Rimbauer - Part two

 Wednesday. Still dark. Rimbauer pulled two slats of the blind apart with his fingers and looked out into the wet, miserable street below him. A fox had ripped a refuse sack apart during the night and the litter was strewn half way down the street like the guts from a roadkill’s asshole. Time to go to work. Rimbauer stepped out of his room and into the street. His bedsit was small but it suited him just fine. Some would say it needed a woman’s touch but the last thing Rimbauer needed was some dame interfering with the way he chose to live his life. Women had their uses, sure, but domesticating a wild animal like him? No thanks. He flicked the last of his cigarette into the gutter and set off across the estate for school.

As he neared the school he went through his usual drills. A left turn here, an about turn there, up an alleyway. Always take the scenic route. If he didn’t lose someone who was tailing him, then he’d sure know the motherfucker was there. He was clean. He buzzed himself into the reception and unlocked his classroom door. First to arrive, last to leave, that was Rimbauer…he had noplace else to go. He’d gone looking for the Inspectors yesterday, if indeed, they were Inspectors. Maybe the boss was right, maybe those clowns in the car who’d been questioning the kids had just been a couple of paedophiles, though luck like that never happened in the real world. No, they were OFSTED alright. Or worse. But whoever they were, either they’d been tipped off or had moved on to another location, because when Rimbauer had gone out looking for them there wasn’t a sign.

Midmorning break. Rimbauer hadn’t pulled duty for once and set off down the corridor for the staffroom, he needed coffee, bad. A couple of two-bit punks crashed around the corner and slammed into him. He took the blow, he was strong for his size. And the punks in question were six years old, which helped.

“Where the fuck you going in such a hurry?” Rimbauer looked down at the two boys, who tried to scramble back to their feet. Rimbauer pushed them both in the chest with his foot and they sank back down, accepting his dominance.

“Toilet”. The boys looked nervous. Why would two six year olds be in such a hurry to go the toilet? Kids never needed the toilet during break, only during lessons, every teacher worth his salt knew that.

“Toilet huh?” Rimbauer screwed a cigarette into his mouth. “Now, why the hurry?” He flicked the lid of his lighter open and ran the wheel down his corduroys, igniting a flame. He lit his cigarette and clicked the lid of his lighter closed against his tank-top and pocketed it in one swift movement. Like an assassin.

“Cause I really need to go toilet Mr.Rimbauer!” The ginger kid spoke, fear in his eyes.

“Uh huh? That so? So Kyle…you wanna go toilet. Fine. But why you got your boyfriend with you?” His eyes moved over to the black kid; Martin.

“I need to go toilet too.” Martin’s voice was small. Unusual for him, the kid had the biggest fucking mouth in Key Stage One. What were they hiding? Pokemon cards? Illicit toys?

Kyle whimpered as the dark stain spread across the front of his school trousers. Well who’d have fucking guessed, goddam kid did need the toilet after all. Rimbauer smiled to himself as he stepped over the boys and into the staffroom, he was getting jumpy, he needed to relax. Goddam inspectors were getting to him and he didn’t even know if they were real. This time.

“Rimbauer, I need a word.” It was Miss Parker, head of Key Stage One and a kingsize pain in the ass.

“What’ve I done this time?” grunted Rimbauer, as he poured himself a cup of black coffee from the pot and added a spoon full of coffee granules to give it a kick.

“We’ve got three new students joining us for their second placement, I want you to take one.”

Rimbauer grimaced. A student. He hoped to fuck it was a PGCE student and not some second year kid. He’d been a PGCE student himself, they’ve been around, had a life. Some were assholes but at least they were assholes with a little experience.

“In case you’re wondering, she’s a second year, not PGCE.” She’d read him like medium-term plan.

“Jesus Christ Mary! Why the fuck have you gotta do this?” Rimbauer slammed his fist down on the table. “How many of these dumb-ass kids have you got get through before you realise they don’t last five minutes with me? You start getting to know them and the motherfuckers die, just like they all do. You know how I work and you know these kids aren’t up to it!”

