Time’s up

 Mr.Chipz apologises for his absence but he’s realised that his stupidly long holidays are nearly over and he basically pissed the whole lot up the wall. Now having realised it’s all over he’s been running around half of England like a twat visiting various people and today is going to a wedding where he doesn’t know a single person except the lady he’s going with. (It is not his own wedding) He will be back next week when term has started and he’s got something to talk about.

Miss Violet O’Bastard

Supply Teacher

The Christmas Play

 Stage one (choosing play and casting. Two weeks until performance)

Key stage two teachers sit around staff room table and choose all-singing, all-dancing Christmas performance. Play chosen has vague reference to Nativity, in as much as the setting is the stable. Main characters are the animals that live there, walk on parts go to Mary and Joseph and Baby Jesus. Main cast list:

A cow: Played by sassy Year Six girl (sure to remember lines and can dance)

A chicken: Played by sassy Year Six girl (sure to forget lines but can dance)

A sheep: Played by charismatic Year Six boy (sure to remember lines, talks too fast)

Two angels: Played by two rather cool Year Six boys. Re-casted at last minute as one angel is predictably suspended at end of term. Stand by angel proves to be brilliant.

Mary: Year Six girl. (will fluff lines due to hysterical reaction to being on stage, about as far from sweet natured angelic girl described in bible as possible)

Joseph: Played by last remaining boy in Year Six who can string a coherent sentence together and put right foot in front of left.

Jesus: Played by doll borrowed from Early Years Unit. (a dead cert for a good performance)

Wise Men: Played by all female cast of Year Four and Fives. (Asian, have nice oriental clothes to bring from home, saves on costume department)

A Camel: Boy who has own camel costume from last year.

Various other animals, shepherds and sheep: Children from all other years who will be sure to turn up on the night.

Chorus: Everyone else.

Stage Two: Learning the Songs.

Several singing assemblies carried out over a week where teacher with most musical talent is assigned task of getting the whole of Key Stage Two to learn the groovy and up-to-date musical numbers which pepper the play. Frustrating for all involved, but after three days the kids are all singing them in the playground very well indeed. Collective sigh of relief.

Stage Three: Learning lines and starting to act.

Rehearsals begin. Groups of children taken to hall by two teachers who start putting the whole thing together. Rest of children taken to classroom and have songs hammered into them by the talented teacher and another one with singing voice of a bullfrog in labour. Another teacher drafted in to choreograph dance routines. Children taught how to pelvic-thrust through the big numbers. Male teacher disgusted. Agnostic teacher starts to feel uncomfortable that the play is borderline blasphemous. Play starts coming together quite well by second day of second week, all teachers begin to sweat as Camel reveals that he’s being taken away on holiday early and will miss performance.

Stage Four: Final days of Rehearsal

Costumes suddenly produced by two veteran classroom assistants who have somehow produced an array of spectacular costumes and props, teachers very pleased indeed. Disaster as teacher remembers that Shepherd One is not allowed to perform in Christmas performances as parents have fundamentalist Islamic leanings and won’t even let their children make, or receive Christmas cards. Ecstatic Shepherd hands tea towel headgear to thrilled child promoted from Chorus and spends next two days in the computer room. Two other Muslim boys claim similar belief structure to escape. One is successful, the other isn’t. Fuming male teacher points out that a quarter of the main cast is Muslim whose parents are overjoyed to have their children in the play. Male teacher told to shut up and get off his soapbox. Soapbox grudgingly vacated. Angel one suspended for Assault and Battery. Year Four boy thrust into role. Girl playing Chicken finally realises her character is a chicken.

Stage Five: Key Stage Two perform dress rehearsal for Key Stage One.

Performance goes like clockwork. RSC would be proud. All the jokes go over the head of younger children but KS2 teachers all breathe sigh of relief. Children pleased with themselves, and justifiably so.

The Performance. (starts at 19.00 hrs sharp)

18:00: Children to arrive and change in preparation for performance.

18.30: Mary missing, phone calls made to parents.

18.35: Cast of Christmas performance reaching hysteria brought on by nervous excitement and a quart of blue fizzy drinks drunk at home apiece.

18.36: Teachers frantically trying to find a girl who knows Mary’s lines.

18.38: Substitute Mary found. She’s over the moon.

