Two More Great Moments in Teaching.

Right, you remember the Mr Miyagi story? For people of a certain generation these two will be almost as good.

1) Sitting in our prep room, getting a physics experiment ready... Look up at bookshelf. Eye falls on random book. The author is JR Hartley. Yes. J....R... Hartley!!

Okay, so it isn't the piece d'resistance, the one and only, the rarer-than-rare Fly Fishing, but hell, it was a special moment for me. An actual book by the star of arguably the second best advert ever made. And don't even think about trying to tell me JR Hartley is not a real person. I'm nowhere near mentally stable enough to be hearing shit like that, 'kay?

2) Other great moment in teaching. They make me teach PSHE. or PSE, or PSHCE, or some shit like that. I'm not even sure. I think it stands for... nah, I don't even know. Anyway, I teach this on a Friday afternoon, and, of course, I never relax for a moment in my quest to deliver the best PSHCFSHHYHSE lesson I can, but I must admit that sometimes I fall short of my ideals and both the kids and I suffer.

Anyway, today we are learning about... Wait, cut that sentence short. Today (well, it was months ago, but I am writing in a certain style, so cut me some slack?). Anyway, today we are engaged in a discussion about the future careers of some of my pupils when I ask one boy (let's call him Cedric. Not because that is anything like his name, but because I think it would be funny), when I ask Cedric, what he wants to be when he is an adult (if I let him get that far).

"Footballer," he says.

"How fucking original," think I. "So," I say, patiently, "What if you don't make it as a footballer? Not everyone does, you know!"

"Oh, I will!" he says. He's good, I'll grant you, but he's not got snapped up by Arsechester or Chelski yet, so he's not solid glod (Is that a typo, or a deliberate play on words, suggesting that although footballers are wealthy, they can't even spell? You'll never know.) yet.

"But what if, " I begin, setting myself up for the perfect scenario, but never dreaming it might really fall into place, "What if," I'm getting excited, by the way. Not a lot, but just enough to get my heart beating a tiny bit faster, "What if, when you grow up," (Anyone see where this is going?) ..."What if, when you grow up, you're only good enough to play for Accrington Stanley?"

Now, at this point, I already feel like it was worth coming to work that day. It is not worth writing about in a blog yet, but it is a pretty good feeling to squeeze that line in anywhere. But it gets better. Oh yes it does. Now, some girls are annoying. Some are lovely. Some are annoying, but redeem themselves so utterly with one perfect moment in their lives that you'll forgive them anything for the rest of their natural lives. It is at this point Claire (See, I'll not even give her a duff name in something she'll never even read.) decides to interrupt with the perfect interruption. She actually said, and this is why I'll love her forever, "Accrington Stanley? 'Oo are theeey?" And I'll swear to any god you love, she said it in a Scouse accent, despite being a Hackney girl. And the best part was, she wasn't just copying the advert you and I all know and love, she was just asking!

At this point, I know I've not got long. With microseconds to spare, I manage to squeeze out, in an equally Scouse accent, "Egzackly!" Immediately after, I collapse the floor in a fit of hysterical laughter and spend the next five minutes rocking around unable to control my own body, let alone actually speak, and confusing the fuck out of pupils who, up to this point, were probably reasonably sure I was sane. My class file out of the room when the bell goes, but I am still unable to speak. Over the weekend, I gradually recover.

So, to go with the Mr Miyagi moment and the JR Hartley moment, I also have the Accrington Stanley moment. A genuine, unrehearsed reconstruction of the 1980s milk ad!

State Sanctioned Torture

Lots of things are different in teaching. For example, how many other careers inflict state-sanctioned torture on their workforce? Here he goes, I hear you cry, exaggerating again. Well I’m not. Where else will they make you sit in staff meetings of seventy-plus people? I’ve been an engineer. Meetings had seven to eight people, tops. I’ve worked in HR in the Civil Service (A profession of noteworthy dullness) and even they had meetings of a maximum of nine or ten of us. So why, in the name of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (look it up), do schools inflict intentional brain damage on us and then dress it up as “a whole school staff meeting”? I mean, by god, I know we do it to the kids, but why the hell do we do it to ourselves? Sure, we’re teachers, we signed up to be mean to kids, and an assembly is as good a way as any other of torturing the little bastards, but when we do it to ourselves, doesn’t that just count as weird?

