So, for how many years were you a teacher and a school inspector?
I started teaching in 1970 at Brinsworth High School which was wonderful because it was a purpose-built school full of newly-appointed teachers in a beautiful new building. It had only been open a year and when I started I was appointed with 12 or 13 other young teachers coming in. There was incredible camaraderie and, of course, I was in a really vibrant English department. Just wonderful. I didn't have discipline problems there. I did later on probably when I moved to another school. So I started there in 1970 and left in 1976.

In 1976 a job came up as Head of English at a social priority school. I mean I was only 27. The headmaster, head of Brinsworth High, a good friend now, Dennis Morgan said, 'Ours is quite a prestigious high school with a sixth form, and you're going to a social priority school. it's really a secondary modern. Really it's going to be a backward move in your career.' I only went for the experience because I didn't actually think I would get the job but I got the job. So I moved there where the able youngsters went on to Doncaster Grammar at 13. You were left with a group of youngsters who were averagely less able. That's when I first experienced youngsters that challenged me, which was a real shock because I always thought I had excellent discipline, but they challenged me. It was interesting that when I left after 4 years there, they were the most upset about me going. They were most appreciative youngsters, but some quite deprived.

I moved then to a RC school in Sheffield which was St. John Fisher, as Head of English and Drama. I'd only been there about 4 or 5 months and notice came of closure. My interview with the adviser about what to do next was awful. She said that I was overqualified and that people would see me as a threat. I remember telling to her leave it and I would get my own job.

And I did. I applied back to Doncaster and again got a promotion as Senior Master in another school, 14 to 18. I was there for 4 years and I was headhunted by the chief adviser in Rotherham. You see, I had done courses, I had done talks, written things for journals, some children's books, so they knew of me and I am a Rotherham lad, and this chief adviser knew Dennis Morgan who was the head at Brinsworth.

He asked me, 'Would you like to apply for the job? I'm not saying the job's yours but I'm asking people who we would be interested.' So I went for the job. This was in Rotherham as General Adviser for Language Development. It was a unique post in the country because it was an English adviser; it covered the area from Infants right through to further education, adult literacy as it was, multi-cultural education, early years, reading. I had a brilliant 4 years there; loved it. A wonderful camaraderie on the team, wonderful boss, superb director of education, Keith Snowdon, a civilised, lovely man and I made many friends there.

Then I was headhunted again by North Yorkshire, who wanted a Senior Inspector for English, Drama and Libraries. I went for the interview and it was a completely different scenario, North Yorkshire, because you had the great county hall and all the elected members. There were colonels and majors and retired wing commanders and I always remember the chairman of the education was a nice man called Squadron Leader Donaldson; they always kept the handles. During the interview he asked me what I felt about Alan Bennett, as a writer, why is Alan Bennett so popular? Well, of course, I went off, waxed lyrical, got wonderful observation, the character, the monologues. When they offered me the job they said have you anything to ask us and I said, 'Why out of all the questions about education you asked me about Alan Bennett?' Squadron Leader Donaldson said, 'Well, all I'll say to you Mr. Phinn is your interview was like listening to a monologue. We asked a question and you answered it, in your own way, in a form of performance.' I said, 'Really.' And he said, 'You've got the job.' 1988 to 99, for those 11 years I was a Senior Inspector for English in North Yorkshire, but latterly I received a promotion to Principal Inspector.

In that time were you still living in South Yorkshire?
Yes. I have got 4 children and Christine was teaching nearby and I talked to them about this particular job, that I'd like to go for it and they all agreed that I could go for it, and were happy for me about it, but they were not moving. The children were in good schools, Christine was round the corner. So I did 56 miles door-to-door, backwards and forwards for 11 years. I don't know how I did it.

There was also the travel within North Yorkshire.
Yes, there was. I was based in Harrogate.You see, North Yorkshire is like a pan; it goes right down to north of Doncaster, just below Selby, and it goes right up to the north east, right over to Lancashire, over to the east coast, so it's the size of Israel. It was wonderful because you get in your car and visit these little schools, town schools, in York, Allerton, Skipton, Selby, it was wonderful.