18.40: Hall starts to fill with parents and family members. Two families strategically placed as far apart as possible to avoid violent clash mid performance. Front two rows filled by excited Muslim and Hindu parents wearing festive clothing with tinsel accessories.

18.43: Mary arrives. Substitute Mary devastated.

18.46: Teacher loses it with majority of cast who are bouncing off the walls. Cast now sitting in silence in classrooms under un-festive glare of said teacher.

18.50: Teachers accept the grim reality that over half the chorus will not turn up because their parents aren’t happy about their lack of acting parts. Remaining chorus given outrageously optimistic pep-talk to get them to sing as loudly as possible. Teacher reminds children not to watch the action on stage but to face the audience. This is a futile gesture which is traditional at this stage.

18.55: Children told to walk quietly down to the hall. Children go to hall screaming like Genghis Kahn’s hordes.

19.00: Teachers and Classroom Assistants placed strategically around hall. One behind the stage to ensure children do not poke their heads up or attack each other, one at the back to wave arms frantically and dance around like a lunatic so the children can follow. Further teachers are dispersed amongst the Chorus to boost volume, cue lines and occasionally haul errant children over to sit next to them when they start to misbehave. (discretely of course).

19.01: Head Teacher gives welcoming speech, reminding parents that their children have worked very hard, to switch off their mobile phones and remove any infants during the performance if they start to scream or run amok.

19.03: Performance starts with fantastic opening dance and song.

19.05: Man in audience answers mobile phone and starts to talk.

19.06: Play progresses smoothly.

19.07: Two year old in audience runs amok. Child intercepted by male teacher and restrained for rest of performance. Teacher realises child has very soiled nappy. Hears comment from be-tattooed ladies that he’s really good with small children. Notices flat-faced woman looking at him with bovine lust. Tries to ignore her.

19.10: Play still going really well.

19.15: A dancing animal (stage school attendee) so busy waving to mother that she takes a crunching nose-dive off the back of the stage.

19.26: Chorus have given up singing and are enjoying (admittedly very good) performance on stage by peers.

19.28: Terrifying family group from vibrant travelling community realise their child has no further part to play so start conversing loudly. Parents in vicinity decide to let it go. Wisely.

19.35: Performance finishes with fantastic musical number to thunderous applause. Everyone present agrees it has been the smoothest and most successful performance to date.

19.38: Head Teacher (flushed with pride) thanks Children, staff and parents. Proposes all assembled finish the evening off with a rousing rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”. Song held together by Muslim and Hindu parents who know all the words, native Brits join in for chorus.

20.30: Final parents pushed out the door and teachers escape to home and stiff drinks with indecent haste.

Blah…

 Sorry for the lack of activity today, I’ve been away from my computer, doing stuff. I intend to start work tomorrow, wading through incomprehensible websites set up to baffle educators and fill them with fear. I have to find out what the fuck I’m going to be teaching in less than two weeks’ time for a start. Haven’t a clue, me. However, I can guarantee that as sure as the sun rises somewhere and sets somewhere else that I will be distracted and write some utter shit for you all to read. Well, I say ‘all’, I know for a fact that 4 people regularly read this but that’s not the point. Expect something witty, challenging the status quo of our redundant educational system, failing that expect something that pops into my head which may, or may not be true.

So, keep reading, don’t chew that in here, sit up straight, and for god’s sake roll that skirt back down, where the hell do you think you are? Is that makeup? Wipe it off! Put that away, stop winding him up, yes you are, don’t answer me back, right, get out, what are you laughing at? Fine, you can join him, go on, anyone else? Good, for god’s sake don’t do that, now wash your hands, that’s disgusting, take those earrings out, because they’re going to get torn out in PE that’s why, I don’t care if your mum says you can, you can’t, fine then bring her here after school and I’ll tell her myself, ok then, bring your auntie, fine, whoever you’re living with at the moment, yes, Kyle’s mum then.

Changing of the Guard.

 Picture a male teacher in your head. What’s he wearing? If you picture him looking sexy in any way take yourself outside and throw yourself into the road, you’re not well. I’m guessing you’ll probably see something like the following examples in your dirty little mind’s eye:

• a) Corduroy trousers (brown), sandals, socks (grey), mustard coloured pullover (or similar), bad tie, sports jacket with patches. Comb over ‘hairstyle’. Bad breath.
• b) 1970s era Adidas tracksuit (tight, possibly red) zipped up to the neck with whistle accessory worn over the chest. Permanent stubble on chin due to excess of testosterone.
• c) Immaculate tweed suit, fob watch on chain, mortar board and gown, thunderous grey side whiskers and walrus type moustache. Drinker’s face.

