Scrutinising Scrutiny

My dentist is a good bloke. For a man who regularly causes me pain and discomfort, a few minutes in his company is a strange, uncomfortable pleasure. He speaks passionately about his profession as he bears down with a syringe the size of a rocket launcher and talks quite openly about the flaws of modern dentistry.

"I'm looking into being a teacher," he once said.

"Oh, why?" I asked, with dribble trickling out the corner of my mouth and down my numb chin.

"Because," he continued thoughtfully, "I'm sick and tired of the scrutiny!"

Once I had apologetically wiped up the purple mouthwash I had spluttered over the floor I put his mind at rest that teaching is hardly free of scrutiny itself. In fact, the profession is currently re-defining the boundaries of the word.

Now, I am well aware that all professions suffer from the scourge of scrutiny. If you're a gas man, you get scrutinised. If you are an estate agent, I'm sure you also get scrutinised and I'm also sure that in preparing for the scrutiny, you somehow forget to just crack on and do your job to the best of your ability. This is in no way meant to imply that only us poor teachers are the sole sufferers in this modern plague of red tape. All I will do in this post is discuss the level of scrutiny which takes up most of my time as a teacher and maybe if you're a parent of a school kid (as am I) and sometimes wonder why not everything in their education is perfect, this may help you to understand why. 

I've never been a fan of paper work. I'm not very good at it for one thing, and the very act of handing me a piece of paper which is intended to collect a series of ticks, or for the purposes of scrutiny, crosses, is tantamount to putting in into a black hole. I may well lose it. I may well try to lose it. However, in the modern age, I'm often sent them in electronic form and so I can lose as many as I wish as the deadline for handing back the form, complete with the aforementioned series ticks and crosses, rapidly approaches.

So, let's look at the scrutiny which exists.

The biggest and most pointless level of scrutiny is, of course, Ofsted. There, I said it. Ofsted is a pointless body who provide the modern teacher with nothing but un-necessary stress. You would have thought that any organisation which can bowl into an establishment and judge it would have the answers to help it improve, wouldn't you? Well, they don't. They do the easiest job known to man. They stroll in, watch a few minutes of a few lessons, look at some data, then swan off, leaving behind them a frazzled mess of nerves and a judgement which is simply based on data. They tell us they are only concerned with what they see in the class room. Well, they 're not. They are concerned only with data. We would be better served just sticking a sheet of data on the school gate on the morning of their arrival so they can spend five minutes looking at it before getting back into their cars having made the very same judgement they would have made if they came in.

Their judgement, once made, leaves a whole sea of targets which require further scrutiny and stress.

The data itself is scrutinised as are my judgements which lead to the data. In the past month, my professional judgement has been scrutinised by the Head teacher, colleagues within the school, the local authority and even two deputy heads from a partner school. Three of those scrutinies were successful, in particular, the local authority - the big one. I was even invited by the authority to become a lead moderator - a don of scrutiny if you will. I declined as I was too busy being scrutinised.

In preparation for these sessions of scrutiny, I spend many hours ensuring that every single piece of evidence I can muster is available, annotated, cross referenced, ticked, crossed, dated, moderated and accurate to within a gnats cock. This time, of course, could be spent getting ready for tomorrow's lessons where I could be very ready to deliver that big-bang of a lesson in which the children would produce the work which is better than the work I am presenting for scrutiny. When, after three rounds of scrutiny, colleagues from another school suddenly question my judgements, I am fully justified in being rather miffed, and with a strong sense of being patronised. These colleagues are of course from an outstanding school.

Currently, children's work books are being scrutinised once or twice a week and we are subject to 'informal' 20 minute drop in observations weekly. These drop ins are, of course, not informal as judgements are of course made. At no point are these intended to improve my practice. They just form a part of the on-going scrutiny in which the Head generates a shed-load of data about teacher performance which bulks up a folder which will be, at some point, scrutinised.

The majority of scrutiny is carried out to check that we are, in fact, doing our job. The paperwork itself is a tool which ensures that we somehow prove that we are doing the things we are expected to do. However, somewhere along the line, someone forgot that while I am spending that mythical five minutes filling in the forms, I am probably not doing the activity that I should be doing. Well, not to the best of my ability that is.

Take, for example, interventions. Little sessions of teaching which offer specific support for a child or a group of children who may be struggling. I spend every afternoon doing them. Reading, writing and maths are covered in a whirlwind of an afternoon involving high speed teaching and paperwork. Currently, the are very effective and the children are doing well. I wonder though, what is making them make that progress. Is it my teaching or is it the filling out of the paperwork that proves that I am doing the sessions in the first place?

When the section of rain forest which makes up my intervention folder was scrutinised, three dates were picked out as showing no evidence of work. Because I hadn't filled in the boxes for those dates, then the interventions never happened. I was asked why they hadn't happened. I explained that they did. I was shown that the paperwork proved it didn't. I pointed out that I may have neglected to do it. I was reminded of the expectation that the paperwork is in order if I want to prove that I am doing the work that I say I am doing. Funny. I thought the data did that for me! Would the data be even better if I spent less time buggering about with paperwork and just teaching?

Then there is the observation. The pointless, often disheartening, observation. Here, the observer wanders in to see you in action for half an hour or so and then wanders out again. You meet with them after for a feedback meeting, where your are judged. The lesson is pulled to pieces into the tiniest detail and you are expected to recall your thinking at every step of the way. Then you are given a grade which defines how good you are. Now, you are reminded that whatever grade you get has no bearing on your overall rating as a teacher...but it does, really. Get 'outstanding' and you're free to float around the school for the coming term. Get a 'good' and you get a warm fuzzy feeling that your lesson was satisfactory. Get a 'needs to improve', formerly 'satisfactory', and the heavens open with a deluge of targets, further observations and stress as it isn't satisfactory at all. If you wind up with inadequate then you are the rampant devil disguised as a teacher. The 'triangulation', which is a scrutiny designed to give a whole picture of a teacher's performance, combines the result of the observation, the quality of work in your books and your data is ignored. Good data and good books are discredited as being good evidence of good teaching and swamped under the flood of stinking puss which permeates the fallout of the disastrous lesson you've just taught.