Parker shrugged. “Orders from the Boss Rimbauer. You’re getting a new student and that’s final. And what’s more, you’re gonna train her right this time. Watch her lessons, read her plans, help her set up a guided group, six kids, no more.”

“For Christ’s sake Mary…”

“Shut the fuck up and listen Rimbauer,” Parker moved closer, some Teaching Assistants were gorging themselves on a tin of Quality Street in the corner but those women were tuning in to the conversation, they could both tell. “I don’t give a rat’s ass how you feel about having a student again, but you’re having one. We need the money, who knows, get this one through her eight week placement and I might even have a word with the boss and see about getting you a Smartboard for your classroom.”

“And pencils. I need new fucking pencils.” Rimbauer fixed her with his icy glare.

“Christ Rimbauer! O.K! I’ll see what I can do but you’re pushing your luck. Right, she’s coming in next Monday, so just play it straight. Check her file, assess her lessons and model a guided reading session. You do do guided reading don’t you, Rimbauer?”

Rimbauer smiled. “Maybe. Sometimes.”

“For fuck’s sake Rimbauer, stop being an asshole! You know the head of English will tear us a new hole if we don’t have all classes providing guided reading for every child, every goddam week!” Parker wiped her arm across her forehead in exasperation. What could she do with a man like Rimbauer. Goddam Maverick, never played by the rules. A man like that could bring the whole school down. Or, she had to admit to herself, make it the best fucking school in the borough. Christ, if he ever knew how much she wanted him…needed him…

“Relax Mary,” smiled Rimbauer. “Of course I’m doing guided reading.” He chuckled and walked back out into the corridor. Shit, another rookie to wet-nurse, let’s hope this one lasted longer than the last one. How long had that been? About four days, as far as he could remember.

“Rimbauer!” It was Ellen, the school secretary.

“What is it Ellen, I’ve got 30 kids waiting for a lesson on counting on in 2s, 5s and 10s, is it important?”

Ellen gulped and wrung her hands. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. Rimbauer’s sense of ease disappeared. Ellen never got flustered.

“Rimbauer, the men, the men in the car. They’re back, they’re over the road now!”

Rimbauer’s gun was in his hand in a micro-second and he was halfway down the corridor before most of Year 3 could get out of the way. “Motherfuckers! Lock the front door after me Ellen, tell the Boss I’m going after them!”

If they were OFSTED, they’d better be ready for a fight. Rimbauer was in the mood for killing.

To be continued…

Christmas is coming. Shit.

 We’re gearing up for the end of term now, rehearsals for our KS1 nativity play are beginning and the Christmas displays are about to go up around school. Also, the annual tradition of “would all staff please donate something for the prize hamper, and something for the staff buffet you don’t really want to attend, and put your name down for the fucking Christmas lunch in the fucking shithole pub over the fucking road which you don’t want to go to because a) it’s fucking expensive and b) you’re getting bored of your colleagues and frankly, don’t want to spend all the fucking time with them”. Christmas fair to attend next week, until eight o’ bastard clock (great idea but the morbidly obese family always, ALWAYS wins the bastard hamper, the clique of mums who refuse to fucking work or contribute anything to school life stand around slagging everything and everyone off, and all the teaching staff can do is pull a grimace of forced pleasure as they man the bastard stalls and count the minutes before they can run home to get the alcohol fix we all need in this job). God I fucking HATE Christmas at school. Oh Jesus, the Christmas dinner in the hall with the kids…I’d forgotten about that. Honestly, it’s enough to make you vomit your soul out. God knows what their family mealtimes look like. Savages.

Ho ho ho, merry Christmas everybody!