I think they’re almost all extinct now, although type A can probably still be found. They went into teaching for various reasons, and were probably all very disappointed in the end.

a) Joined because he was fairly academic at school and faced with the possibility of having to hack it in the outside world he exchanged his school uniform for his sports jacket so he could hide away for the rest of his life in the only place he ever felt safe; school.

b) Became a PE teacher because the army wouldn’t have him (too aggressive) and neither would the police (too prejudiced to be allowed on the streets). His job allowed him to bully weak children who had dreams beyond the freezing sports field and build up a following of the young halfwits who were younger versions of himself. He could bully children in PE lessons, and teacher A in the staffroom. It also allowed him to shag the occasional girl in the school hockey team or look at boys’ cocks in the showers, depending which way his predatory sexuality swung.

c) Became a teacher after his brief stint in the armed forces. He had a degree in Classics from some third rate university and school offered him the opportunity to take it fairly easy in the civilian world, where people had to respect him. It also allowed him to nurture his growing alcohol dependency during the working day where he found that his young charges were unlikely to ‘tell’ if he ruled with an iron rod.

But schools have changed. Like the dinosaurs of yore they no longer found themselves welcome by the establishment or the children;

• a) Woke up one morning to find that no-one made any pretence of listening to a word he said. He had always known that his words went in one ear and out of the other, but at least the class used to sit in silence, thus letting him pretend to himself at least that he had some sort of audience. All of a sudden they were talking over him, getting off with each other during his lessons or just walking out. What was worse, there was a new generation of teachers who showed an indecent appetite for career progression, and had overtaken him in seniority. Not only did they not respect the fact that he had been at the school for twenty years, but they derided him for this fact. Neither would any of them step in to back him up when a pupil laughed in his face, clearly the staff had no more respect for him than the new generation of beastly oiks he had to teach. Inevitably he walked out to the car park one evening to find someone had written ‘paedophile cunt‘ on the bonnet of his car, let down the tyres and smeared all shit on the windscreen. A nervous breakdown ensued and he spent the rest of his working life in the local library, where occasionally ex-pupils would abuse him, to the amusement of his colleagues.
• b) Was reported to the police by a fifteen year old girl who he had tried to grope after she had accepted a lift home in his car. More children came forward and his home computer, which was so full of child pornography from Russia that it no longer worked properly was confiscated. After serving his sentence (during which he was stabbed in the face by an ex pupil who hadn’t been very good at PE) he was put on the sex offender’s register and released into the community, where he now lives out his days drunkenly leering at teenagers and snarling at ‘the blacks’, whom he despises for reasons he can no longer remember.
• c) Managed to coast along for decades. Generations of pupils and teachers feared him, but he was a reliable pair of hands (even though everybody knew, including the Head, that he was permanently pissed on the gin he slugged from his bottle of Evian). Pupils who took Latin or Greek at A Level passed with flying colours, and let’s face it, the school needed the figures for the now all important league table. His occasional fits of violent rage which took place about twice a day brought an occasional mild rebuke from the Head, who could do no more as he was more scared of the fearsome Classics teacher than he was of outraged parents. One day, after a dull-witted child had fucked the verb ‘to go’ sideways, and he had frogmarched the terrified pupil to the front of the class and neatly choked him half-to death with his own tie (a move he had perfected over the last five decades) his heart exploded in his chest and he was dead before he hit the floor. The class, too terrified to move in case he wasn’t actually dead didn’t report his passing until the end of the double period, an hour and a half later.

I’m sure you knew some of these characters. I know I did. I look about me now and although I’m glad these useless bastards have slipped into history I can’t help but wonder what the future stereotype of the male teacher will be. If my experience of Primary teaching is anything to go by it will be of a fairly nice chap who really cares about ‘the kids’, wears nice, open necked shirts (a tank top if you’re dashing, like me) and who, on the whole, hates to make children cry. It may be progression, but it’s not very pithy is it.

