Argh! Die, die!

 This from today’s BBC news website: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/education/7311917.stm

This is the sort of thing that actually makes me embarrassed to be a teacher sometimes. I don’t condone the Iraq debacle but the quotes from Paul McGarr, a teacher from East London make me cringe. What an immature, ignorant, childish, misinformed cunt. I would happily pull his teeth out with pliers and then stamp on his face. Not because of his clearly anti-war stance (he’s entitled to that, and his thoughts on the armed forces, you don’t have to like soldiers if you don’t want), but because he’s the sort of thoughtless twat we just don’t need in this profession. His ‘slogans’ are what I’d expect from a fourteen year old who thinks they know what they’re talking about. Gah!! Bet he’s a spotty little bastard who tries to impress the kids on non-uniform day by wearing a Phil Collins t-shirt tucked into his jeans. I’d also wager he insists his pupils call him “Paul” during one-to-one tutorials. I bet the children hate him. Actually, if he teaches 16 year olds I hope they all wind him up by telling him they’re off to join the infantry when they finish their GCSEs because “they want to be the first kid in their street to get a confirmed kill”. He’d have apoplexy.

Rimbauer – part six (the case of the missing girl)

 Rimbauer extinguished his cigarette and slipped into the shadows that ran down the side of the filthy council hovel he had been watching for the last hour. He was in a grim, sink hole estate in some northern backwater, Rimbauer wasn’t sure which, it didn’t matter to him. They all looked the same anyway, and he hadn’t bothered to ask the driver who had brought him from London to this wretched place. He’d been watching the row of houses since eleven that evening, and now that the midnight hour had arrived he’d decided to act. He was sure she was upstairs.

Rimbauer had been called to Scotland Yard the previous day. The grizzled Chief Inspector had offered him a chair and a cigarette.

“Good to see you again Rimbauer,” the Chief Inspector growled as Rimbauer sat down. He sounded as if seeing Rimbauer was anything but ‘good’. Rimbauer wasn’t surprised, the police had always been on the same side as him but he suspected they didn’t like having to cover up the carnage he often left in his wake.

“I suppose you want to know why I called you in?” Rimbauer nodded and inhaled deeply on his Woodbine. “It’s that missing kid, Rimbauer. The northern one, you know, the one with the Croydon Facelift and cold sore as big as your fist that’s been all over the news.”

“What, Chardonnay Michaels?” Rimbauer had been following the case, and like teachers across the country had been speculating wildly on the outcome. Rimbauer had originally put £50 on her being dead by now and was appalled to realise that if he was at Scotland Yard and the C.I. was talking about her he’d probably lost his bet. Shit.

“Yeah, that’s her,” grunted the Chief Inspector, “Chardonnay, Sharon, Shannon, Shazia…some shit like that, who the fuck cares. Anyway, we’re sure she’s alive, and what’s more we’re pretty certain she’s still on the estate, within a mile of her own home.”

“Interesting,” Rimbauer took another drag and raised an eyebrow, “why don’t you go and get her then?”

The Chief Inspector sighed and poured out two glasses of scotch. “It’s not that simple Rimbauer, it’s the people up there, the residents of the estate, the family, the whole lot of them. They’re not talking straight with us, we’re facing three generations of people who are naturally suspicious of the police and never break ranks to talk to us, three generations Rimbauer! Why, up there that’ s about 25 years! Every time we’ve asked them about Chardonnay’s disappearance we’ve been met with a heart-warming community spirit of misinformation.”

Rimbauer shrugged, “so why aren’t they talking to you, I’ve seen them all blinking on the news, walking on their knuckles and talking about how much they miss the kid, surely their famed British working class community spirit would have made them realise they need to talk to you?”

“Far from it Rimbauer, it’s been a disaster. The mother says the kid’s been abducted, the stepfather , who’s about to take his GCSEs, says that she might have gone out for fags for him but he can’t remember, the 2^nd cousin told The Sun that the mum’s a ‘slag and a bitch and anyway that Chardonnay’s a little slut anyway’, a relative of uncertain lineage barked at us for an hour and the mother’s oldest daughter led us down the garden path with various ‘sightings’ and then gave up and has since been offering blowjobs to our officers for £5 a pop. We’ve informed her Head of Year and social worker. In short Rimbauer, with most of them lying their scabby fucking arses off to us and the press we’re fucked, we just can’t get to our suspect.”

“And who is your suspect?” Rimbauer was hooked now, this sounded intriguing. Could it be that Chardonnay hadn’t even been kidnapped? Could the rest of the troop of baboons which called itself a family were all in this together? Had the pathetic photos of them licking each others’ faces in shows of affection in all the tabloids been a scheme to supplement their giros with money sent in by a compassionate public? Was that mother really only in her early 30s? Christ, look at the fucking state of her, Rimbauer wouldn’t touch her with a shitty stick he thought to himself, wouldn’t even wank over her saggy tits, which was his favourite thing to do apart from watching gardening programs. What if the suspect was innocent? What if the kid was dead after all and body parts were littered all over the squalid flat? Well at least he’d win his bet. Christ he hoped she was dead.