No lesson happens without some degree of planning and so, planning needs to be scrutinised. It is pointed out that, perhaps, you haven't put on a few key questions on your plan, and it is suspected that you were trying to get through a lesson without asking any questions at all! The upshot is that many more hours are spent creating wonderfully detailed plans that will only ever be looked at by a senior member of staff who intends to scrutinise. Their findings then result in more targets which need to be addressed before the next round of planning scrutiny. I bet when my teacher planned a term of work, she did so on the back of a fag packet yet still managed to teach us well.

I agree that teaching, like any other industry, needs to strive to improve, and monitoring of performance needs to happen. However, I fully believe that making people feel good about what they do will improve performance far more than burdening them with a sea of paperwork, targets and criticism. How about the observation still happens, but goes without grading? How about it is purely to help each other get better? Believe it or not, teachers are their own biggest critics and are skilled in highlighting weaknesses and plotting to make them stronger. As I progress through my career, I'm becoming highly adept at finding faults. That is, after all, what I am being trained to do. We watch lessons in order to find fault. We look at data in order to find fault and we look into books to find fault in marking or teaching practice. Rarely do we spend good time looking only for strength and celebrating them.

Maybe if we spent less time worrying about and preparing for scrutiny, we could find the time to notice what we actually do well.

 

Moving the Goal Posts

Ah, school. The best years of life, or so they say. I remember my primary school days with pleasure. Days of creative thinking and collaboration, surrounded by paint, interesting things, punctuated with break times eating crab-paste sandwiches and playing football. I used to run to school, just to get there before anyone else, always armed with a ball, ready for the game to begin. When nine o'clock arrived, the teacher would ring the brass bell and we'd all run in, excited to crack on with today's work, or continue with yesterday's project. I felt no pressure to excel and nor do I recall being given any grief about what level I was at. I was happy, excited and optimistic. Well, I was a kid, after all. Ah, school.

Fast forward 25 years and I'm a teacher. Now, I was rather hoping, through my romantically tinted glasses that my presence in the class room would spread those feelings among a new generation of eager learners. I wanted to emulate my teachers and be the inspiration for the future of our civilisation to grow and evolve into whatever they wanted to be. My non-contact time would be spent creatively planning the next a-bomb of inspiration and making resources to make them literally jump with joy.

How wrong can you be?

You see, there is the issue of the perceived drop in standards. Today's children are, apparently, an illiterate, innumerate generation of lost hope...and it is all my fault. Yes, I'm sorry, parents. It is all my fault. Now, when I say 'my', I mean the collective group of teachers. Not the government, those over-arching, over-seers of knowledge; those experts in the educational field. The teachers.

Now, the government have decided that in order to raise standards, we must simply make things harder, i.e. make children in Year 4 do what the Year 6 children would have been doing and so on. As a Year 2 teacher, I am teaching a class of children things I didn't know until I was 17. I'm not making it up - how many of you, when aged 6, could have wandered home, telling Mummy all about the subordinate clause, or regale them with the tale of how you hit your target of kicking off a story with an inspired adverbial phrase? No, I couldn't have done either.

Why is it the teacher's fault then? Well, I guess treating 6 year old children like, well, children, has been a major failing. I mean, what kind of children are we trying to develop here? Not those kids who value their new toy, or playtime more highly than that target I've just been banging on about, certainly! No, that would be just unprofessional. 

So let's look at what we're doing. I know a Reception teacher who was an NQT less than a year ago who is, quite simply, magic. I can speak as a colleague and a parent as she teaches my son. She provides the stimulating environment, the quality learning and the love of learning that you'd expect. I know this because my son loves going in. In fact, he regularly corrects my phonic knowledge and checks my number bonds to ten. This is wonderful! He's doing well. Most of the children are, in fact. The problem is though, she doesn't do enough, or so she is told. The fact that she is the first in and the last out each day and is usually to be found sinking under piles of paperwork and deadlines just isn't enough. Not only is she not doing enough, but neither are the children.

Michael Gove has now hit upon the idea that children aged four must now sit and take part in regimented lessons. Yes, 4 year old children, straight out of Nursery must now begin to sit at desks, listen to a teacher and carry out a multitude of tasks. Yes, yes, you and I know that it won't work. Anyone who has ever met a four year old could tell you that, but it is the way forward!

Also, the question of average has reared it's ugly head. I've always understood average to be, well, average. Something which is in the middle, just so, not incredible yet not utterly useless. I speak, of course, as Mr. Average; the very embodiment of being just OK. Now, the Reception teacher is now being lent upon to ensure that 80% of her class 'exceed expectations' of their year group. If she meets that, do we simply increase the percentage required for her to do well or do we then decide that 80% are actually now deemed to be below average? I mean, what kind of expectation is 80% to 'exceed'? If the majority of your class exceed, then surely the 'exceeding' criteria is too low or, more likely, stupid and so, the cycle of apparent failure continues.

I look around my class sometimes and see an ocean of fatigue. Before me are 30-odd 7 year old kids who are absolutely ground down. They work far harder than I ever did at school. Some of them excel and love learning. Some of them struggle and still love learning. Most of them, as you'd expect, get along just fine. I guess this presents a picture of humanity. Some can, some can't, some would rather be at home playing with their toys. 