We know that you appeared on Esther Rantzen's show, but not many people will know how that came about and it was a turning point in your life. How did that happen?
I'm writing my early memoirs at the moment and I thought of calling it after the great Yorkshire writer, Laurence Stern who wrote in 'Tristram Shandy' about fragments of life. But I think I may call it Opening Doors, because through my own life I've had lots and lots of doors opened for me. In my view if life has a metaphor, it is like a corridor and that some doors are forever gonna be barred to you and bolted. You are never going to get through them and neither you nor I would have ever been, with our backgrounds, colonels in the Blues and Royals. So that door's closed effectively. Your daughter's never going to be invited to be a deb at court, that's a door that you accept is going to be closed, it's bolted, it's barred; you can bang on it forever but you'll never get in. Quite a lot of doors are open and you can go through; some doors are ajar, but a lot of doors in life are closed but seldom locked and I have had some opened for me by people like my parents and teachers.

In 1998, I was going to see Kenneth Branagh at the Crucible in Richard III. I got a phone call, 'Tomorrow night, are you doing anything?' I said, 'Yes, I'm going to the theatre.' Esther Rantzen was going to do a talk at a Leeds hotel to raise money for the new Childline office. She was ill. Could I do it? I said, 'No, I really want to see Kenneth Branagh. I'm sorry, I can't do it.' I put the phone down. I told Christine and she said, 'They're going to be desperate. They've got £35 tickets and there's no speaker. Ring them back.' So I rang back. They said, 'You've saved our bacon.' When I arrived, Esther Rantzen was there, she was better. She was brilliant, because she said, 'You have come all this way, you do half-an-hour, I'll do half-an-hour.' And that is what we did. After the show she said, 'I want you to come in the bar, have chat with me.' I was there until 12 o'clock with Esther Rantzen and my wife. Esther said, 'You must come on my show and talk about the things you believe about education because you're one of the few people that talk positively about young people, and you're a very optimistic person.'

So, I went down to London. Her producer and I and Esther had lunch at a posh restaurant. The producer said, 'You're a nice chap, Gervase, you're amiable, but I've got to tell you, you're not the sort of person we have on the Esther Rantzen show.' But Esther put her foot down and said, 'Well, Patsy, you might not think so, but it's my show and he's coming on.' When I got down I thought I was going on for 10 minutes. I was on for 40 minutes. She said, 'Just imagine you're in the front room, ignore autocue, the audience'll laugh, ignore the cameras, just look at me.' And I looked at these shining eyes and big teeth and just talked. In the weeks afterwards nearly 2000 letters arrived for me from people, sent on from the BBC.

Esther got in touch and said, 'You must come on again.' I went on a second time and a third time.

And then, of course, I got the letter. I had, prior to 1998, published about 20 books, most of which have not sold at all, children's books, stories, plays. But then I got this letter from this editor at Penguin saying, 'My secretary saw you on the Esther Rantzen Show last week, she videoed it. Would you like to come down and talk about a book?' So I went down. She took me out for lunch with James Heriot and Miss Read, and she passed the contract across and said, 'Would you like to sign that when you've read it,' and I signed it. I didn't read it. I just didn't read it, I signed it. I thought, I'm going to have a Penguin paperback, with my name on. I couldn't believe it. Because at college all the books were Penguin paperbacks. So I signed it and then I got a cheque through the post and I thought, this is a mistake. I rang Penguin and they said, 'No, no, it's no mistake. That's the advance.' So I wrote the book and then they said, we would like you to do another one. So then I got an agent. She got me a bigger advance and I just went into my boss at North Yorkshire and said, 'I'm leaving.' The boss said, 'Well, how can you survive?' I said, 'I've got this cheque.' And he said, 'It's a mistake.' I said, 'No.' And the rest is history. Five Dales books, all bestsellers, Number 2 was a number 1 bestseller which is my biggest claim to fame.

Did you ever believe that when your first book came out, when you were still a school inspector, that it would get as big as this, that you would actually leave education?
No. I mean, I have always written and I have always kept writers' notebooks and I have always had the idea that when I retired I was going to write memoirs. A lot of people do, they send them off to publishers, they go on the slush pile. I really didn't have much hope of them being published but it was a door that was opened for me and Penguin were as surprised as I because it touched a chord with people. The descriptions of the book are observational, life-affirming; they are positive.

