by Anon
I decided to join the jogging tribe. I downloaded an app that tracked my distance and speed, and then tallied my results against other runners who happen to run that route. When I ran into school the first morning back, awkwardly carrying my clean shirt and suit, I was a wreck by the time I reached Bananaman’s shop.
You have run 5.39 miles at an average pace of 8.21 minutes per mile.
I huffed and puffed into the shop. Aisle upon aisle of empty shelves and scattered boxes. It looked like a tornado had ripped through it.
‘What happen to you?’ asked Bananaman.
‘Getting fit,’ I said, checking my stats. ‘Not bad. Medium quartile. Definitely gonna get into the top quartile by the end of term. I’m all about the Targets now. What happened here?’
‘Yah. Terrible. Gonna turn me into another fucking coffee shop.’
‘Ah, I’m so sorry.’
‘What you gonna do? How those teachers? Why don’t you just get fit with some bananaing?’
‘I know, I know. I’ve got it all wrong,’ I said as I bought a bag of Haribos. I told him to keep his chin up and sneaked next door for a croissant and a cappuccino.
As I approached the school, I noticed the stately pleasure dome was complete. A shimmering mirage of steel and glass, with not a block of concrete or damp scurf to be found. The school was finished.
I buzzed myself through the gate.
*
I had to wait ages to get into the toilet to get changed because a holiday in India was playing havoc with MegaDumper’s guts. Finally, when I got in, I retched from the pungent smell as I put on my clean shirt, new tie and suit, feeling a sweat patch spread across my back.
It was lovely to be back in the Department. We hugged and told wistful tales of entire days doing sweet FA on beaches or the sofa. Everyone was tanned and discombobulated, apart from HoD, who was grumbling in the corner, still hungover from an attritional couple of weeks in Suffolk with his ex-wife and daughter.
As I sat down at my computer at 7.43 a.m., I realised I had five lessons that day and no idea what I was going to do. I turned to Tom for help, but he didn’t know if he was coming or going. I asked him what the hell I was supposed to be doing for my first Meedja lesson. He waved his hands excitedly in front of my face and said, ‘Oh! Yes! I’ve got just the thing!’ He had woken up at 4 a.m., Googled the mark scheme and taken a screenshot of it. I looked at it, but couldn’t read it because the writing was so small. After five minutes of squinting, I realised it was the wrong mark scheme. He told me not to worry, that we would work it out, and I should just spend the first few lessons getting them to make films. I asked how they could do that without cameras; he suggested they use their phones; I reminded him they weren’t allowed phones in school. He didn’t have an answer for this.
‘Ah, the Dream Team!’ said HoD.
Little Miss Outstanding came over and gave me a chummy punch on the shoulder, and told me all about her holiday in Santorini and how the rest of the time she had ‘just chilled out’ in Hastings, which seemed unlikely given she had spent it planning the entire unit of dystopian fiction. She sent me the lessons. I clicked on Lesson 1. Grey clouds, neon skyscrapers, flying cars; sunshine, frost, Salvador Dalí melting clocks. ‘It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen.’
*
In the auditorium, late for INSET, I sat down on a chair like I owned it.
‘Hello, Sir!’ barked VP.
‘Hello, Miss!’ I said, confidently.
I introduced myself to a new teacher, who looked shit-scared, and was busy filling in her Planner. I picked up my Planner and started casually doodling, as the SMs recited their shtick and Head launched his nukes.
Most of the Department got off lightly, because our results were good. Everyone except HoD. His results would have been perfectly acceptable in the old days – each student had achieved well, each according to their merits – but he hadn’t gone the extra mile. He hadn’t pushed them into the zone of discomfort.
HoD stood reluctantly, as his results were projected. Half the class was green, the rest orange and red.
‘Why did all these students fail to reach their targets?’ asked Head.
‘They did not “fail”,’ said HoD, wearily. ‘They did fine. More than fine. I’m very happy with them.’
‘But they did not reach their targets.’
‘No, they did not reach your targets. Their marks were overinflated by previous teachers, who were understandably covering their backs, and the target was unrealistic.’