Historical find

 During recent building works in London documents were found in an attic. Historians have confirmed that they are the logbooks of a school in Elizabethan times, kept by the Headmaster; a certain Master Chebsworth. At the time of writing, the school (the name of which is unknown) served a rural community consisting of cattle farmers, but the majority of the people appear to have dwelt in a large rural slum which backed onto the school grounds. The school was large for its day, and its pupils were drawn from the local farmer’s children, one son of the gentry and for the most part, the underclass that dwelt in the slum. The area is now built up and in the school’s place a large council estate now exists. The log books tell an interesting story of everyday life in a sixteenth century school. Here are some extracts from Master Chebsworth’s logbooks which will be serialised in the TES.

Monday, September 1, 1567:

First day of term. On ye school roll: 56. Began day with whole school assemblie, theme; nuwe beginnings. Scholars attentive and attendance goode. Tho’ 4 Huguenot children stille on holidaye in France. Two nuwe masters in school, Master Fynes & Master Thackbarrow. Master Thackbarrow newly qualifiede but showinge much promise as master of physical education, his lesson on runninge with a hoop most instructive.

Discipline seems to have been a priority of Master Chebsworth, he meticulously records sanctions carried out by staff and himself and keeps a careful list of misdemeanours committed by pupils.

Thursday, September 4^, 1567:

Punishments, a list.

Crumb, Jaymes: Flogging for speakinge during lunch.

Lamb, Arthur: Flogging for incorrect conjugation of the verb ‘to sing’.

Rakham, Jaymes: Burnt in the hande for fartyng in prayers.

Smith, Tobias: To spend his lunchtyme upon his knees for drawing popish images in his workbooke.

Chebsworth appears to have been progressive in his approach to liaison between school and home. While this is taken for granted today, it would have been seen as unusual in Elizabethan England for a Headmaster to take the time to listen to parent’s thoughts on their children’s education.

Tuesday, October 11 1567:

Met today with divers parents after school to discuss issues arisen with their children thereof.

Mistress Farnbury came to see me sore vexed with her chyld’s innabilitie to spelle. I assured her that as there is no standard spellinge in this contrie she should put herselfe at ease. Mistress Farnbury is becoming a millstone about my necke, the bloodie woman always has somethinge to complain about. Last tyme it was a problem with ye school policie on uniform, she vexes me.

Thereafter I did speak with Squire Arbuthnot, who is sore concerned that his son shares a desk with younge Ibrahim Mahmood; a Moor. I was sore prostrate o’er this oversight, his son will nowe have a desk unto himself and he may flogge Mahmood as he pleases. This is somethinge that dismayes me, Squire Arbuthnot is a governor and could make lyfe moste difficult when it comes to decyding ye budget.

Betimes I then spake to Mistress Cowlpepper, a most vyle and unpleasant woman. She really is a most fearsome drabbe, wont of fighting in the playeground with other women of base manners and blayminge all others for her son’s ills. I made it quite clear that if she doth not desist in this constant harridan behaviour I shall be forced to have her ducked in ye pond and her chyld shall be expellde.

Finally a moste refreshing meeting with a young Mistress Farynour. Many staff speak moste ille of this unfortunate woman. To be sure her circumstances are unfortunate in that the father of her six children are not known, and oft rumour has it that six men account for her six whelps. It is said by Mater Thackbarrow that she is nought but a Chavve of wanton disposition but I see in her a desire for betterment in the four whelps that attend this school. She is oft in my office for talk and chatter, and was great pleased when I reported that she had nought to fear on her sons’ progresse. I must confess that I fynd her most comly and I ha’ written many a sonnet about her beauty, grace, and tho’ it must be secret, I really would. I ache for her cynt.

Sickness, a regular problem for any school today, had a great impact on the daily running of a sixteenth century school.

Wednesday, April 17, 1568:

Attendance lowe this day. Tho’ much relieved that at last 2 of our Huguenot children are returned to us. Alas, it seems that Francois and Louis will notte be returning as papists hacked their bodies unto pieces with their parents at St.Lupinstide last and didde scatter their parts o’er the whole of Artois. However, the remaining two (Pierre & Jacques) were invited to stande before ye school at assemblie to be greeted most warmlie and ye school did singe for them. Afterwards we all mocked them for their ridiculous clothings and accents and did stone them for ye dirty French they are.