British Education Rulez!!!! :)

 That’s it, it’s official. We have produced a generation of geniuses. I think I and my teaching colleagues deserve a knighthood apiece, the thanks of a grateful nation and free passes to Thorpe Park. It hasn’t been easy, but from their arrival in the Early Years unit of their local primary school to their final day in the Upper Sixth this generation of children (or ‘young adults’ as we should call them) have been tutored and nurtured by us; the fucking amazing teachers of this country. Not only were many of our successful A Level students pretty girls (as expected), but one was a royal girl, the first person with Windsor blood running through their veins to score three pretty good A Level grades. Well, they would have been very respectable indeed in my day but since she didn’t get straight As I can only assume her classmates are laughing behind her back and calling her Princess Thickie. But three A Levels she has got, I think in Film Studies (I’ve got an A Level in Film Studies so she must be pretty good), Basket Weaving and Dressing Herself. Hurrah! Also, I’m thrilled to see that one young shaver managed ten A grades. Ten. Aha, you will argue that he had it handed on a plate what with him being at Eton and being Russian (well known for being dead brainy…or dead pissed), but don’t knock him. He has ten fucking A Levels. All at A grade.

Now, don’t be giving me any of your broadsheet reading shit about A Levels being easy. It’s all down to us teachers being the best teachers in the whole world. And also that this year’s crop of 18 year olds are the brainiest 18 year olds this country has ever produced. Ignore all this dreadful propaganda you might hear that in fact we, as a nation, are amongst the least literate and culturally unaware in Europe. Ignore the claims that children in many countries don’t start school until the age of seven and outperform our children within a couple of years. It can’t be true, after all we start them at the age of four and test the fuck out of them several times a year until they either storm out of education in disillusioned disgust at the earliest opportunity or stay on, do the time and walk away with anything between three and ten A Levels. The proof is there, we have the brainiest kids in Europe, and the best education system in the whole world. And I, dear readers, am a part of it.

Don’t know much words.

 Parents’ Evenings are always a bit of a nervous moment. Probably not helped by the fact that I wasn’t remotely academic when I was at school and so often feel like an utter fraud, waiting to be unmasked by an observant mum.

I’ve never had a bad Parents’ Evening though, we’ve all heard the horror stories of drunk and aggressive parents who try (and sometimes succeed) to kick the shit out of a terrified teacher for perceived wrongs against their offspring. Mostly parents seem to pleased to hear that their children are cruising along at expected levels, don’t get in trouble and aren’t nasty little bullies or falling in with a dubious crowd. Sometimes you have to break these little nuggets of bad news to the folks and on the whole it’s met with a sigh and a solid commitment to sort it all out. What I’m saying is, most parents are brilliant and help the evening go smoothly for everyone, and genuinely care about their child’s progress.

Some aren’t like that. Here are some of the negative stereotypes:

• a) Parents who honestly believe that the little witch they’ve raised is incapable of being the backstabbing little bully she is.
• b) The parent who think their child is a genius. It’s a good thing to have faith and believe in your child, I wish all parents did that. However you do struggle to diplomatically imply that not only is their child not a genius, but actually is a bit, well, thick. In fact, they’re achieving at the same level as a child two years younger. (this, naturally, is the teacher’s fault for not ‘leaning them’ properly)
• c) The parent who constantly claims that their child is the victim of constant bullying, when in fact their child has no social skills, plays too rough, has the grace of a pig or is spiteful. The child isn’t bullied at all, it’s just that not many children like them or want to play with them. For pretty fair reasons.
• d) Parents who do not understand that they have some responsibility for their child’s education. We have them for a few hours a day, for 39 weeks of the year. It’s amazing how much you learn during your childhood which doesn’t come from school. Here’s an example of parent type D…

I had a boy, going on nine years old, who was constantly achieving at the bottom end of ‘average’ in all subjects. That’s fine, some us are just average academically. When I was his age I was way below average. Anyway, I have ten minutes with his mum and dad. Mum’s a serial complainer. Every teacher who has taught her child has had her constant criticism over the years. Dad sits in silence, looking progressively more embarrassed as his wife becomes more thin lipped and flustered.

Mum: “You’re not giving him new reading books to bring home.”

Mr.C: “Well, he knows that when he finishes one reading book he’s to go and choose another from the collection of book boxes over there, they’re arranged by reading level.”