Why are they tired? I can't remember being tired, ever, at that age. Yes, some kids go to bed far too late but I fear the answer to their fatigue is caused by stress. An average 7 year old in my class must concern themselves with multiple targets for reading, writing and maths. They must concern themselves with deadlines. They must worry about sitting tests and achieving grades which define whether they are better, the same as or below their peers up and down the country. I don't remember being given targets. If I was, I clearly didn't listen or care. I also don't remember my teacher giving me grief about, well, anything. I was a kid and was loving it.

We are in danger of harming the next generation simply by putting too much pressure on them. Gove believes that this is necessary pressure, designed to toughen children up for a life spent meeting targets and deadlines. Some hope for them, then. So here's my problem. Where is the creativity? Where is the room for kids to express themselves? While the aspiring writer in my class wants to cut loose with some style, I must remind them of the need to remember the SPaG test and that grammar is now an immovable, unchangeable object. This is the test which asks children to spot the verb out of 'walk', 'fence' or 'field'. Really, I'd love to meet the cretin who came up with that!

Here we are then. 2013 and the kids know nothing and the teachers are failing. Teachers are 'failing' because they themselves are competing with moving goal posts. These, again have been moved with the idea that if you make the targets higher, then everyone improves.

The rates of progress I'm achieving now would have been deemed better a few years ago, and the lesson I taught yesterday, under observation from the Head, would have been outstanding just a year or so ago, not merely good.

So my final point is this: Words. I work in an industry where words mean something different from what I was taught. Last year, I taught a 'satisfactory' lesson. Satisfactory, so I thought, meant it was OK. Not amazing but not bad. I was observed a week later because 'satisfactory' was in fact not satisfactory. Now we've ramped it all up, the 'good' I got yesterday, which, a year ago would have been 'outstanding' is in fact expected - it is satisfactory, then. 

The upshot of all this is that I get more pressure, feel more strain and this conducts itself to my class, who feel more pressure and more strain. By proxy, I'm harming them. Their behaviour was outstanding yesterday. It was a Friday, a week after their SATs and they were still giving it their best...but it wasn't enough - not for some.

There is to be a vote of no confidence from the unions today. Teachers will collectively bare their singular, giant arse at Gove and I hope that, in that image of a mammoth anus, he sees a reflection which makes it clear what we think of him, his policies and his impact on the net generation of children.

Mr Gove, Sir, I bare my arse at you. Do me a favour and sod off and sit on the board of some Government committee, where you will no longer be a danger to our civilisation and let, maybe, a teaching practitioner, someone who knows what they're doing lead the way.  

Thank you.

Oh, and I didn't even start on the scrutiny.



  





    

Tin Soldiers - George's Discovery

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I started this Blog as a way of promoting the progress of my efforts towards completing my first novel. Just lately, though, I have become aware that I have rarely posted excerpts from the story! So here is the moment when George makes the discovery which will change his life. Seriously, I would welcome any comments, be they positive or constructive criticism!

George fell into a deep, contented sleep. He didn’t shift uneasily and his dreams were happy. The house was in utter silence. That was until 3am. In the downstairs hall, the grandfather clock geared up to chime. The inner workings of the antique cranked noisily into life with clicks and bangs like a robot awakening. Eventually it began to boom out its deep, mournful call. The chimes crashed around the house, echoing off the walls and ceilings and rolling up the stairs and into George’s room. As the chimes grew fuller, George’s comforting dreams were shattered and his eyes shot open. He was gripped with a crippling fear as the whole room reverberated with the sound of the bells. He lay, rigid and still, clinging to his duvet with shaking hands. It was then that the eerie green light from the night before began once again to creep from between the floor boards. The light slowly climbed the side of the bed, and George’s eyes flicked to the side and he could see it reaching out to him like beckoning fingers. He struggled to catch his breath as fear took hold. Before long, the light filled the room with a brilliant green glow, which pulsed, almost as if breathing, and long after the grandfather clock had returned to its sleep, George lay still, staring at the ceiling.

 

George eventually found the nerve to peel his eyes away from the ceiling and follow the fingers of light to their brightest point – on the floor, from beneath the uneven floorboard.

 

His mouth was dry, almost stuck shut and his breathing jumped with every pounding heart beat. Slowly, he crawled out of the warmth of the bed and tentatively put his bare feet on the cold, bare floorboards. The light continued to throb and George knew he had to lift the floorboard.

 

He knelt down and reached out towards the light. His fingers made ghostly green patterns dance around the room. He pushed his finger tips into the tiny gap and began to gradually lift the floorboard up. It creaked and groaned, breaking the silence which filled the house. He hesitated, knowing the noises could wake Mum and Dad, but the light pulsed once more, commanding him to continue. George gulped and gritted his teeth and heaved the floorboard further out of its place. Dust plumed upwards and hung chaotically in the green glow and the groans and creaks of the old wood grew louder. Then, with a loud crack, the board came loose in George’s hands, sending him rolling backwards and as if a switch had been flicked by an unseen finger, the green glow was gone in an instant.

 

George rested the board on the floor, and slid on his knees towards the void. He peered into the opening, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness once more but could see nothing. He took a breath and reached in with his hand, bracing himself for a shock. His fingers groped and probed in the thick dust which had grown over the decades. Then he felt something. It was cold to the touch. He grabbed it and pulled it free from the floor. There was writing on the tin, but it was too dark to make out. He jumped onto the bed and whipped the curtains back, allowing the light of the moon illuminate his room. He rested the tin on the window sill and stared. The silver glow teased across the tin, picking out a date embossed onto the lid: Christmas 1914. The rest of the tin was covered thick with dust and debris. George blew hard and the dust spiralled on the surface of the window before vanishing. Now he could see the bronze of the tin, glowing with newness and the words inscribed: Imperium Brittanicum. There was a picture of a young lady in the centre surrounded with a wreath. George took hold of the tin and tugged at the lid. It had been firmly shut and it was stuck fast. George dug his finger nails under the rim pulled with all his strength. He grimaced in pain as the tin pushed back into his fingers but he pulled harder still. Slowly, George could feel the lid begin to move. Eventually, with a metallic squeak and one final heave, the lid came flying off, clattering to the floor and skidding across the floor before crashing into the door. George froze to the spot, sure that the sudden crashes would wake Mum and Dad. He hardly dared to breathe. He waited for what seemed an age, but neither Mum nor Dad stirred. Turning back to the tin, George beheld with wonder, a small book and a miniature sword in a scabbard.