Lyst of syck:

Worms: 3

Flux: 1

Bloodie Flux: 4

Teeth: 2

Gripping of ye guttes: 4

This is most inopportune, Mater Willow, our Latin Master is away on sickenesse leave with The French Disease, doubtless from his liaisons with a Mistress Rankthatch, she is a beldam and a whore. I would sacke hyme but alas, the union is breathing downe my neck like a Turk at a Christening. Damne this red taype.

As the school term progresses, illness increases with the warmer climate…

Friday, May 10, 1568:

Called from class during divinitie to attend sickroom by Goody Smith, the school wisewoman. Younge Brown is sore ille in ye bedde. His breath is lyke sulphur & his fingers have turned blacke as inke. A sore omen. Sent home at once. I fear the rising illness will affect the overall attendance for the Year, someone at the borough is sure to notice. Home in worried mood to praye to God and drink sack and brandy.

Monday, May 13, 1568:

21 chyldren absent from register. Plague. This is typical with SATS but two months hence and OFSTEDE calling on every school in ye county. Why didde I notte tayke that job as Headmaster at Eaton? The bastards can’t get their hands on you if y’go private. More anon, I tire and must to bedde. I ache most painfully, and my bellie is of fyre. Home to mayke a poultice and pray, Mistress Farynour has much been in my dreams of layte, and oft I have mired my underclothes in nocturnal ejaculate. God is punishinge me.

Please read next week’s issue of the TES for further extracts from ‘An Elizabethan Education’

Rimbauer. Part one.

 Rimbauer inhaled the last scorching lungful from his cigarette and ground it into the pencil holder in front of him, watching the final wisp of blue smoke coil towards the ceiling like a tentacle. It was eight in the morning precisely. Tuesday morning. Fucking Tuesday morning. He took another sip of his coffee, some cheap home-brand that they insisted on buying to save on expenditure, save on expenditure…how many times had he heard that excuse? How many years had it been now? Four? Five? They all seemed to blend into one, thirty five years old and he felt used up, old, but not quite broken. There was a knock on the door. He swung his feet off the desk and stood as Ellen, the secretary, opened his door and stared at him over the top of her glasses. Sure, she was a hard-faced bitch but Rimbauer suspected, no, knew there was fire behind the ice.

“Rimbauer, the chief wants you in the office. Now.”

“What the fuck does he want?” Rimbauer could feel the tension coursing through his veins, every time the boss wanted him, it meant trouble. Bad trouble.

“I don’t know Rimbauer, why don’t you ask him?” Not a flicker of a smile, bitches didn’t come much colder than Ellen.

Rimbauer screwed up his eyes against the sudden headache that threatened to crash down around him and slammed a couple of aspirin into his mouth.

“Alright, alright. I’m going”.

The walk to the boss’s office felt like a thousand miles long. Rimbauer wondered what was up this time. Why did they always call on him when they needed bailing out of the shit? Or maybe he’d slipped up. What could it be? Couldn’t be the incident the previous day, the little punk had stepped over the goddam line and got what was coming to him. Everyone knew you never stepped over the line that ran in front of the visitor’s car park. It was there for their safety, and if you blew the rules on Rimbauer’s watch he nailed your ass to the wall, every motherfucker knew that. Maybe the kid’s mother had made a complaint, let her. She hadn’t been complaining two terms previously when she’d come in to talk about her kid’s progress and ended up getting a lesson in long division. Rimbauer chuckled at the memory, fuck, he needed another woman soon. Maybe it was the lack of marking in his books. No, couldn’t be that. That goddam pimp of a deputy never marked and there was no way they could bust Rimbauer without him bringing the deputy with him. Rimbauer was there. He knocked and waited. Five minutes past eight on a Tuesday morning and he was already knocking on the boss’s door. Things never fucking changed.