Mum: “But he don’t like reading, you have to make him take a new one.”

Mr.C: “It’s not that easy Mrs…., I don’t have time to go through twenty-odd book bags every day to check, the children do know it’s their responsibility. He’s in Year 4.”

Mum: (becoming more flustered) “Well if you don’t make him he ain’t gonna read at home is he?!”

Mr.C: “To be honest, once he’s at home there’s not much I can do, how often do you manage to read with him?”

Mum: “I don’t.”

Mr.C: “Oh. Why not?”

Mum: “He doesn’t like it and I don’t want the hassle.”

Mr.C: (getting annoyed). “To be fair Mrs…, if he won’t read for you at home when you’re standing over him he’s not going to read for me just because I told him to before he went home. Is he?”

Mum: “Well. I suppose. You don’t give him enough homework either!”

Mr.C: “I think reading and learning spellings is more of a priority for him at the moment.”

Mum: “Well it’s pathetic….he don’t even know much words!”

Mr.C: (stunned silence)

Dad: (finally having enough) “For god’s sake babe, he’s only eight!”

Don’t know much words. Don’t know much fucking words…no love, he doesn’t have a very good vocabulary. And I think I know why. This is a woman who doesn’t know the word ‘vocabulary’, will not read with her children at home and yet wants to know why her son is not top of the class. Jesus fucking wept.

I could hear mum and dad arguing down the hall, she was giving him a ton of shit. Good old dad eh.

I’ll be back next week, I have to go to the country. Shit.

Chipz update.

 Just a quick one today. I’ve deleted all the articles that referred to my private life as I’ve decided they were just boring. From now on Mr.Chipz will comment only on things pertaining to teaching and childcare. This will include slurs against colleagues, parents and the system in general of course. I just thought it would be more interesting that way. Or not.

Anyway, stay tuned for further insights into the glorious and noble world of educashun coming fairly soon. Not today though, I got fucking arseholed last night and can’t even spell my own name.

Don’t forget to spend at least ten minutes reading with your child today by the way (if you don’t have a child, accost one). Despite what we promise at open evenings it’s impossible to read with your treasure every single day and it’s annoying to get a class full of illiterate children in September because mummy and daddy couldn’t be arsed to read with them in the holidays. Thanks.

But that’s a whole rant on its own…

A Level Predictions

 I’ve just been reminded by the radio that A Level results are coming out in the next few days. There was some perky sounding female advertising a university in Essex (Southend? Somewhere like that) over a backing track of vaguely ‘rock’ guitars. That’s right kids, go to university for three years, it’s nothing but hanging out with your mates who ‘jam’ all day.

Anyway, the following two predictions I can state with utter confidence in anticipation of the forthcoming A Level results. I’m sure you’ll agree, the template has been set over the last decade or two:

• a) There will be a media argument about A Levels becoming ‘easier’. Serious minded broadsheets and right wing tabloids will claim that they are a piece of piss, and left wing tabloids, mums of teenagers and the secondary teaching profession will claim that they’re a million times harder. For my money’s worth I’d say they’re much fucking easier these days. When I went to a fairly posh public school (ok, not that posh at all, I think proper public schools laughed at us) the top stream of A Level students (we’re talking 15/16 years ago) who were being groomed for Oxbridge took 3 A Levels (maybe 4) and an AS. These days it’s bog standard in the A Level world to have four A Levels and a slack handful of AS Levels. Some claim that there have been huge leaps in teaching and learning but honestly, take it from me, us teachers are no better than we were back then. So there it is, A Levels are easier. FACT.
• b) There will be lots of pictures of pretty girls in tight jeans and long wavy hair jumping up and down and hugging each other holding their results on bits of paper. This is because, according to news photographers, nearly all A Level students who are successful are pretty girls. FACT. There are some boys who take A Levels but on the whole they do really shit and are ugly or fat. However, hordes of attractive girls will pass with flying colours and get their photos in the papers. Some faintly attractive girls also do well at A Level but they don’t tend to make it into the pictures. They probably hide or something.

So, here’s to the soon-to-be-successful pretty girls! Still, these straight-A girlies have got three year’s hard work at university to go so they can get their First in Modern History and Economics, and then finally they get to work for a pittance for the boss who will turn out to be the lazy lad from their class who managed two Cs at A Level and a 2:2 in Business Studies. FACT.

