one. His was the first published history of Blackpool FC.

H. Ellis Tomlinson died in December 1997. His contribution to the world was unique. It is said that no man is an island but this man was truly an iceberg.