“Rimbauer, sit down”. The Head rested his calloused hands on the edge of his desk and waited.

“I prefer to stand”. Rimbauer would take any shit standing up, he learned that in his previous life as media salesman before some asshole got him drunk and persuaded him that those who can, teach.

“Christ Rimbauer, why you always gotta be such a tight-ass. Sit the fuck down and listen”.

Rimbauer sat, slowly. His eyes never left the Head’s. These last years had honed his vision to that of a Kestrel, he could spot a lowlife swapping Pokemon cards on the other side of the playground in poor light. Some of his colleagues called him The Hawk. Some called him Toby, since that was his name. He hated that fucking name.

“Rimbauer, yesterday Ellen saw some men scoping the school from inside a black Mercedes parked in the estate opposite while the infants were out at playtime, and I’ve heard that some kids were stopped on the street after school and asked about their attainment targets and how often their books got marked.”

“OFSTED?” Rimbauer’s hands curled into fists on his lap. How he hated those bastards.

“Could be”. The Head rubbed his eyes, he looked worn. “Could be, let’s just hope it’s a couple of Category One sex offenders on the prowl…anything but OFSTED. Look, Rimbauer, I want you to look around, you know the score. Do what you usually do. And, if you find out that they’re what we hope they’re not…”

“You want them taken care of, right.”

“That’s right Rimbauer, I want them taken care of. There’s no fucking way we’re going back to Special Measures. Not on my watch.”

Rimbauer sneered. “If it’s that goddam important to you, why don’t you take care of them?”

“You know why Rimbauer!” The Head thrust his finger into Rimbauer’s chest. “I’ve got too much to lose, but you! I’ve just about had it with saving your ass every Parent’s evening! How many more times can keep parents away who want to know why you haven’t given any homework, or read with their child? You saved my ass once, and I’ve been saving yours ever since. Do this. Do this and we’re square. Now go on, get the fuck out of my office! I’ve got an assembly to plan, it’s Black History month and I can’t find my assembly pack on that bitch Rosa Parks!”

Rimbauer walked back down the corridor. The Head had called him a Maverick as he’d left. Sure, he was a Maverick. He’d been told his methods were…unsound. Unsound? Some prick tells the nation he wants every child to read by the age of six and then they expect you to use ‘sound’ methods? As far as Rimbauer was concerned, primary school teaching was a man’s job, too many spineless sissies pissing on his patch. This job needed a man, that’s why men did the fucking job. O.K. so apart from the Head and the Deputy he was the only man in this crazy outfit but primary school teaching was still a man’s job. Just because all bar two of his colleagues were women it didn’t mean it was a woman’s job. Not a proper woman’s job like cleaning, nursing, or giving handjobs to kerb-crawlers.

Three and half hours later he closed his door, instantly muffling the sounds of his charges going noisily to the hall for lunch. What a fucking morning. Why did he come to work in this deadbeat town in the first place? Three hours of taking shit from some lowlife who didn’t even come up to his waist, an ugly scene involving theft of plastic money and an involuntary bowel movement by some little prick during Circle-Time. Rimbauer lit another cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. He flicked through an Abacus Evolve exercise book. Christ fucking wept. Two plus four does not fucking equal ten. This fucking comedian was feeling around in the dark like Gary Glitter at a kiddies party in a power cut. And how many more times did he have to demonstrate the correct hand actions to Big Red Combine Harvester to Year One? Why couldn’t they learn it properly like he told them? These new kids coming up…soft, raw…they needed working on.

With an hour and a half to go before Indoor P.E. Rimbauer decided to check out the deal with these jokers the Head had told him about. He spent a thoughtless moment choosing his Star of the Week for tomorrow’s assembly and then slid the drawer of his desk open. He picked up the gun. It was lethal, heavy, lightly oiled, and black. Just like T’Shaun’s mother. The corner of his mouth flickered into a smile at the memory, and then it vanished. He pocketed it and headed out of the front entrance.