Thoughts of work

Last night, just before drifting into an alcoholic slumber, it started to dawn on me that in three weeks I will have a new class of children and I really don’t have much idea of what I’m going to be teaching them. Well, I know the syllabus but I’m out of touch when it comes to what I should expect in terms of writing ability, numeracy and what sort of level I should ‘pitch’ things to. I know I’ve got a G&T (Gifted and Talented, not the king of pre-dinner drinks) who is achieving at a higher level than some of the loveable muppets I tore my hair out with last year, but on the other hand I also know I’ve got a couple of children (boys, naturally) who are still perfecting writing their own name. What I’m not sure about is where the middle ground is. I worked with the same age group when I was a student four years ago and frankly I can’t remember a fucking thing. I’m slightly annoyed that in my haste to get out of school at the end of term I neglected to bring anything vaguely useful home with me in terms of preparation, so I’ll have to scour the (lethally dull) education websites to familiarise myself with this year group. It’s foolish to even look for notes I might have from my student year, I have the administration skills of a Greek railway boss. Shit.

Another fly in my ointment is that next year I won’t have an IWB. An IWB is an interactive whiteboard, or Smartboard…call it what you will. For those of you who don’t know what one is (and why should you, really), an IWB is the best thing to happen to teaching aids since the throwable board duster. It’s a large interactive screen which hooks up to a laptop and runs on a Windows format. Your ‘whiteboards’ can be prepared in advance, it’s touch sensitive, you can write on it with digital markers, create effects, run teaching programs, play music and best of all, show DVDs on it at the end of term. Well, in our school only the older classes have them at the moment so I’m going back to writing on a normal whiteboard with proper markers. I haven’t done that since my first ever placement as a student. My handwriting will be awful at first and I’m going to have to watch out for spelling mistakes. Also it means diving into the more traditional world of actually having to make teaching resources. That means hours with scissors and laminators. Bugger. Thank God I’ll have a Teaching Assistant for the first time ever!

The up-side of next year though is that the kids are more biddable I suppose, and let’s face it; cuter. Which does help. Quite looking forward to it actually.

From the mouths of babes.

 Some of the things I’ve heard quite recently from a bunch of eight year olds…

(during a history lesson) “Were you evacuated during the war?”

(after some children started giggling after finding the word ‘sex’ in a dictionary) “sex isn’t that funny actually. My mum and dad keep doing it all the time…”

(after Mr Chipz revealed he spent some of his childhood living in Berlin) “Did you meet Hitler? Was he nice?”

(after drawing the world trade centre on fire with all people falling out) “that’s the best thing that ever happened on the news. Ever.”  (gulp)

“I’m more cleverer than all you girls coz I’m a boy an’ you’re just all girls” (bold statement by Somali boy, with Gumpish intelligence. Girls fall off chairs laughing. Mr Chipz tries not to laugh too)

“Mr Chipz, I’ve banged my penis on the table and now it hurts”. (well it would, wouldn’t it)

“Sorry I didn’t come in yesterday, but my mum had an I.B.S (irritable bowel syndrome) attack and couldn’t hold on long enough to drive” (vomits silently)

Child: “I saw a fight outside my flat yesterday Mr Chipz!”

Mr.C: “Oh dear Stephen, I hope it wasn’t too nasty!”

Child: “Yeah it was wicked, this bald guy called this young guy sumfink I dunno what but I fink it was the ‘c’ word and so the young guy hit him with a hammer.”

Mr.C: “Oh. That’s horrible. Did the police come? Was the man alright?”

Child: “I dunno, he fell over and he had blood all over his face. I went and played football so I dunno what happened afterwards”

Mr.C: “Riiiight…time for maths everybody!”

“Hey Mr.Chipz. My brother got shot at yesterday in Croydon!”

(shouted across school field in residential area) “Mr Chipz! I need to go toilet!! Can I go inside?!” (moment’s pause) “It’s for a poo!!!”

Mr.C to weeping girl: “What’s the matter?”

Girl: “Kiesha said sumfink nasty to me.”

Mr.C: “I thought Kiesha was your best friend, what did she say? Can’t have been that bad.”

Girl: “she called me a fat ugly bitch.”

Mr.C: “Oh.”