Then again, maybe I’m looking at this the wrong way? We don’t really do it to ourselves, do we? Is it a Head Teacher thing, maybe? In that case, I’m going to the UN and calling Cruel-and-Unusual on her ass. Seriously, give me my orange jumpsuit, burlap head-sack, and get me the frak out of the next whole school staff meeting. I’m begging you, George, come get me. I’m a dangerous dissident.

And worse, why is it that they always sign up the most boring person they can find to speak at these things? I could do a better job, and I generally repeat everything I say in at least three different ways before moving on to my next point. I find it hard to move on with what I’m saying without rephrasing things a couple of times. I like to build in some redundancy just in case people don’t get me the first time. I think it is important to reinforce everything important that I say (or, to save time, just everything. After all, I don’t waste my breath, or even my typing, or writing, or even mumbling, on irrelevancies).

Huh, where was I? I got carried away with my own self-referential humour about how I like to repeat myself until people hav…

Damnit!

Right, anyway, where do they find these people? Do they take out Ads in the TES?? Wanted: Boring Fucker to send large comprehensive school teaching staff to sleep. Must provide own tedious PowerPoint of dull (and probably fictional) data and graphs. Speech impediment a plus, but not essential?

Actually, one of the rare occasions when these things become bearable is when the person has a cool problem with talking. A lisp, whilst not fun for the poor bastard standing there, can be a source of enormouth amuthement for the rowdy element thitting at the back. A st-st-stutter should not be poked fun at in every day life, but if some g-g-gittoid is trying to make me cry because my brains are dribbling out of my sodding ears, why the hell shouldn’t I try to cling to sanity with my mental fingernails by hanging on to whatever scrap of malice allows me to keep believing I am the one in charge and they don’t really hold my continued sanity in the palm of their hand? Trouble is, not enough of them have a lisp, but an alarmingly high percentage of these people have a more serious problem. I ask you, do they train these fuckers to talk in a monotone voice before they let them have an Assistant Head Teacher job? Is the ability to speak without inflection, change of pace or any fucking emphasis whatsoever a prerequisite for a consultancy job in teacher INSET? Stephen-Computer-Voice-Bloody-Hawking speaks with more emotion!! And god bless the man, before he even deal swith having a computer instead of a voice, he has to get over the serious disability of being a genius physicist. I have to ask, if that guy can get over those humps and avoid people falling asleep in front of him, shouldn’t teachers be able to manage it? Christ, it is not like teachers don’t get enough practise at talking. It is what they do, after all, Every. Sodding. Day.

What makes it worse is that some people bloody help them. Some people even try to trump them. In fact, you have the whole spectrum of reactions to these people. You’ll have fantastic people who’ll actively campaign before the start, warning anyone that questions will not be tolerated, and may back this up with violence, or even, gasp, evil stares. Then you’ve got the silent mouse, and above them, people who’ll ask valid questions that are relevant to everyone. Then we reach the annoying ones. Okay, all of you, seriously now, listen to me, right now. If you are one of these people, here is a warning: She already said she can hang around at the end for individual questions. I swear to God (even though he doesn’t exist) that I will knock you the fuck out if you waste my time asking a question so specific that I’m not even sure it applies to you, you pedantic FUCK! Seriously, you are wasting our fucking time. And why, why, why do you have to wait until it is time to leave before doing this to us? Is it your way of getting back at the world because you were bullied at school?? And seriously, to the last group of people, if you want to deliver your own lecture about how this has all come back round to where we were in the Seventies before Thatcher ruined it all, hire out the local Church Hall, get a slide show in, and prepare for a lonely evening sipping weak lemon drink, because no-one fucking cares!!!

Who wants my suggestion? And what the fuck do I care who wants my opinion anyway? I am the one writing this thing. If not, sod off, and if you have your own opinion, write your own rant, you whinging, moany bastard.

Set every fucker in the room up with electroshock devices. Everyone in the room is hooked up, and everyone gets a controller. The more people are hitting the Zap button, the stronger the shock. Bore us too much and we will shock you. Keep doing it, and we will fucking kill you. If you can survive having everyone in the room press the Zapper at once, you deserve your time in the limelight; I salute you.

Bleeeuurgh!