“The suspect’s her uncle-cousin-step fathery sort of thing.” The C.I replied. “Here’s his address…go get that girl back Rimbauer!” He slid the address on a card across the desk. Rimbauer got up to leave.

“One more thing, why are you sending me?”

“You’re an educationalist Rimbauer” the Chief Inspector gave a slight smile. “They know how to keep us cops at bay, they’ve got a lifetime’s experience of us and they don’t fear us. But you Rimbauer, you’re our best weapon against them. They have no experience of teachers worth a grain of salt, you can read, spell your own name and have the power to teach them to do the same. They won’t stand a chance, they don’t know what do with educators, you’ll throw them completely. The fact that you know more than 200 words from the English language alone might be enough to unsettle, if not hospitalise them. Now go on, kid, go get ‘em.” The Chief Inspector stood and slowly saluted. Rimbauer nodded grimly. The plan made sense. He left the office and headed out to the waiting car.

Rimbauer slowly pushed the unlocked back door open, pulling his sidearm from his shoulder holster and peering into the gloom. He assumed he was in the kitchen. A brand new cooker stood unused in the corner, along with various other white goods supplied by the social. Pizza boxes and crisp packets covered the floor, which he carefully stepped over to avoid making a sound. He stopped and listened. He could hear muffled voices upstairs; feral, animal grunting. He recognised this as the patois spoken on the estate, one sounded like an adult male, the other, a young female. He’d found his target. He stepped quietly into the front room, and staggered backwards immediately as if punched. Christ, the walls were covered in photographs of morbidly obese simpletons and babies the size of pygmy hippos. This must be the occupant’s family. A wave of nausea hit Rimbauer as he saw a collection of porcelain and resin-cast figurines of chubby Victorian toddlers on the mantelpiece and he threw up behind the sofa. Jesus, he’d not witnessed such bad taste since one of the mothers at his own school got her own son to tell Rimbauer she fancied him. The memory made him vomit again. Rimbauer shook himself, he had to get a grip, get the job done and get out. The smell of bad food, bad drains and athlete’s foot made him gag again. He cocked his weapon, took a breath, and began to ascend the stairs.

To be continued…

Balls to Kesharpur

 I’m going to have to actually do some teaching today. It’s a disgrace. A teacher in another year group is off today, he has some medieval condition and needs kill his infestation with a bath of bleach and battery acid or something. Anyway, at 11.30 I’m going to teach Geography to some older kids. Looking at the planning I see that I’m delivering a lesson on the climate of Kesharpur. Never heard of the place personally…I’m no Michael Palin but I’m guessing Kesharpur is somewhere on the Indian sub continent. I’m also guessing that the climate is often ‘warm’, and for some of the year, ‘wet’. Possibly even both together. I see that I must ‘discuss with the children the meaning of the word ‘climate”, so I’d best get a dictionary then. I’m then jumping to a little talk on the climate in Portsmouth (wet mainly, often cold, with a smattering of ropey whores and gay sailors), and comparing it to the mystical land of Kesharpur (hot mainly, often wet, with a smattering of ropey whores and horrible illnesses…I’m assuming). Oh Christ, just noticed on the plan that they have to do something using measuring jugs and thermometers. Fuck it, I’m binning the lesson. He can do it next week. I’ve just had delivery of a big box of oil pastels, I’ll teach them how to use them properly instead. Kesharpur my arse. It can fucking rot, rot I say! So there you go, a geography lesson for Year 5 is seamlessly turned into an art lesson using oil pastels. The kids will love me.

Yesterday afternoon was interesting. Young Mohammed (mentioned in previous posts) flipped out at luncheon and took it upon himself to take a swing at his Learning Support lady, didn’t hurt her as it was a limp wristed slap such as a petulant two year old might do. I was wheeled out of the staffroom to be nasty and the rest of his day was deep in the sin-bin. And he’s in it again today. We haven’t had that sort of thing for about a year (when he went ballistic and showered most of the mid day supervisors and the caretaker with spit) so I’m stamping on this straight away. I must admit I thought something like this was in the post, he’s been finding it a bit difficult of late. At the moment we have an outside drama teacher coming in once a week and a visiting artist, and what with the student, the classroom assistant, myself and the LSA he’s been taking orders from six adults (not including the dinner ladies etc). He can’t hack it, his learning difficulties are pretty complex and it’s just too much change for him. But, he’s in a ‘normal’ school and he must fulfil the behavioural expectations all pupils here are subject to. Which is why when my class goes for break at half past ten he’ll come and sit by me and do some handwriting. Ditto for lunch break. And he’s in isolation in the corner of the classroom. He’s pretty pissed off but he seems to be taking it…for now.