“Ellen,” he said over his shoulder, “if an Inspector calls, tell him I’m looking for him”.

To be continued…

All sorts of stuff.

 It’s anti bullying week. There are lots of special weeks that are ‘celebrated’ at schools across the country…and on the whole it’s complete bollocks. Sounds harsh, I know, but you put together a week of special lessons to heighten awareness of bullying and make children feel more confident about tackling it and all you get is the following:

• You discover that the worst bullies in the school have the uncanny knack of doing the most thoughtful, considerate pieces of artwork and writing saying how bad bullying is. This is infuriating as it proves what you (and seemingly you alone) always knew all along…that they know what they do to other children is cruel and wrong and they’re mugging the rest of the staff off when they make out they’re just victims when they’ve been nabbed being a complete shit.
• Hordes of parents come into school claiming their children are being bullied. This is because half the kids in the school really get into the whole bullying week thing and decide they’re victims. Our fault really, we practically tell them they are when we go through all the exercises recommended by the anti bullying packs.
• Really lovely colourful displays in the hall. Which is really great until you discover that they’ve been done by the little bastards who, in your opinion, should’ve been expelled long ago and sent to work in an Asian sweatshop for being bullying little bastards. See above.

What I’d really like to do for anti bullying week is stress what bullying isn’t. I’m sick to death of one of my little thug’s mum (also a thug) coming in and saying how he’s being picked on. All that’s happened is someone retaliated probably and he got some of his own medicine. The older children know exactly what bullying is…they should do, the girls in Year Six are really getting good at it. It’s an 11 year old girl thing I guess, they become evil little bitches. They then stay like that until about the age of 25. Apart from any ladies reading this, who are the exception I’m sure. The little ones however, my lot, are a bit confused about what bullying actually is. They tend to think bullying is; someone not playing with you one break time, someone saying they’ll tell on you, someone not looking where they’re going and accidentally treading on your foot, someone ‘stealing your friend’, someone snatching a ball off you and a million other things which aren’t  bullying. These kids, they want toughening up if you ask me. I’ve learned something about city kids; they are more streetwise than their small town peers, and on the whole, would beat the crap out of your average small town/rural child. However, they’re unbelievably wet. They can’t lose properly, feel persecuted, don’t know how to win with grace and cry when things don’t go their way…and that includes the 10/11 year olds. Odd bunch, city kids. Anyway, anti-bullying week…pain in the arse. Want to get hold of the person who makes these things happen and happyslap the fuck out of them and put it on Youtube.

Other special weeks and months include:

Refugee week: Generally this means putting up some posters of really lovely looking people who have fled their village for an unspecified reason. We try to make the children empathise with refugees but this is a little difficult because the literature doesn’t exactly spell out what was so bad about living where they were. ‘Bad men made us leave’ isn’t really as honest and hard hitting as ‘bad men came in the dead of night, raped me and my daughter repeatedly in front of my husband and then shot him’. The kids then go home and hear their parents ranting about refugees who get placed above them on the housing list.

Black history month: A whole month of black history. If you’re wondering what constitutes Black History in primary schools it’s Martin Luther King, Mary Seacole and Nelson Mandela. How boring. I want to teach about King Cetshwayo, Idi Amin or someone with some personality. Actually, black history month is mainly a month about the trans-Atlantic slave trade. Fair enough. How about letting us teach about how Africans weren’t just the underdog in the international slave trade though? I’m not talking about the tribes who sold other Africans to Whitey, we all know about them. How about the Corsairs who filled North Africa with over one million white slaves? These guys were raiding Cornwall and clearing out White Gold right up until the late 18^th, early 19^th century. The furthest north they went slaving was Iceland! It’s amazing what slips away from the history books. The reason it’s not massive in our national conscience is because when it began (Elizabethan age) we were more worried about a wholesale Spanish invasion than a couple of Godless Moors enslaving the coastal population, and after that we had to get rid of Napoleon before we could even think of using our navy to sort the slavers out. Which we did, as soon as Napoleon was defeated.