 

As if picking up the most delicate flower, George rested the book on the palm of his hand. The cover was missing and the spine was exposed, showing the fragile threads of cotton which bound it together. He ran his finger over the page, feeling the indents of the marks left by a pencil. He turned the book to face the full glare of the moonlight which still streamed through the window, but the writing was too feint to make out. Gently, George placed it back in the tin and turned his attention to the sword and scabbard. Again, with great care he picked the object up between his thumb and forefinger and held it high in front of him, letting the light play on the intricate patterns of chevrons. He slowly pulled the scabbard from the handle of the sword to reveal a tiny pencil which had been whittled down time and time again by whoever once owned it. He turned again to the window and held the object aloft like a soldier in triumph, his heart pounding against his pyjama top, breathless. He gazed at it in wonder through wide, bright eyes. Then, slowly, he traced his name in the air; G.e.o.r.g.e. He drew the blunted tip of the pencil gently down his fingers and across his palm, sending tingling sensations rushing along his arm and through his body, imagining he was writing in the book.

 

George’s attention soon returned to the mysterious book. What was it? Why had it been kept safe for so long? Had it waited for him? He sat on his bed with it in his opened palms and his eyes were straining in the dark to make out the lettering. Then, suddenly, just as he stood up to switch on the light, something amazing happened. The book began to glow in his hands, illuminating the room with a warm, golden glow, which burned like the first flickers of fire. He spun round, looking for a source of light, but the only light in the room now flared from the diary. He stared back into the glow. The words seemed to leap off the page and become clear, clearer than he had ever known. George’s mouth hung open in amazement as he beheld the front page, dated 18^th May 1914 – a time when the nation was embroiled in the Great War! The front page set out in pencil the detail of the man who once owned it.

Membership Card

 

Regimental No: 32180                                                   Rank: T & S

 

Name: H.J. Witham.                                      

 

Home address: 185 Porter Street, Wanstead, London.

 

Date: 18-5-1917

 

At the bottom of the page was a stamp of the regimental crest bearing the Latin motto ‘Ubique’. The crest bore the name: Royal Field Artillery. He barely dared to turn the pages with his shaking hands. Each page was gossamer thin. He read through several pages of heavily printed blue ink, detailing to the soldier all the signs and abbreviation of the battlefield, the differences between British and German guns and how to navigate by the stars. Then, finally, he came to the scrawled words and drawings of the soldier who used it. George gasped and numbness enveloped his body as he beheld a beautiful pencil and black ink drawing entitled ‘Faith Hope Charity’, identical to the stained glass window in the hall! Each stroke of the pen was so deliberate, and the power of the image seemed to leap out of the diary to tug on George’s heart.

 

He stared at the image for what seemed an eternity before reading diary entries about giving and receiving letters from ‘Mary’, and time slipped anonymously by. Then, on one page he found a page with whole days where nothing had been written.  George’s mind spun with wonder as he imagined what the soldier was experiencing. He turned his attention to the tiny pencil and slowly drew it closer to the blank page. His hand hovered just above the page as he thought of what to write, then, holding his breath, he pressed the pencil gently onto the page and began to write. As the pencil pressed harder, the golden glow became red and the heat became more intense. The room in which he sat faded into blackness as he was consumed by the power of the diary and slowly, the sounds of war began to ring around him. The sound of pounding guns and the screams of men filled the room and George’s heart began to race as the light of the diary began to drag him back into the world which existed nearly one hundred years ago. He began to see faces and uniform, weapon and trench. He could smell the stench of gunfire and burned earth and with each breath, the impact of the ceaseless explosions grew greater. Suddenly, he panicked and clasped the diary shut and casting the pencil across the room. The clatter of the pencil seemed to broadcast itself round the house. The light in the room changed. The glow of the diary was extinguished and the silvery glint of the moon returned. Then, as if to remove him from his trance, George could hear Mum and Dad’s bedroom door creak open and heavy, slow footsteps make their way out and onto the landing. Dad was up to go to work! George hurriedly put the diary back into the tin, next to the pencil. The footsteps grew closer to his room. He quickly knelt to replace the tin to its resting place amongst the dust and cobwebs. He grabbed the floorboard. The footsteps stopped outside his door. George froze. The silence grew. George held his breath and stared at the handle as it turned and the door slowly opened. He was for it! He knelt over the tin, holding the floorboard in his hands. ‘Dad will go mad!’ he thought to himself, as he braced for the inevitable questions. Then the footsteps carried on down the landing and were accompanied by a loud yawn. George exhaled a relieved sigh and relaxed his whole body. Carefully, he replaced the floorboard and climbed back into bed. His clock read 5:15am. George quickly fell back into a deep, deep sleep.

Ten Greatest Summer Songs

A few weeks ago I was huddled in my ice-bound camper feeling like I was being cryogenically frozen. The night took an age to become morning and the weakest of the sun's rays did nothing to relieve my icy doom. The boys and the wife slept wonderfully as, like the dutiful husband and daddy I am, I  made sure every available blanket was on them. We were in Scotland, on the banks of Loch Lomond at the end of what seemed to be the longest winter since 8031BC when the final mammoth gave up the fight and topped itself. England was still under a blanket of snow and airports up and down the country grounded flights.