A throat cleared. A chair leg squeaked along the floor.
‘What do you mean, “overinflated”?’ said Head. ‘We all work to the same targets. The same algorithms.’
‘And I’m telling you they’re unrealistic,’ said HoD, walking towards the stage. ‘Overinflated. Relentless. Bullshit.’
Head raised his chin. This was pure insubordination, exactly what characterised the ancien régime. It had to be stamped out. For it is a fast descent into chaos. Head couldn’t wait to get rid of HoD. But he knew that it would be difficult to pull rank because HoD had been at the school longer, and had all the Old Guard onside. Head did not want to make a martyr of HoD, so wisely decided to let the rant burn out.
‘This is mindless, inhumane progress for the sake of it,’ continued HoD. ‘We can’t keep getting better and better. We can’t; kids can’t. Turns out, not all kids are the same. Some kids are better at exams than others. Some year groups are smarter than others. Why are we doing it? Because of the fucking league tables. Because of OFSTED. Not because of wanting the kids to learn.’
He turned to face his audience, half of whom gazed at him with admiration, while the other half glared with indignation.
‘I cannot think of worse conditions for learning. “You must do this so that this number goes up.” “Do this because I need to save my bacon.” Because I don’t like being made to stand up in front of my colleagues like a skewered bull.’
Head fumed quietly and motioned for HoD to sit down, but HoD hitched up his trousers and began pointing aggressively at the stage.
‘When are you going to be happy? When you get eighty per cent? Ninety per cent? A hundred per cent? What will you do when every pupil in the school gets a hundred per cent A*s? Where will you have to go then?’
‘Sit. Down.’
HoD slowly returned to his seat, like a recalcitrant Year 9, still swearing under his breath.
*
My Year 12 form arrived in dribs and drabs around 8.29 a.m. the next day. A series of disarmingly well-dressed young men and women, of every hue, complexion and hair gradation, who looked like they were going for an interview at a blue-chip firm, stopped in the doorway. I greeted them with a smile. They grunted, wandered to a computer, dropped their bags on the floor with a thud, turned on the computer and collapsed behind the screen.
A particularly sluggish boy called Liam started giggling when I chastised him for turning on his computer.
‘Liam, is it?’ I said.
‘Yeah, sir.’
‘We have to spend the next year together. We need to do a deal. If you get in on time, I’ll give you excellent references. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.’
‘A’right, Sir.’
‘OK. Now. Onwards. I hope you’ve had a good break. I can see by your tans that some of you have had a great holiday. But can I urge you to come down from your Goa high as quickly as you can. This is, after all, the most crucial year in your school career. You can’t wait until January to get started, not like Man U …’
A couple of muffled grunts. I clearly had to raise my bantz for sixth formers.
A boy entered, muttering, ‘Sorryi’mlate.’ He looked like a refugee from the late nineties: his long lank hair was in a ponytail, which reached the collar of his long black trenchcoat. He clumped to his desk in his black DM boots, and dumped his low-slung Tippexed bag on the desk. Many things were immediately clear: he hadn’t washed his hair
in weeks; he had gone to private school; his parents were sending him here to game the system and get him into Oxbridge; his anarchic pose was thinly veiled – underneath, he just needed to be loved.
‘I take it the Head of Sixth Form took issue with your hair,’ I said.
‘Yeah. It’s a fucking disgrace. Sorry. A disgrace.’
‘And your coat.’
‘What’s wrong with it? The teachers think I’m a teacher!’
‘Great. Well, you can take the register then. You’re Walter, I take it?’
‘Wally. Call me Wally.’
‘Wally.’
‘Mate –’
‘Sir.’
‘Sir. Can you call the technicians? My screen doesn’t work.’
As I walked over to try and help him, I noticed everyone was on Facebook.
‘OK, so let’s just set a few ground rules, yes?’ I said. ‘Form time is for working and discussing and stimulating our minds. I don’t want to see you on social media. In fact, I don’t want to see you on computers at all.’