I get lots and lots of letters. One was from a young man who said, 'My wife went into hospital to have our first baby. We were totally opposed to any kind of artificial inducement, but it was overdue. She was reading your book; she got into a paroxysm of laughter; you brought the baby on and we are eternally grateful.' I wrote saying, 'Are you going to call the little boy after me?' He said, 'No we're not that grateful.'

I had a letter from a woman whose mother was dying of cancer. She wrote, 'You gave me my mother's laughter back.' So, they're not heavy, dark, academic books, they're not deep; they'll never win a Booker. They'll never be set for an A level, but they're light-hearted, entertaining and as I said, life-affirming and that's why I think they touched a chord with people; that's why they've become popular.

Talking of your writing, does writing come easy to you? Do you get writer's block?
No. I never get writer's block, but it doesn't come easy to me. I prefer talking. The best part, a lot of writers say, is when the book is published. That is the best part. You have got it out of the way, you see it on the shelves, you see your name, you are signing your name underneath.

I write a weekly column for the Yorkshire Post and that is good because it disciplines me. I have got to send in 5 to 600 word articles on any topic at a time. For instance, I got up at five o'clock this morning; I woke up and I got this idea; it just suddenly clicked. I am going to do an article about me when I was given games to do at teaching practice in Huddersfield.

I was a young chap going in there complete with a new track suit. The PE teacher was a Scotsman called Gus who said, 'Just do what I do.' We went in and it was absolutely perfect discipline. He said, 'Right, line up boys.' They lined up. 'Right, lads, keep the noise down.' They kept the noise down. We went outside. He said, 'Line up here. Now get the poles, get the poles.' I thought, this is some kind of esoteric attack, you know, get the Polish kids! These big white poles came out. 'Jab 'em in, jab 'em in.' And they jabbed them in the grass. Clicked his fingers. And for 10 minutes they didn't need any directions, they went dribbling, weaving, round these poles. Then he said, 'Have a jog, have a jog.' We had a football match. It went like clockwork. They showered, lined up. I sat and I made the grave mistake of saying to this chap, who was 30 years a PE teacher, 'I think I might change to do PE as a teacher because it's much easier, isn't it?' 'Ay,' he said, 'it's a doddle.' I said, 'I mean, you don't have the marking, you don't have the preparation, you don't have exams to do.' 'No,' he said, apparently agreeing, 'it's a doddle, it's a doddle.' The next week I was there in my new tracksuit again. He said, 'You get 'em started today, I'll be oot in about 10 minutes.' So, I go out there, absolutely wetting myself, there were 54 lads of 15. So I went out and I lowered my voice 2 octaves. I said, 'Line up.' They lined up. I said, 'Keep the noise down, boys.' They kept the noise down. When we went outside, I said, 'Get the poles.' They got the poles. I said, 'Right, jab 'em in, jab 'em in over there.' I pointed to this piece of land. Big lad, like a bear said, 'Are you sure about this, sir?' I said, 'Are you arguing with me?' I thought, this is it, confrontation. I'm gonna have this one. I looked him in the eyes. I said, 'Do as you're told.' He said, 'Are you sure?' I said, 'Get those poles dug in now!' He shrugged. Did it. Out comes Gus after 10 minutes. He said, 'You know, Mr. Phinn, that's bloody masterful.' Because they were all dribbling away, no indiscipline. 'Bloody masterful,' he said again and then there was an Indrawing of breath. 'But they've dug the poles in right in the middle of the cricket square!'

I write for the Countryman and I've got to write about country matters. That disciplines me and I like a deadline and it makes me do it, but I find it hard, I don't find it easy.

Listening to certain songwriters, they give the impression that they seem to gather some kind of inspiration from somewhere and also that the more they write, the more they can write. Is that the same for you?
I think so. I've always been a magpie, always been somebody who observes and watches because I'm interested in people. I was a child that was interested in listening to adults and I would love to go to Blackpool with my Dad and we had ice cream and whatever. But we would go to the theatre and I would sit on the second row and listen to characters like Hilda Baker, and I just loved that. Four feet ten and a half and all the twistings of language, all the kind of mincing of language, like a meat-mixer. 'Ooh,' she would say, 'I'll tell you this, she comes from a wealthy home, she's very effluent.' Then she'd say, 'We've been to the Blackpool hallucinations.' Then, 'Have you had the pleasure of me yet? Have you? Have you? I nearly fell prostitute on the bed. I've got a coronary trombonist.' And it was just hilariously funny but it was clean.