What is it about sick leave? That weird blend of elation and deep, deep guilt? Bloody hell, it is not my fault when I get ill, is it? It is not as if, given a choice, I'd want to be shitting through the eye of a needle, or counting pieces of corn inthe toilet bowl. I don't even like clear runny liquid dribbling out of my nose and shaking like a leaf.

So, why is it that when I had other jobs, when I got ill, I'd just ring up and say "Gfffmmbkllkhubble", go back to bed and get better, but now that I am a teacher I have to spend a good 30 minutes psyching myself up to ring that bastard at the other end of the phone? And then, he just says "okay!" anyway!! As if I needed to worry... Maybe it is because I work at a Catholic School (Yes, that old chestnut again. I'll keep bringing it up too, because I think it is important to mock religion. Jesus was humble, and they bloody well should be too. If some of them decide to be pompous pricks, it is up to the rest of us to bring them back down to Earth with a raspberry.)

Where was I? Cover work. Yes, also a bloody nuisance. What other job do you have to spend time doing work in order to prepare to ring up and say "Bleeeurgh... sick... not coming...." And then of course, knowing that for the next week after you get back, there'll be some arse-wipe in the corner who mutters every time you come near about how much cover they have had this week. And you can bet you house on someone saying "Well, I've not had a day off in over 30 years!". And they'll have the nerve to say it like they are the unlucky ones! Well I say this - I say you lucky lucky lucky lucky bastards. I wish to Christ I never got ill. Don't bloody complain about being healthy, you miserable old sods!!

Mind you, there is a pay-off to all the bitching you have to suffer when you get back. You can never say it to their face, but while they rant at you for being less healthy than them (as if you made a choice to spend your re-incarnation points on rich parents instead of good health the last time you came back, or just prefer being sickly) you can be thinking to yourself "Ah yes, you may have the moral highground now, you prick, but you weren't laughing yesterday while I was watching "Location, Location Location!!" and..." er... er... any other shit TV program on weekday mornings. They all blend into one, and I can't remember any names, sorry...

Anyway, back to my point (as if I had one). There is a guilt-bump to get over, where you have to make that call to announce your impending demise and resultant need to take a sick day to stave of the cold icy fingers of death, but once you get over it, the guilt tends to fade a bit, and you get to enjoy your day in front of the telly-box. (Why do E4 call it that? I ought to think it sounds crap, but actually, I think it sounds pretty cool. Telly box. Telly box. Sounds like a kids cartoon character.) Personally, I recommend Channel 4 for naff sit-comes early morning, a blend of BBC and ITV for the home improvement shows mid morning, a nap while those shite antique shows are on (I just remembered the name of one - Cash in the Attic. For starters, the name is shit, and second, it isn't even fucking right! I've watched that show more than once, and they never go anywhere near the pigging attic. They go everywhere else in the house, but never the attic). If you like to see gossiping tarts, Loose Women is a surprisingly honest title, and frankly, those brazen hussies ought not to be on the TellyBox any time before 11pm, and even then, confined to channel 4.

I feel myself stuttering to a close...

The Staffroom

Funny, when I started the first post in this blog, I had loads of ideas of things to write about, and I am pretty sure I knew exactly what to write in each of them too. Any of you lot want to explain why the hell I can't think of a damn thing to write now? I blame Gordon Brown. Mainly because he is Scottish.

Ah, I know, I have got something to write about. The only safe place in school. The one place where teachers get to say "bollocks" and "fuck off". Our haven, our shire, our respite from the little buggers out there with the knives and the cuttingly sarcastic nicknames. Yes, I am talking about the Gentlemen's Toilet. No, wait! Come back! I mean the staff room! Staff room! Come back!

Oh, quick tangent - I want you all to make a promise... Talking about the staff room... that poor bastard in the corner that no-one is talking to. Well, that's YOU that is. You a few years ago when you were a Trainee Teacher. You when you were an NQT. You if you ever do supply work. You when you move to a new school. Go talk to the unlucky sod. He is about to experience the worst bleeding year of his life, and you miserable buggers are making it worse. He probably thinks he has BO or something. What he doesn't realise is that it is even worse and it might be a whole year before his colleagues actually talk to him, let alone bond with him. He'll land up with mental disorders as bad as the rest of us by then.