They stared at me, then stared back at their screens.
‘Fine. Tune out. See if I care.’ I sat down at my desk in a huff. ‘Is this how you are going to behave in your university interview? Is it? Do you think anyone is going to let you into their university if you just sit there like an amoeba? Seriously. These precious few minutes we have together before school each day are the only time you have to prepare for university. Imagine I am an admissions tutor. So, Liam: why do you want to come to this university?’
Liam made a triangle with his fingers.
‘I think you may be in the wrong place,’ I said. ‘You seem to be applying to Play School?’
‘Nah, Sir. I was watching this thing on YouTube yeah about Jay Z yeah –’
‘Please stop now.’
‘No, Sir, you dunno what I’m gonna say –’
‘I do. I really do.’
‘Yeah so basically right the world yeah is run by –’
‘’Luminati?’
I made a triangle shape with my hands.
Liam leapt to his feet, and spun round and around, gripping his cheeks with one hand and pointing at me with the other.
‘No. Way! No. Way! Sir knows! SIR KNOWS!!!!!’
Lesson #175
Top Behaviour Management Tip: If You Go up to Any Kid, Make a Triangle Sign with Your Hands and Say, ‘’Luminati’, You Will Have Omnipotent Control.
’Luminati – or ‘The Illuminati’ – is a Theory of Everything invoked by every crackpot and lunatic on the internet and therefore is received wisdom for the kids. I have sat through presentations from classes in every year group on this very topic, and they all swear down that ’Luminati are, for good or ill, the governing cosmology.
‘OK,’ I said, preparing to engage with the madness. ‘Imagine I’m from the Planet Zog. What, pray, are “’Luminati”?’
‘All right, Sir, but if you are from Planet Zog, then chances are you have met ’Luminati,’ said Liam, tapping his forehead.
‘We’re off to a flying start.’
‘So, the ’Luminati, yeah, are actually these massive worms, yeah, from space, yeah, who wear human-being overcoats. And what they do, yeah, is come down and then start running tings.’
‘I see. Sounds scary.’
‘True say. It is dat. So, like, everyone in power, yeah’ – he registered my look of scorn – ‘or like most people in power, are ’Luminati. They are all in the triangle.’
He made the triangle with his hands. I made the triangle with my hands. Everyone went ‘Oooooooh!!!!’
‘Like the one on the dollar bill?’ I enquired.
‘Zackly. The All-Seeing Eye in the pyramid! Yeah. Dat’s ’Luminati. ’Luminati run every fing. Banks. Hollywood. 9/11.’
I told him this was sounding anti-Semitic, but was shouted down as others joined in with their nominations: David Cameron, Jay Z, Prince Philip, Tony Blair, Justin Bieber. I admitted that it was, in fact, a fairly broad church.
‘Just look at this school!’ Liam said, pointing out of the window.
‘Triangles everywhere! The playground! The chimneys! The logos! The All-Seeing Eye is everywhere. They see every fing you do.’
Hmm. Maybe he’s onto something.
‘So let me get this straight,’ I said. ‘You think the world is run by lizards?’
‘True say. It’s a ’spiracy.’
‘Innit! ’Spiracy!’
‘Well, Liam, I would like to welcome you to our august institution.’
‘So, you gonna let me go Oxford now?’
‘No!’
‘Please! Lemme go Oxford.’
‘I’ll let you go as soon as you learn to use the definite article.’
The bell went.
‘I’ll see you later for English.’
‘Bye, Sir.’
‘Bye, Liam.’
‘Safe, Sir.’
‘Formal language, please.’
‘Yeah, safe.’
‘And take that earring out before the Head of Sixth Form sees it.’
‘Yeah, whatevs.’
‘Au revoir, les enfants.’
*
I had a couple of minutes before my first lesson, so I returned to the Department, poured a cup of coffee and ate a croissant. HoD was looking out the window, chuckling to himself. I asked what he was laughing at, and he beckoned me over.
‘Come look at this. This is better than Jason fucking Bourne.’
I joined him and watched the playground for a while. Nothing much seemed to be happening. Just happy kids reuniting.