You see, I grew up loving language, I swam in an ocean of language with my Dad and my Mum. I was brought up a Catholic, and you see, once a Catholic, always a Catholic. There's something about Catholicism, even in people who have had an awful Catholic childhood, the Irish Catholic childhood, it stays with you. And as a little boy in Rotherham I would go into another world at the church at St. Bedes. It was the colour, the plaster, the Stations of the Cross, the incense, the priest in a cope, the servers in red, the golden crosses, the Latin, this strange mystic language, I used to love that, I used to love the sound of the Latin. It was like a magic and I loved Mass, and I loved going. And as a Catholic in a non-Catholic school, of course, you feel completely different, because at the time you are not allowed to go into any Anglican services, any kind of Protestant service. Interestingly, when Vatican 2, this great wind of change came, Cardinal Hume took part in a Protestant service in Westminster Abbey and actually gave the sermon. That would have been unheard of when I was a child at St. Bede's.

Catholics were always seen, I think, in a way to be different; not quite as patriotic because of the history; not quite part of the establishment. And I think that made me feel different as well. I still feel it to a little extent now really, but it doesn't worry me now. But when I was 15 I went to Notre Dame in Paris and for me it was not going to an old Victorian rather shabby church with a few kitsch statues. Notre Dame was like St. Paul's, but bigger and I was part of a very special group of people there because they were all French and Spanish and, just looking round, they were all singing to the same hymn sheet, the Latin. And the bells, I could almost see Quasimodo swinging on the bells. The bishop, the incense; you felt really a part of something incredible. I sometimes still feel that.

Just to get back to writing, is there a preference between prose or poetry?
Poetry, without doubt. I love poetry, yes. I write serious poems occasionally in the collections. I've done eight collections. But mostly they're funny and I quite like writing poems because they're for school. I've got this book coming out at Christmas with Dalesman called 'All Our Yesterdays' where I do a parody, if you like, or a response to Philip Larkin when he wrote about when your parents muck you up. I do a parody to that or a response; I don't agree with him. Mine begins: 'They took you in, good parents, They hold you tight, They wish you sweet dreams at night' and so on, because I had that, I had amazing parents. They never made me feel other than very special.

I think you had very special parents.
I did, but I thought they were ordinary. I thought all mothers chased their children round the kitchen without their false teeth pretendng to be witches. I thought all mothers gave me currants to put as the nipples on the gingerbread men. I thought all children had fathers who recited Albert and the Lion at the kitchen sink or told incredible stories. I thought all children had mums who wrote stories. I have my Mum's collection of short stories which she wrote when she was a nurse in Canklow in Rotherham, and she used to tell stories of these children in Canklow. If anything was missing in our house, a shirt or a tie, we got to finish the sentence, because she'd say, 'It's gone to...,' and we'd say 'Canklow.' She was the most generous woman. She would bake gingerbread men and there was always something extra for the children of Canklow. She would take things down to them and they loved her. She was also wonderful at dealing with vicious dogs. A big bear of a dog would be charging for her. Someone would shout, 'It'll not hurt you, Nurse.' It would be a massive hound of the Baskervilles, and she had a big leather bag and a pepperpot. It would leap up at her and she'd crack it with her handbag and throw the pepper in its face. She got bitten three or four times. But she wrote these lovely little stories, cameos and I would love to have them published. So, yes, I was very, very lucky.

Have you any favourite authors, or poets?
Oh yes. My favourite author is always the greatest poet, playwright, and novelist - Oscar Wilde. I read every Easter, The Selfish Giant, because my mother read it every Easter. It always makes me cry. It's a powerful story, it's Biblical language. And you watch the play, The Importance of Being Earnest, Lady Windermere's Fan and the humour is so mint fresh, I mean, it's so funny, and Dorian Grey is a most amazing novel. I mean he was just an amazing, sad, tragic, brilliant, glittering figure. Oscar Wilde's always been my favourite and I can't believe there would be anybody else to take his place.