That is all in the past of course, and here we are at the dawn of what will hopefully be a long and balmy summer. My garden has rapidly transformed from a barren, lifeless dump outside of my house to an overgrown meadow of a dump outside of my house. The willow tree is blooming once more and I am gracing the world with my ever-white legs; the jeans are getting a rest and the shorts are back on.

An English summer wouldn't be complete without certain things, however. There is the beer garden, which fills up the second the sun raises the temperature above 12 degrees. Then, there is the barbecue. Then, finally, for me personally, there is the music. Nothing pleases me more than driving, windows down with some summer tunes lifting my vehicle into an orbit of summery joy. So, with no further ado, my top ten summer songs...in no particular order.

1. Wake Up Boo - Boo Radleys.

This is a track of pure summery goodness. If you're going to have a one hit wonder, you may as well make it like this *note to self*

2. Skirt Alert - Corduroy.

Corduroy, for those who don't know, are one of the 90s best kept secrets. Purveyors of silky smooth Acid Jazz, their music was like someone had taken a soundtrack from a Carry On movie or a 60s British spy caper and stuck its fingers in the mains. The bonus with this track, for a forgetful vocalist like myself, is that I couldn't possibly forget the words.

3. Staying Out For The Summer - Dodgy.

This really needs no introduction. Dodgy - harbingers of the finest summer vibes. From their incredible Homegrown album, this should probably be England's national anthem...on sunny days at least. This clip is an acoustic version - Blogger couldn't hack the official video version!

 

 



4. No Rain - Blind Melon

Of course, the title smacks of a summer's wish, but this is one of those little known gems.

5. Above the Clouds - Paul Weller.

From Weller's first solo album, this is a cool slab of evening sunshine.

  6. Weather With You - Crowded House.

My favourite band, so this really needs no introduction. Summer in music form.

7. Joining A Fanclub - Jellyfish.

Jellyfish, the criminally overlooked gem from America. If Queen and Beach Boys had love children with the Beatles, this would have been the result.

8. Here Comes The Sun - Beatles.

All you need to know is in the title. I once read an article in which the author described George Harrison as the 'talentless one' in the Beatles. I hope the author's penis has since shrivelled, fallen off and been ingested by a rabid dog. This is perfect.

 

 

 

9. Dream On Dreamer - Brand New Heavies.

 

 

A bit more from the 90s Acid Jazz scene. This track could make the surface of the moon smooth or turn the Elephant Man into a bit of a looker.

 

 



 

 

10. Beach Boys - Wouldn't It Be Nice.

 

I had to keep it until last - just to get you to think I was going to overlook the Godfathers of the summer tune! In truth, I tried to attach the whole Pet Sounds album, but Blogger said "No"!

 

 







 

 

So there we go. Ten tracks to improve your already perfect summer's day! I'm sure I've missed out your favourite, but please feel free to enlighten me!

 

 



Who are the English?

Anyone who follows this blog knows my feelings on being English. As luck goes, being English is a bit of a result. I live in an affluent part of the world, even given the recession and I'm a part of a story which has brewed, developed, pulsated and twisted for well over a thousand years. I'm very proud of my nationality and the heritage which I can call my own.

However, the reason I write is to do with something which makes me seethe with anger, and for that reason, this should be a mercifully short post.

There are some comments which contradict themselves the second they spew themselves past the lips of the speaker which make my skin crawl. Sayings like 'With all due respect' are invariably followed with something which is doused with lashings of disrespect. Then there is the classic 'I'm not a racist, but'. Finally, the one which grinds my gears the most - 'England for the English.'

This slogan is most often nailed onto an anti-immigration stand point. Fine - one of our greatest assets as a nation is the right of freedom of expression. But to those who use that to defend their position on immigration, I would ask: Who are the English?

The last person who I challenged in this manner proudly puffed out his chest and proclaimed that the English were Saxon. Great! So if the English are purely Saxon, then surely England is for the race of people from what is now Germany. You could of course change the boundaries of that definition of the English by citing the Anglo-Saxons, therefore including the peoples of northern mainland of Europe such as the Dutch. The Anglo-Saxons marauded their way in and chased the then English (the Celts) into the furthest extremes of Cornwall and Wales. Are the English we speak of now, in fact, Welsh?

Who was here before then? The Romans? There was of course the period when the Vikings ruled the north of England. Over the centuries, a steady trickle of people have added to our number - people looking for work or for new beginnings, even people in search of the freedom to practise their religion, such as the Huguenots from France, from whom I am descended.  

My point is simply that we're an island race made up of immigration. Wave after wave of settlers have arrived, settled and ultimately enhanced our civilisation.

Not only have these invasions or settlements shaped our ancient history, but they have had a huge impact on our culture and way of life in the recent past. These changes, as the previous ones have, in my opinion, altered our country and language, mainly for the better. With the influx of settlers from the West Indies which began in the 1950s, bringing with them new music and food and then the steady flow of families from India and Pakistan at around the same time who also brought with them their own food, fashion and music which have now become an intrinsic part of our way of life. The fact that these arrivals were invited and encouraged by our own government is sadly lost, as is the fact that many came from former colonies of our very own Empire, which subjugated them and made them a part of our community anyway.  

I read on one particular Facebook page tonight, a comment from someone that continuing immigration is disrespectful to those who fought for our country in two world wars. Wow! That is amazing. So, allowing freedom of movement and welcoming different cultures is disrespectful? This person was advocating the idea that England is for the English and she cited that 'we won 2 world wars to keep England English'. By her reckoning, we close the borders and become home to one race of 'English' people with a shared gene pool. Presumably, that race would end up with one striking appearance and, in her eyes, at least, be rather special. Sounds rather similar to the ideal of the very force the armed forces of this country opposed. The end game of that war saw the liberation of a race of people who, if the allies had lost, would have been exterminated. That hardly sounds like the preservation or promotion of one race above another. It sounds very much like freedom to me. 


