A FEW months after England’s 1966 World Cup victory, Alan Newsam (Nuds), Rob Rookledge and I, trained regularly at the Junction Gymnasium.

It occupied upstairs rooms behind the old Junction Inn, which used to stand in Measborough Dike, where Doncaster Road meets Cemetery Road.

It was owned by Charlie Glover, wrestler and father of our History teacher, Brian. As far as we knew it was the only gymnasium in town, and was where all the famous Barnsley boxers and wrestlers trained.

“We all owt to try it,” said Rob, one evening after school. “Be a great way to get super-fit for football.”

So we joined and were schooled in the noble art of boxing, twice a week for 18 months. ‘Jab’ Batty, a former featherweight fighter, became our coach, and we got to know star athletes such as Shaun Doyle, Clive Cook, Jack Walshaw and Sonny Taylor. One day even our history teacher at Longcar, Mr Glover, was present, preparing for a wrestling match.

Even though Rob was a Holgater, Mr Glover announced to all three of us: “You can call me Brian here boys, but don’t forget, it’s always ‘Sir’ at school.”

We bumped into Brian Glover at the gym about once a month after that. Then one day, halfway through our school history lesson, he presented Nuds and me with a glossy Sunday magazine supplement.

“I want you and Newsam to read this and get back to me.”

It was an article by the famous (and very odd) broadcaster, Clement Freud – grandson of the world famous psychoanalyst, Sigmund Freud. Nobody I knew liked him because he seemed as unpleasant and slimy as a slug.

As 13-year-olds, I don’t think either Nuds or I had the literary sophistication to appraise the article that Mr Glover laid before us (Rob might have managed it but he was at grammar school).

“What do you think?” asked Mr Glover, after a while.

I said, “Erm... He’s put in some fine detail, like the cracked mirror, and he does mention Charlie, your father.”

“Thank you, boys” he said, with a hint of disappointment in his voice.

That evening, all three of us walked down to the gym where the male-only adults were in uproar. “Have you seen what that bastard Freud has written? The stuck-up bag o’ sh***. It’s nowt but a disgusting p***-take,” said Big Don, throwing the magazine to the floor like a dead pheasant.

All three of us quickly realised that Freud’s column was ridiculing our facilities not praising them, but we’d not seen through his subtle sarcasm. Realising our error, we decided to join in the tirade. “Aye” I said, “Disgusting.”

“Just a ****-take!” added Nuds.

“Bastard!” said Rob, curling his lip.

We were all furious with Freud for insulting Mr Glover, his father and the gym. But now it seemed impossible to go back to our teacher with our newly-informed perspective and not lose face.

I suppose the absolute truth was, yes, the gymnasium was old-fashioned and poorly equipped, and it was perhaps okay for us to find fault. But there was no way we’d let some eccentric, toffee-nosed outsider ridicule it.

Thereafter, I couldn’t abide to see the face of Clement Freud when he made a TV appearance.

It’s true, he did go on to become a favourite of the establishment (like Jimmy Savile and Rolph Harris), succeeding in Parliament and then in radio and TV, before receiving a knighthood in 1987. But that didn’t impress me at all.

Then, in 2016, seven years after his death, the real Clement Freud was exposed to the world as a serial child-abuser and rapist. Several women, unknown to each other, made separate allegations of sexual abuse by him when they were as young as ten and 11. There were also allegations of the violent rape of teenagers.

On the same day the documentary was aired, his widow, Jill Freud, issued a public apology. She accepted the claims and issued a statement of sympathy for her late husband’s victims, saying: “I sincerely hope they will now have some peace.”

After 2016, the existence of Clement Freud was largely expunged from history and his abominable crimes swept niftily under the carpet.

Conversely, however, the names of Charlie and Brian Glover continue to live on, with great pride, in the local and national consciousness.