‘What am I looking at?’
‘There. See that woman there? Long white hair? Floaty dress?’
‘Yeah. Who’s she?’
‘New Head of Sixth Form.’
‘OK. So?’
‘Now look around. What else do you see?’
Head was circling a few feet away from her.
‘Head.’
‘Anyone else? Look closely.’
A few feet beyond Head was another SM, watching and talking on his walkie-talkie. Above him, leaning out of a classroom window, was another SM, talking on her walkie-talkie. Scanning across the school, I saw two more SMs, scrutinising Ho6’s every move, then talking into their walkie-talkies.
‘Where are the sniper guns?’ I asked.
‘Exactly. What the hell are they saying to each other? That kid is running and she didn’t stop him! She just walked past a sweet wrapper! Take her out!’
‘Where has she come from?’
‘Dunno. Somewhere far too relaxed. Just look at her. Woah, man! Hippy, hippy shake! Way too floaty. I give her until the end of the week.’
PERIOD 1: THE TRUMAN SHOW WITH YEAR 9 SET 4
Starter: ‘Can you imagine what it is like to be watched the whole time?’
‘Er … YEAH?!’
‘What if your whole life was a story being written by someone else?’
‘Say what?’
‘Woooah.’
I put up a slide with Plato’s bust and a picture of a cave. I said that what they thought was reality was a delusion; we were all just watching shadows on the wall of the cave.
‘Wooaah.’
I told them not to worry, because I was going to lead them out into the light of truth. They looked at me askance, like they had short-circuited; after a long silence, they said they missed Miss.
PERIOD 2: HAMLET, YEAR 8 SET 3
Wow.
7s had become 8s.
What a difference a summer makes. It was like watching one of those David Attenborough documentaries, in which the editors speed up images of a plant taken across a year, so it seems as if it has grown in seconds. It was terrifying to behold. Their features had been mutated and stretched in strange and unflattering ways: elongated heads, dropped voices, massive hands. Half of my old class stayed in Set 4, to be drilled into shape by VP, who they were petrified of. Donnie, Saadia and Mercedes came up to Set 3, which was good
for me, because we had established a relationship. Becoming established is half the battle.
I asked Saadia how her summer was. She said fine and sat down at the front.
Well, that’s the only word I’m going to get out of her this year.
Donnie’s evolution into a swot continued apace. When he walked in that first lesson wearing glasses, carrying a briefcase, and plopped himself down under my nose, I didn’t recognise him. I asked him how his summer was. He told me proudly how many books he had read – The Hunger Games (all of them), Diary of a Wimpy Kid (all of them), Harry Potter (most of them) – so I told him to give book reviews every week, which he duly did, staying behind every day to write them.
Mercedes was growing out of her chubby awkwardness to develop into a confident girl. She came in and waved at me vigorously, as if she was on a ship returning to dock, growling, ‘HI, SIR! IT’S ME! DID YOU MISS ME?’ I told her that there were times, on that beach in Thailand, when I thought, ‘I really wish Mercedes was here.’ That was a good icebreaker. The rest of the class went ‘Oooohhhh!’ and ‘Naaahhhhh!’ and ‘Siiirrr’s baaaaddd!’ I told them all to be quiet and that the next person who made a noise was in detention. I held them there for a long time in silence, as I went through the register, and grilled each of them about their deportment, and how whatever they were doing may have been what they did with Sir or Miss last year, but if they thought they were going to get away with that this year, they had another thing coming. Then we looked at the opening of Hamlet. I turned the lights off and we all made spooky ghost sounds and created a world of uncertainty and fear. I flashed a torch in their eyes suddenly and shouted, ‘Who’s there?’ They were terrified, in hysterics.
*
At break, I had to set up my lesson for Year 12.
At last! The Elysian Fields of Sixth Form. The sweet spot when a book really hits you. The book your English teacher tells you to read, and it changes the course of your life forever. I had to introduce them to A Level Literature, sure, but more importantly, to the literature that would balm their souls for the rest of their lives.