Is it true to say that you have exchanged education for entertainment?
I think the good teacher has always been an entertainer because you are performing in a classroom at the front. And you use the techniques of an entertainer. You're using pause, you're using voice, tone of voice, you're using anecdote to illustrate things, body language, eye contact. Children are marvellous mimics, of course, of teachers. I have always been an entertainer, and always loved, I suppose, performing. I've had someone on today saying, 'Can you do a big talk at an education conference. I'll do the serious part, Gervase, you do your spot.' Now that makes me the acne of the education department, doesn't it? And I say, 'What do you mean by my spot?' I would hope people listening to me, that through the humour and the anecdotes comes some deep truths about education - that all children matter; that however damaged or ill-favoured, or sometimes, repellent children are, all teachers should concern themselves with them. I believe that the child's life can be enriched by lots of creative work. I believe that SATs, league tables, targets and suchlike are deleterious to good education. I think they're weighing the pig rather than feeding it. I think teachers are buried under snowstorms of paperwork. And therefore I would hope that through the stories and humour and anecdote that a serious message is made.

The best way of, I think, teaching is narrative. I mean, as a Christian myself, I know that to be true because when the Son of God came down to Earth, how did He actually change people's lives? Did He do it by haranguing them, telling them they're useless, they're stupid, they haven't done this that and the other. No, He didn't. He tells a simple story which is untrue about a Samaritan that never existed, or a widow with her mite, or a prodigal son. They didn't exist, it's fiction. But in telling those stories He transformed the world for many of us. And that's why narrative is vitally important. Narrative is the best way of teaching a point. Through a narrative and anecdote you can hang a hook and remember things. So, I would hope that through the entertaining side of it, real truths that I believe in come through. But I'm not in a position to say that; the audience would have to say that.

You still retain a passion for good education?
I do. I have been nearly 40 years in education and things come and go, and those that are going out of fashion come back in, and I just sort of smile wryly when they say, you know, this is a really good idea to have a literacy hour. Well, it came about in 1864, didn't it? Reading, writing, arithmetic and a bit of Scripture; dedicated teaching of English. Oh, it's a good idea to have games in school now. Oh, it's a good idea to have competition in school. In, out; in, out and shake it all about. But I think the schools are still getting burdened with too many extra subjects and programmes of study.

Yes, I still have a passion for education and i could fill my time up doing conferences. The other week I was working in the Mount School in York. They asked me, 'Will you come over a do a day with the students and then do an evening with the parents?' It's a Quaker school. I'd never been there. It was a lovely school, with a very different atmosphere. And schools should, I think, be allowed to be different, and teachers should be allowed to be a bit different. I think governments have accepted that.

I go round the railway museum in York and it's got the most incredible trains there. It's got the royal train, burnished brass, it's got highly polished beautiful green metal sides to it, it's got this plush interior. There were some children there on a visit. What were the children doing on a worksheet? Number 1. Count the rivets on the engine. Now, it's appalling, isn't it? In a school another teacher had done a cutout of a dragon and photocopied it. Why the children couldn't draw a dragon I don't know. All the dragons were identical. The teacher had drawn them and cut them out. Colouring them in a little girl had done one with a little umbrella and little poppy eyes and a baby dragon on the back, and it was pink and blue and green and spotted, and the teacher said to her, 'Tracy, love, dragons are green.' I said to the teacher, 'When did you last see a dragon? Because my dragon in my garden is purple and blue.' I said, 'I'm taking it to the witch of the north because the wizard of the west has given him some medicine that's dried his flames up.' And she looked at me as if I was mad. I said, 'Dragons are fantasical. Dragons are green? Go to Wales, how many green dragons will you see in Wales?!'

What would you like for your life now? Is there anything you want to change, or something else you want to do?
It sounds a bit twee, I suppose, but I've got everything in life that I wanted really. I've had a dream to have my name on a book with a little penguin at the bottom. I still find it very difficult to believe it; to sit at literary lunches next to people like Clarissa Dickson-Wright or John Julius Norwich or Richard Ingrams or Michael Heseltine or Anne Widdecombe. I just think I could never in all my wildest dreams, as a young lad, have believed that I would be doing what I am doing now at the age of 60. Youngsters don't. I said to Christine once when I had come off stage, and she had been in the audience, 'Could you actually, Christine, in your wildest dreams, have thought that I'd be on stage like this when you married me.' And she said, 'Darling, you're never in my wildest dreams.' My mother always said it's good to be brought down a peg or two.