The argument often seems to be that many settlers fail to assimilate with our way of life - that they won't learn the language or queue like us or that they won't behave in quite the same way. That may well be the case for some of course, but, as a nation which is world renowned for bowling around in foreign countries shouting at waiters in slow, frustrated English, this seems like a weak argument.

Another argument is often about work. The complaint that 'they're over here, taking our jobs' is utter nonsense, often uttered by the very same person who can't be bothered to find work. Then there is the belief that they work for less so employers have no choice - again, who gave us the divine right to earn more than an immigrant anyway? I know one lady from Lithuania who taught herself English without lessons simply by using the school library each day. She was a cleaner, but, when she learnt enough English, divulged that she was a teacher in her home country. Within a couple of years she was fluent in English and working as an interpreter for Polish and Lithuanian children trying to settle into English education. That is amazing and worthy of great respect. How many of our own would have the patience and determination to make that transition?

I am aware that this could be a controversial post, but I hope, at least, it provokes some thought. Immigration, while I agree it needs very close monitoring, is essential to the continuing enrichment and development of our culture.

I'll surely continue this discussion in an English pub while drinking some Danish lager at some point before going for a curry, or a Chinese. We'll argue in our Germanic language until we agree to disagree or reach an accord...an entente cordial, if you will.

   

And Did Those Feet?

April 23rd should be a day we all remember. It should be one of those days we look forward to. It should be a date which is as embedded in our consciousness as our birthday and Christmas. Usually, though, this date floats past like a turd on the Thames; un-noticed and often frowned upon.

I'll take it a bit further. St.George's day should be a national holiday. It should be a day for the good people of this country to take to the streets and parks and pubs and celebrate its nationhood.

In recent years, there has been a growing swell of affection and reverence for the importance of the day, and more than ever, the day is marked by the flying of the flag from houses and cars. The past ten years or so have seen the date grow as an event, but still, it lags behind St. Patricks day, where everyone wears silly hats and half of America paints itself green. It is far from being as well observed as St. David's day, when people invariably wear the Welsh rugby shirt and proudly wear daffodils. It even falls behind Burns night, when Scotland stops to recite the work of their beloved bard and tuck into haggis and whisky.

So, why is this the case? Why don't the English all wear a red rose, recite Shakespeare and bath themselves in real ale? Why don't we stop everything to spend one, glorious day immersing ourselves in our rich and varied culture?

Maybe it says something for our own disposition as a nation. Maybe our reticence to overtly shout, scream and bellow about our traditions and heritage is in fact a strength - a mark of quiet confidence and strength in the knowledge that we, the English, really do have it good.

Maybe, on the other hand, the idea of reciting Shakespeare bores us senseless and the thought of dressing up, hopping around a maypole and doing the Morris is something we'd all find a touch embarrassing. Is that it? Are we actually a little embarrassed about our own heritage?

It is true to say that there are deep, mysterious areas of our culture that would only be discovered by people who actually look for it. The Morris dance goes beyond the involvement of a few blokes in jumpers and beards on a village green and, believe it or not, real ale and tea aren't the only beverages for us to shout about.

Once upon a time, I began to write about it - it would have been my first book. I wanted to write about my journey to discovering just what makes me burn with pride to be English. At the time, I would cite The Beatles, Elizabeth I, Churchill and all the usual tired and lazy reasons to be proud, but I soon found out through research that there is so much more for us to raise a pint, flagon or tea cup to. We were about more than the image of Bobby Moore and Jules Rimet. We were about more than the Victory V. We were even about more than the Royals.

We have a vein of heritage which flows with traditions dating back many centuries, back to before England even existed as a country in 927AD. This heritage needs to be upheld and observed, even if this does involve leaping gaily with bells on our ankles.

Our traditions are deeply rooted in ceremony and ritual - rituals which largely survive, barely, in rural areas. There is the wassail, involving mulled cider, incantations and offers to the tree spirits harks back to our pre-Christian past. What could be better than downing some cider and singing to a tree? To be fair, back in the good ol' days, I was virtually wassailing most nights.

Morris dancing itself has been our very own folk dance since the mid 15th century. Go to Scotland and the natives will perform the Gay Gordon for many hours. The Irish dragged their dancing into the mainstream, into the West End and all the way to Broadway - they even made a few bob out of it. Why don't we bring out the Morris and spice it up for the 21st century? Lord of the Prance? It could be a hit!

Perhaps then, the idea of celebrating our folk music and dance won't happen. The recitals of Shakespeare will no doubt bring memories of terrible lessons at school flooding back for much of the population and appeasing angry tree spirits may simply be a bit weird for most. So, what can we all agree on?

Our anthem? No, we can't manage that. Ours is one shared by the rest of the Union, only England keep it on all occasions while the Scottish belt out Flower of Scotland and Land Of My Father's makes the hair tingle of anyone with a Welsh gene, me included. While we drone on about a lady in a palace, we could of course be following our neighbour's example and singing about our landscape and our heritage. Jerusalem would be a fine choice for my money.

We could think about English inventions. We've been good over the years. English men, mainly working out of sheds with a shoestring budget have given us much to move humanity forward. The is the jet engine and the hovercraft. There is the internet and the Dyson vacuum. There is the steam engine, the railway, football, rugby, cricket, tennis, the adjustable spanner, the computer, hydraulics, seed drill, seat belt, stainless steel, celluloid, the fax machine, the fire extinguisher, the electric generator and sticky toffee pudding. I could even include the sandwich.

The above is a sparse list, picked from a giant list of world changing inventions and innovations. Where would we be without the spanner? Where would we be without the humble sandwich? Can you imagine a world without the jet engine? No, probably not, so maybe we could spend a day toasting our finest inventions.

