Alexander Newman, writing in The Wykehamist, December 1988

In a month’s time if you were to ask Jo Bain whether you could borrow a book, he’d probably suggest you went and bought it, and then point out that he had a copy going cheap. Bain is leaving us at the end of this term, to start a secondhand bookshop in his native Wales. He has amassed over seven thousand books, afigure difficult to believe until you see his house, which is almost overflowing with them as well as records, scores, furniture of all sorts, and floral ties. Bain insists that he never actively collects anything; things seem to find him, like him, and never go. He hopes that the Welsh are going to read, although he doesn’t know if they’ll even let him start a bookshop, and with no prior experience of business he has “No idea how to go about starting it”. He insists, however, that he’s going to reduce their number, and not just expand or rotate his collection.

Many are under the impression that Bain is a sort of institution that has been here since time immemorial, an impression reinforced by the presence of the inscription of his father’s name on the panels in School. In fact he has been here only fifteen years, after twenty at Stowe, although from his father’s first appearance here, until Bain’s departure is exactly one hundred and twenty years and one term – almost a quarter of the school’s existence. At Stowe, he was a Housemaster, the Tutor for Modern languages, and Head of Modern Languages, teaching English, French and German. He was even sent on a paid holiday to Madrid by the governors of Stowe to learn Spanish. When first at Stowe, he was just about the only don interested in drama, and was soon running it. He revolutionised their Othello by bringing in girls from the local secondary modem school. He was there when Richard Branson passed through, and would say only that he “never taught him” and that “Branson wasn’t there very long”.

At Stowe, he initiated several facets of the personal attire that has achieved so much attention – hardly a day goes by when some part of his dress is not commented upon. The laundry was so bad that he remembers sending two shirts which returned converted into a thermal body-stocking. He found receiving other people’s handkerchiefs very distasteful, and so he started buying rather more flamboyant ones. His penchant for floral ties stems from a gift of a light silk Liberty’s tie, and he continues to wear ties that don’t give him the sensation of being throttled.

His brightly coloured socks are also light, and he “just buys them in the colour they come in”. When it comes to shirts, however, he confesses to indulging his dislike for dull colours, and buys bright ones instead. Another of his habits that is frequently commented upon is the way that he smokes his Player’s: with the printed end away from his beard. This, he claims, is merely due to the way that he takes them out of the packet, although the enforced introduction of filters in cigarettes might induce him to give up smoking.

Bain is not a small man, and has been likened to many people. Among the most popular are Father Christmas, Brahms, and Bagpuss – the latter only when he’s playing the piano, another of his many skills. Rather more surprisingly, he was once mistaken for Peter Ustinov, and says of the incident in the auditorium of a West End theatre, “I was stupid enough to say no”. After his dress sense, he is probably best known for his drama. He usually co-produces things, or “collaborates”, although his voice is frequently the dominant one. Of his productions here he most likes to remember Britannicus, the French Play of two years ago, which he modestly says went well. It is certainly an experience to be directed by Bain. Although he says he hates acting himself, he doesn’t hesitate to launch himself onto the stage and give an extraordinary demonstration, if your portrayal isn’t up to scratch. I have seen him do a falsetto French maid, a lunatic, and a fussy Spanish innkeeper with equal gusto and skill, and will never forget his appearance as the genie in the Common Room pantomime. He loves to direct them, hates to be in them, and says that he has “never sat through one of my productions, just seen bits of them”. His histrionics are equally present in the classroom, where the man who hands his essay up late is a foolish one. In fact his aversion to tardiness is so marked that he usually spends most of the hour berating the unfortunates who have not been sent away to complete their work, and says that, were he ever a Headmaster, it would be one of the misdemeanours punishable by expulsion. Not that he has any ambitions in that direction: he says Headmastership is the last job he’d want – being blamed for everything, and thanked for nothing- although he wouldn’t mind being Warden. He is “quite happy to leave” – well, he “won’t be heartbroken, fifteen years is quite enough” – and is looking forward to “nipping round the country, for book sales and things”. He thinks that Winchester is, perhaps, a little unsocial, and rather too House orientated, but likes the relaxed nature of our now barely hierarchical society. He wishes we would appreciate the Div. system, and not let “silly little exams” push “education under the carpet”, since the system contributes more to our A-levels than we imagine.

His is a presence that we will all miss. His geniality, and div. room informality are irreplaceable qualities, and I am sure I speak for everyone in wishing Jo, and his wife Priscilla, a very happy Welsh bookshop.

      Posted by permission of Winchester College.

[Joe’s bookshop remained in his mind’s eye as other activities - and books, and sheet and recorded music, and paintings...  - accumulated]