Actually, there is a very very real danger when talking to strangers in the staff room. There is a very real risk they might be a consultant from your LEA. Yeah, I know. I know what you are thinking now. "I'd love to talk to the Trainee/NQT/Punching ba.. er.. supply teacher, but what if I land up getting bored fucking senseless for 20 minutes by some over-enthusiastic gittoid who wants to tell me about AfL?" Well, I have a fool-proof system for working out whether to talk to someone. If they are crying, they are definitely an NQT. Don't speak to them this time unless you have waterproof clothes on, but they will be safe next time (as long as you don't remind them where they are). A vacant stare and many shakes of the head is without doubt a supply teacher just back from 9dnl4. As long as you speak Australian, they'll be fine for a chat. Despairing faces in September are those stupid bastards who moved to your school thinking things could only improve compared to their last place. These people are idiots, and you should speak to them only in mocking tones. The truly vicious might even feign sympathy, then sic some boy whose name begins with "T" onto them (Oh come ON! Can anybody honestly say they have ever met a nice Tyler, Travis, Troy or Tim? Wait, scrub that last one. But you get the point.)

Anyway, signs of a consultant generally include a smart set of clothes and a smiley face, but this can be deceiving. Some of the bastards will try and trick you by wearing too-short trousers and scruffy jumpers and muttering. Some even have beards. In any other industry they'd be the office weirdo. Somehow in teaching they get a pay rise. Here is the trick to spotting a consultant though; they'll generally have all of their worldly possessions (keys (dozens), mobile phone, USB stick, Blackberry, pet alsation) hanging from a colourful strap around their neck. In Hackney it'll be orange. In Hackney orange means DANGER, BEWARE! Boring person here! In Hackney, they are colour-coded, for our convenience.

Where was I before I went on that tangent though?

NO clue.

That'll do then.

Idea for next time: Rant endlessly about the word Facilitate. And Plenary. And Pedagogy. And anyone who uses these words in a non-piss-taking sentence...

I'd better stop now or I'll be sat here for hours.

My Finest Moment in Teaching

So there I am, teaching my students about the periodic table. All very exciting so far, right? Okay, so... not. But for those of a certain generation you will soon understand the joy this lesson brought me. (Incidentally, I KNOW I shouldn't start a sentence with "But". Just bog off, okay?)

First, a bit of catch-up for those of you who spent science lessons sleeping; the periodic table lists all the elements that everything is made of, and can be thought of in terms of groups (the columns on the table) or periods (the rows). So there I am (still), merrily teaching my students that groups are columns and periods are the rows... and I realise that this lovely, but less-than-academically-gifted group has not got a clue what I am talking about. Now, that is not as unusual as I would like it to be, but I am pretty sure this is a simple concept, so I wonder if the problem lies with something other than my own ineptitude for a change. A bit of exploration with this reveals that not a single one of them can even tell me the difference between rows and columns. Uh-oh. I go a bit further and find vertical-horizontal is a bit of a puzzle to them too. Oh dear, thinks I. A bit of a digression about columns in Roman architecture and the horizon being, shock, horizontal doesn't generate that spark of comprehension I was searching for in their faces (Not many Roman amphitheatres in Hackney, nor even much a horizon for that matter, just rooftops) so I move onto plan B.

Trouble is, at that point, I didn't really have a plan B. Well, I think, remembering that my lesson is being observed by a quiet-as-a-mouse, trying-to-decide-whether-to-become-a-teacher lady off to one side of the lab, I've got to do *something*. Time to regress to primary school, I decide, and quickly get all of the kids holding a finger out in front of them, a little bit like ET. You know what I mean. Moving my own finger up and down, and making the kids do the same, I start reciting "Vertical. Repeat after me - vertical" then horizontal, rows, groups, periods, columns and so on. Pretty soon they are doing it without me showing them with my own finger, moving their fingers with abandon and calling out "COLUMNS!" after me, and having a gay ol' time of it (in the old-fashioned sense of the word, of course - I work in a Catholic school. More on that later too, by the way).

It is at this point, I realise I have become one of my own personal Hollywood Heroes. In a moment of inspiration, I call out "Wax on!".

Awesome.

Almost every boy in the class starts moving his hands in circular motions. Turns out a certain Hollywood movie about a New York boy who moves to LA and becomes a karate champion is still pretty popular with the kids of today.

Yes, my finest moment in teaching was when I became, just for a few minutes, Mister Miyagi from Karate Kid.