We could go on to look at famous English men and women, but I would be here for ever more, so I'll cut to the chase and explain why we should all celebrate our little country.

Get out there. Look at it. Smell it and feel it. Stand atop Symonds Yat in the Forest of Dean, or cast an eye along the coastline of the east. Stand and gawp at the marvel of Brunel's Paddington or comprehend the fact that the tube rolls un-detected beneath the city of London. Take in London itself. Take in any of the cities. Seclude yourself in the coves of Cornwall or the remoteness of Cumbria. Wake up early and see the dew flicker and sparkle on the hills and valleys of the Debyshire Peaks or lose yourself in the nooks and crannies of the villages of the Cotswolds.

Our landscape is our greatest asset, and is the only thing we can't disagree about. It is the landscape which tells our story - inhabited and shaped by the people who made this place what it is. It is a country which has everything. Some say it needs more sun and that if it shone more, they wouldn't need to go abroad. While we could do with a few more rays, when the sun is out here, as it was today, there really is no place in the world worth being more than here.

Ladies and gentlemen - England! (Video made by an American...)

Yes, Minister. Of course, Minister!

A few years ago I really landed on my feet. I was floating aimlessly through life, anonymously going about a range of various jobs when, totally out of the blue, I landed a big one. Thanks to a friend in a high place, I found myself in what was a dream job.

Yes, I had made it! I was appointed as the head of design for a major, British fashion house! It was out of this world! I spent my days playing with my colouring pencils, tongue lolling like an enthusiastic dog, designing some amazing clothes, and by night, I'd be out schmoozing with the great and the glamorous at shows and parties. At first, it went really well. I copied a few designs of the guy who went before me and, because he really knew his stuff, I was hailed as a bit of a find. One hack even lauded me as 'the saviour of British tailoring.' To be honest, I began to believe it, and before long, I was shooting my mouth off about how clothing design should be done. Those who had been in the industry for decades thought I was a cretin, but I was top dog, and no-one can ever beat the top dog.  

Sadly, it didn't last, and soon my designs were being lambasted in the fashion press as the 'daubings of a child, with all the fashion understanding of Anne Widdecombe.' One even suggested that 'Satan's own out-pouring had arrived on the high street.' I found that rather hurtful, but they had a point. I didn't have a clue what I was doing! I was totally out of my depth, lost in an industry of which I had no idea. My finger was stuck up my arse when it should have been on the pulse. The fact my arse had no pulse should have been a dead give away of course. 

Still, I wasn't down. I had met some pretty important people throughout my time partying and networking, and I had shifted a few freebie dresses and kitted out the daughters of some high flying executives in my very own couture, gratis, so I soon worked myself into another big shot position.

Being the CEO of Rover was amazing! I liked cars and owned lots of toy ones when I was a kid. I would play with them for endless hours in my room, vrooming and zooming around, so I thought that I had fallen into a job which I could really do. I was about to drag a once glorious British motoring marque back to the very forefront of the industry. I would design classic, British looking cars, which would hark back to our glory days. I would design a car to rival the Rover P5 - the one the Queen rolled around in. I would even design a car which would look like a Jaguar. 

I failed. Miserably. The designs were awful, and I had trouble with the work force and my cars looked exactly like what they were - poor imitations of cars which had been designed by people who knew what they were doing. The fact that I had never even worked in a car plant and therefore had absolutely no understanding of the industry meant I was doomed from the start. Watching a Great British firm go under made a lot of people sad but still, it was only a job, right?

Of course, I jest. The very idea of me working at a high end fashion house is just ridiculous. I have the dress sense of Swampy's bride, and simply buying my own clothes brings me out in a cold sweat. I need my hand to be held by my wife and still never quite wear things quite right, while friends can wear anything and still look great. My time at Rover is utter fiction too. I'm sure the design team at all the top firms could do an oil change without causing fatal damage to the vehicle.

My point, of course, is this: I live in a country in which major areas of our social services are run by people with no understanding of the areas for which they're responsible. Our Government is democratically elected, then the party we choose go off and find the best people to oversee vital areas. Someone lands the job of transport, while another gets the gig of sorting out health care. The problem is this though - within a few weeks, the PM may wish to re-shuffle his cabinet and decide that the guy who was making a hash of the nation's transport system is, in fact, the right man to go and over-haul our health service and so, on goes the carousel of ineptitude and inadequacy.

The MP's qualifications for either job is nil. He is a politician. He is a talker, a schmoozer; a self important, unqualified chancer who's true talent lies in manoeuvring his way into totally unsuitable positions.

This brings me on to education. As a teacher, it is fair to say that I have a better understanding of the issues and the challenges facing both adults and children than a man, or woman, in a suit in Whitehall. Now, for the first time, I will use my blog to open fire on Mr. Gove, MP - the man in charge of education in this country. You'd expect to find his role backed up with a wealth of experience in teaching, wouldn't you? Of course you would, especially if he's in charge of it. Well, he went to school, when he was little, back in the 70s, so there's something.  

I'm sure he is, deep down, a nice man who cares deeply for his family and has never forgotten his wife's birthday but I find his leadership of education to be a frightening throw back to questionable times past.

So, here we are. 2013, and standards, so we are told, continue to drop, as they have dove, well, for ever. One generation looks at the next and complains that everything has become easier and claim that "when we were at school, we got the cane, had our tuck money stolen and every Wednesday, our plimsolls were flushed down the toilet by the prefects."

Are standards dropping? As a professional, committed to raising standards, and, as someone who has (a claim which can be backed up with data, the Governement's preferred method of judging the progress of children) I would have to say, err, no. What we are seeing, is more uproar, panic and finger pointing when a child of 6 isn't as well developed as another child of the same age. What I mean is, that the child hasn't lived up to the prescribed, perfectly evolved image of a 6 year old child, as created by someone in Government. This is the perfect, model child who lives comfortably in a comfortably affluent, leafy suburb with a background of support and academic expectation.