I have no idea what the general thread of today’s rant is. Thought it was time I posted though.

Skool fud

 The week just shot past. Much of it was spent not looking forward to Thursday when I was due to have an English lesson observed, but it all went ok so that’s a good thing. The usual things happened which you’d expect when a member of Senior Management comes to watch you teach; the usually bright and attentive pupil decided to switch off for the first time ever, the Classroom Assistant got nervous and started handing out random bits of paper and the overly sensitive kid decided to dig their heels in, refuse to put a mark on their paper, wailed that they couldn’t do it and then cried. Thanks mate. But apart from all of that, it got a good write-up so that’s that done.

Nothing really remarkable happened this week, but hey, that’s like any other job I suppose. The most exciting thing for the school as a whole is that we now have a proper kitchen where school meals can be prepared on site. Before you start scratching your heads, it is quite usual for small schools to have their school dinners prepared at a larger school with proper kitchens, and then have the rapidly cooling and congealing shit driven over before lunch. That’s what we used to have. I wouldn’t have fed it to a paedophile, frankly. But all that has changed. I’m convinced it’s the Jamie Oliver effect. Call him what you like but that bloke did shake up the way we look at school dinners and well done to him, I think he’s a great man. We don’t have the ‘Jamie Oliver’ menu (at least, I don’t think it’s his), but we do now have very edible school dinners. I know this because I’ve started eating them occasionally, along with most other teachers. OK, so I’m not brave enough to eat them in the dinner hall with the children, I’m a bit sensitive about table manners and the sight of children doing impressions of cement-mixers and gobbing food while they talk would just put me off my food. My female colleagues are loving the new dinners…and the sponge puddings with custard. I suggested we all had a weigh-in and then weigh ourselves in a few months, my bet is that the girls are going to balloon. Still, they’ll be ballooning on good, well balanced food. And more kids are having school dinners now, which is excellent, the shit they come to school with that passes for ‘lunchbox food’ is beyond a joke.

Charming incident to finish the week off. After school on Friday my colleagues and I were chatting away in the corridor when a tiny lad in the after-school club wandered past to go to the toilet. He must be only just four years old. He came out later with his trousers at half-mast and his pants riding up, so I quickly pulled them up for him. My hands started to get soggy…the little bugger pissed on me. Still, gave the Head a laugh. Little sod.

Back again.

 I’m back. Sorry about the long silence. I was at a funeral on Friday, which was very sad as the star of the show was far too young to be the centre of attention at such an event. However, he did do me the final favour of getting me away from school on the day of the long awaited Key Stage Two Talent Contest. I gave the talent contest a thought during the post-burial piss-up but no more than that. Apparently it was everything I hate. Apart from one child who gave (by all accounts) a good display of Irish dancing it was the usual line-up of children dancing in a grossly inappropriate fashion to songs with grossly inappropriate lyrics. I blame shows like X-Factor, children are getting up in front of their schoolmates with unrehearsed crap to show and all the kids think it’s great, because they’re now conditioned to think that mediocre crap is something to aspire to. I’m also a bit bewildered as to why the bloody show went ahead, but hey, thank God I missed it.

Timmy came up trumps today. We’re (the children really, not me) are rewriting Little Red Riding Hood so that the wolf is a really nice guy and Hood is a nasty little bitch. We’re at the planning stage at the moment, and today I asked the children to draw Hood and the wolf meeting for the first time in the forest. As you know, in the original versions the wolf cunningly gets the low-down on Granny Hood’s house and delays Hood (the stupid young bint) by telling her to go pick some flowers (which her mother told her not to do, the disobedient little fuck). In this version, the wolf will be really nice, and genuinely friendly, and the young madam will be horrid and rude. All they had to do was draw the characters with appropriate speech bubbles. I’d expect something like:

Wolf: “Good morning miss, isn’t it a lovely day?”

LRRH: “Urgh! It’s a wolf, and an ugly wolf at that!”