I have no further ambition, because I do theatre tours, I get people asking me to write books. I've got two books out now - Twinkle Twinkle, Little Stars is coming out with Penguin, and there is one called All Our Yesterdays. I've got my memoir coming out next year. I've got a children's novel coming out next year, one I really wanted to write, which I mentioned earlier, about bullying, A Bit of a Hero.

I write for the Yorkshire Post, the Dalesman, I'm in the lovely position to do exactly what I want, which a lot of people don't, and I like what I do. The only thing I would say is that life is crowded at the moment. I'm a patron of about 12 charities, and I do a fair bit of charity work and it means that I'm never in. I never sit down, and I'm not a person who watches television but I don't relax really. I don't sleep; I don't need sleep, and I lecture on cruise ships. So, you know, I can't grumble, can I?

I just think I've got a very fortunate life. I mean I've got youngsters that all get on, they've all done well academically. I have been married for 37 years, got a nice house, I get on well with my sister and brothers. It sounds a bit too good to be true, because with my memoir I don't know who's going to read it. Are they going to read it and say, is this real? I wasn't locked in a cupboard. I wasn't smacked. I wasn't told I was useless. When I wet the bed my mother cuddled me and said, 'Don't worry, love, we all wet the bed, you know.' When you've got the big bookshops where it's got a special shelf dedicated to tragic life stories, I don't know where mine is going to fit, because I had a happy childhood.

You are an ambassador for Rotherham. What does that mean to you?
I owe a lot to Rotherham. As a little boy growing up I wasn't a bright child, I was average. But I worked hard. Rotherham when I grew up in the 50s was just a lovely place. I never envied anybody else because we lived in a red brick semi. I shared a bedroom with my two brothers. I was in the double bunk with Alec, Matt was in the single bed, my sister had the boxroom. We went out on Saturdays at 8 or 9 o'clock and we weren't expected to come back until 5 unless it was dark. Nobody bothered about paedophiles. Nobody bothered about falling off a wall. We climbed walls, we swung on ropes, we fished for minnows, we went to Elsecar Reservoir, we went on bikes to Roche Abbey. We had a real, incredibly unsupervised, free childhood. We walked a mile to school. We had school trips. The education did really well for me. I got good O levels. I met the headmaster in Rotherham one day who said, 'What A levels are you doing?' And I said, 'Well, I've got a job.' You see, my Dad, who was a steelworker said there was a job at Hart, Moss and Copley in Rotherham on Moorgate for a trainee accountant. I went down, saw old Mr. Copley there. I think he had a wing collar, if I'm not mistaken, a big fob watch. He said, 'Nah then, lad, you've got Maths O level.' I said, 'Yes, I have and I got a distinction.' 'Got your English?' 'Yes. I got a distinction at English. I've got more than 5 O levels.' 'Right,' he said, 'Well, sell yourself then to me. Why should we have you?' And I sold myself, and he said, 'Right, we'll put you on.' During the summer holidays i got a letter from the Director of Education, how many directors do this, to go and see him at the education office. I went in and he sat me down and he said, 'Why are you leaving?' I explained. He said, 'Well, I advise you to stay on to the sixth form. At the end of your sixth form if you still want to be an accountant, fine, but you do really need to do the sixth form. I've had a word with Mr. Copley and he'll still take you on.' How many Directors of Education do that? Up I go to Oakwood School to do my A levels with a brilliant English teacher, Mary Wainwright, who I loved. That experience changed my mind; I was going to be a teacher.

Some time ago I got an Honorary Doctorate from Sheffield Hallam. I told the story when I got the degree, about how in life people intervene and that I would have been an accountant had it not been for Mr. Bloomer, the Director of Education who convinced me to do A levels. The man sat next to me on the stage turned to me and said, 'Mr. Bloomer was my father.' It was Giles Bloomer. But it gets spookier. I then got an Honorary Doctorate in York. I was given it before the graduates got the degrees. I said, 'I wish my mother and father were here to see me, a little lad from a pretty humble background in Rotherham, average, son of a steelworker, getting the highest award at a university, and getting dressed up like this. But they're dead; but they're watching somewhere.' I continued, 'When I was a boy, and it's not false modesty, I was not bright, I was average, but I desired to be on the top table next to a very bright girl. This girl was Marjorie Bloomer, daughter of the Director of Education for Rotherham. And I loved Marjorie because she had sensible sandals and she smelt of flowers and soap, an