That isn't to say that success is limited to those from such a background. I give the case of a working class 7 year old from a deprived area who can talk about the construction of a sentence with all the confidence and jargon of a grown up. I didn't find out what a subordinate clause was until I was 17, and even then, I didn't care. I had obviously learnt how to use them, but hadn't had my head filled with the stress of trying to remember what it was, or why or when I should use it. My own 5 year old son can tell me confidently that his name contains a digraph. I couldn't have told him that myself until a few short years ago. I also give the case of the 6 year old girl who can read with all the fluency of a mature woman, and talk about what she has read with all the insight of someone two or three times her age. She tells me confidently that she has 'inferred' or 'deduced' her answers and I pat her on the back (ensuring of course, that another adult witnesses that friendly contact) and we agree that, yes, her segmenting and blending really is first rate. In fact, her recognition of those split digraphs really did help her decoding. 'Good reading', my teacher used to tell me. She may even have ruffled my hair without fear of prosecution or allegations of fiddling.

Of course, this doesn't go for every child, but my point is this: If a Government's answer to the problem of raising standards is simply to teach more complex ideas at a younger age, then we're setting ourselves up for an enormous fall. While the other child, the one who isn't quite living up to the model (although she probably will, it is just that she's going at her own pace, and that her toys at home are more of a concern than the concept I've been throwing at her) is too busy trying to manage the language relating to the concept I've been banging on about, she's too hung up to crack on and enjoy writing, or reading, or counting. 

And so, on to the final, brain-bending super cure for the current, perceived educational malaise...how can you get more from a teaching staff who are already over-stretched? Yep! Longer days! You see, Mr. Gove, in his wisdom, has now decided that our teachers and children would benefit from a twelve hour day. Yes, brilliant isn't it? That 7 year old will learn all those extra bits that way. He or she won't even get tired...and nor will the adult! I wish I could have the opportunity to sit in Whitehall and dream up the perfect answer to these problems.

Right, here's my day as it already exists, Mr. Gove: I'm up at 6 with my own two children. One is aged 5 and the other is 3. Both, or so I can see, are currently fitting the prescribed image of a child of that age, so I'm very satisfied, and ever so slightly smug. Like tens of thousands of similar families up and down the country, my wife and I hurtle around the house getting ourselves and the boys ready in a hail of cereal, toothpaste and missing school jumpers. From 7, I'm on call at work, so, in fact, my day already starts at the time you suggest. Then, of course, I go to work. Days when I'm not on playground duty, my 'breaks' are spent marking or prepping, and I'm even a decent enough chap that I actually timetable my own lunch break to carry out other duties, none of which include sitting, resting or eating. When the children leave at 3, the bloody part-timers, I go into meetings...every...single...day. I'm afraid, this year, I've been unable to fulfil your wish to provide competitive sport as I haven't had enough time to carry out enough football matches. When the meetings are done, I find myself at about 5, maybe half past, and I grab a few books to mark.

Then, I rush home and bolt down some dinner (or breakfast, as it often is). I then help the wife dunk the boys in the bath, then put them to bed (but not before we've practised those all important phonemes).

By now, it is gone 7, so at last, I sit down...and grab my laptop and carry on working! Yes, I was, recently, timetabling my own evenings! Yes, it was necessary. Two hours of my evening lost to work! To finish before 10pm was something of a treat...even a little naughty!

Here we are, Gove - I'm at the chalk-face, as they call it. I'm the one on the shop floor, doing it. I watch with horror as, yearly, talented teachers up and leave the industry, citing the fact that the workload is rendering them incapable of teaching well. Me? Am I as good as I can be? No! Given more time to prep, more time to think creatively and consider the needs of the children I strive to help, I would be outstanding. Easy. I am one of those talented ones...and I'm not alone. I'm surrounded by them. The talent which exists in my work place is staggering. Each adult giving everything they have. Each one of them passionate about the progress of the children they teach. The teachers are fantastic, and the assistants are frighteningly dedicated and just as passionate as the teachers...and no less talented.

And the children? They too are giving their best crack. Some of the children, by Friday, drag their knuckles through the door as the fatigue of the week sets in. The stress of the teacher, the rigour of our practise is not lost on them. They feel it equally. Are they as good as they can be? No! Why? WHY?

Because, Mr Gove, the person who is charged with teaching them is tired, stressed and probably getting fed up with the constant slog which, ultimately, ends with further criticism from your department, on the news, which leads to disgruntled parents, which leads to further criticism and a painful, over riding sense that we're all just wasting our time and would be far better off buggering off and trying to find the answer to the meaning of life - because success in that area is more likely.

I urge you then, to do my job for a term. I'll swap with you! I'm certainly not saying your job is easy and I am sure we'd mutually benefit from seeing how each other's roles work. I'm sure your job is extremely difficult and stressful and that you're are a highly skilled man. In fact, I know that I would make a hash of your job...just as you would make a hash of mine.

Yes, you'd even get the 13 week holiday we teachers get! That time when we do no work. That time when we ignore those assessments, planning, prepping and the need to sort our classrooms which appear to have been hit by a blitzkrieg.

The answer, is not, and cannot be, to make days longer. Many European countries, with higher attainment rates have shorter days and begin educating their children in formal lessons at age 6, sometimes even 7. Clearly, their more relaxed methods and attitudes reap reqarding dividends. It really is time to drop the pressure, drop the constant criticism and sniping and listen. Give teachers the chance to use their skills, be creative and enjoy their work, and you will see an immediate impact on progress, attainment and attendance...I know, because I did it one term a few years back. Naughty, I know!

I could now start on pensions, but this post is already of a considerable length. I'll write about that when I retire, aged 84. As for OfSTED... 

Thanks for reading.