Hardly the Brothers Grimm but you catch my drift. Timmy was struggling, as he does, to get started. It’s all confidence with him. Well, maybe not all confidence, he’s also got minor special educational needs but it’s mainly confidence. To give the boy credit, he’s been very good over the last few weeks. He’s tried very very hard to be independent and to stop acting like a wet blanket. I’ve given him a few personal targets (one of which is ‘don’t cry’) and he’s really trying to achieve them. However today he started to quake slightly and was finding it very hard to get started on the dialogue for his drawing. He managed a drawing of LRRH, was getting himself into a bit of a mess trying to draw a wolf (fair enough really, they’re not very easy to draw at the best of times, never mind if you have all the manual dexterity of Abu Hamza) and was fucked if he could think of anything to write in the speech bubbles. His bottom lip was beginning to tremble and I had to snap him out of it before it all went horribly downhill and he gave up on life. I helped him by giving him the wolf’s opening line (see above).

Chipz: ‘Come on Timmy, the wolf is saying, “Good morning miss, isn’t it a lovely day?”‘

Timmy: *stares blankly, eyes like a moose on Prozac*

Chipz: ‘So…if the wolf is being friendly, and Riding Hood is being unfriendly, what might she say?”

Timmy: *lips move as if trying to form a word, right eyelid twitches*

Chipz: (model of patience) “So, what do you think we should have her say”

Timmy: ….

Chipz: “Come on…think of something…”

Timmy: … *blinks*

Chipz: “Right, I’m going to count down now…5, 4, 3, 2, 1, and Little Red Riding Hood says…

Timmy: (top volume) “BUGGER OFF WOLF!!”

My dog ate it.

I’m terribly sorry, haven’t written for ages. I have been distracted by the real world and events therein. I will be back soon when I’ve fabricated more stories. Now put your coat on and fuck off outside, the bell doesn’t ring for another 20 minutes.

By the Guru, I hope they fail.

 You may have heard of this case in the news: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/south_east/7081573.stm

This is the sort of thing which, as a teacher, annoys me. Whether religion has a place in school doesn’t actually bother me too much. Personally I believe that I prefer to work in a non-faith school, but at the same time I do believe that a school would do well to acknowledge the basic Christian ethos most of us (in this country) were brought up with. By this I mean having a vicar in occasionally to tell a nice story in assembly, and ask the children to bow their heads and ‘think’ about people who are less fortunate than themselves. I’ve spent a bit of time in a devout R.C. school and it freaked me out, but then I’m not a Roman Catholic and the idolatry freaked my little CofE soul out. Good discipline though…however I do think telling children that Jesus didn’t like it when they fidgeted in assembly was a tad irresponsible of the Deputy Head. Anyway, I’m not here to rant for or against faith schools, I might do that in another post.

What offends me so much about this case is simple: the parents were informed of the school’s dress policy before their child joined. They must have known that the bangle would not be allowed. This can only mean one of two things; they didn’t bother to read the information given to them before the girl started school, in which case they are irresponsible and don’t have a leg to stand on. Or, they did know that their daughter would be told to take the bangle off but made a conscious decision to try and change a functioning system to suit their own wishes. This is morally repugnant behaviour in my view. There are certainly plenty of schools which allow children to wear items of faith, and indeed, many many schools which allow their pupils to wear fuck-off earrings. Now, there may not be a glut of schools in this particular child’s area, in which case I’m afraid she really should just bite the bullet and deal with the rules laid down. Bare in mind these rules (apparently) work very well for the school as a whole and everyone else can deal with it. There are lots of cases like this, parents who are aware of the rules that will be expected of their children if they join a school, but decide to get a foot in the door and then try to change the way things are done. This is, frankly, a fucking pain in the arse. I really, really hope this girl (or more accurately, her parents) fall flat on their arses. Not because she’s a Sikh, but because they have shown a great deal of disrespect to a prevailing system which, until they turned up, worked just fine.