Time to pop into the classroom and make sure he’s doing his work. Time to put the ‘angry’ face on.

TES forum

 The student’s teaching maths so I’m working in the computer room. I can’t be in the classroom when she teaches as she’s very good at it and another adult just confuses the kids, so I’m banished. Suits me. Thought I’d take the opportunity to write a quick Chipz post so that the few people who read this don’t think I’m dead. Just to give you an idea about what a school computer room is like during lessons (when a class isn’t using it), here’s what’s happening. I’m sitting here writing this (Yes, at taxpayers’ expense), a classroom assistant is doing some booster work with a Year Six girl who needs extra work as she’s never here. Illness apparently, though I think mum’s also prone to fucking off with the kids sometimes, poor girl doesn’t have much of an education. Behind me is a supply teacher doing a booster session with another year six girl. This year six girl doesn’t have a problem with attendance but does have the problem of being bone idle and a complete fucking princess. Taught her a few years ago, infuriating. Right now she keeps breaking down in tears (the girl, not the supply), reasons over the last 10 mins are that ‘she’s being picked on’ (she’s not), ‘the work’s well hard’ (it’s not really, she just doesn’t want to do it), and just blind fury that someone’s nailed her to the floor and is making her use her brain. Not very p.c. I know but I could happily turn round and slap her, however the supply is has more patience than me and seems to be doing a good job of making her work. Oh fuck, the rest of Year Six have just turned up.

Anyway, I’ve been doing some paperwork and also looking at this: http://www.tes.co.uk/section/staffroom/list_threads.aspx?path=/Opinion/

It’s the opinion page of the TES website. Basically, that’s what the country’s teachers are wittering on about on a day to day basis if you’re interested. I sometimes stick my oar in but on the whole I just laugh at the whining bastards. If you want to see a really sad bunch of fuckers, check out my colleagues. This is the forum for Primary school teachers. Jesus wept.

http://www.tes.co.uk/section/staffroom/list_threads.aspx?path=/primary/

Good old Blighty

 http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk_politics/7287984.stm

Another load of misguided crap from Whitehall. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a Brit and proud, red, white and blue to the end me. But this idea is utter bollocks. Sweaty, hairy bollocks with a hernia poking through. Tarting around with some meaningless ceremony isn’t going to make the youth feel any more patriotic. Neither is (and I heard this on the news this morning) making them sing “we are the world” make them feel any more responsible for the Earth. Actually, making them sing Michael Jackson songs in light of what people suspect of his sexuality is rather creepy. Still, my Head plays R.Kelly as the kids come in for assembly, and he likes ‘em young and all.

If our politicians are actually serious about engendering a shared sense of patriotism in our youngsters they really shouldn’t bother with chucking in some farcical ceremony (which most won’t opt for anyway as it’ll be just about the most uncool thing you could ever do as a 16 year old) in at the last moment of a child’s education. If they really want to go down the road of patriotism in terms of Queen and Country they need to do something consistent throughout a child’s time at school, from Nursery to Year 11. Maybe if all schools celebrated things like the Queen’s birthday every year, or Trafalgar Day, or Waterloo Day, or the anniversary of signing Magna Carta, St.George’s Day or the anniversary of the last Hun being shot down in flames over Kent or something. I think consistency will breed this sense of national identity they seem to want, not a one-off. Either we don’t do patriotism or we join the rest of the world and wave flags about and sing weird songs about how fucking great we are. Belgium can manage it safely so I’m sure we can too. We do Black History Month every year, Refugee Week and PSHE modules called things like ‘It’s good to be me’. All good stuff but let’s face it, the aim of these things is to make the child feel like a valid individual, not part of a large unit of people. So if we’re doing this from Nursery age onwards (and we are), then we’ll need to do the patriotism with the same regularity and consistency, so that the children feel like individuals all working together for the greater good; our country.

Of course, if I had my way there’d be a Union Flag in every school hall along with a photo of Betty and Phil the Greek. However my tastes aren’t representative of teachers as a whole.  

Accents and that.

 It’s ridiculous. My student has been here two weeks, and has another two or three to go. I’m on the verge of forgetting how to teach a whole class. In a fortnight’s time I’ll be utterly useless and I’m dreading the trauma of having to do a whole day’s teaching already. She’s good. Damn good. Too good…perhaps I should kill her. I’ll wait till her placement’s over first though, otherwise I’ll have to do a decent day’s graft for my pay. Which, as Napoleon Cockaparte well knows goes against everything the wily public sector employee stands for. Keep paying them taxes BPP old chum, you’re keeping some northern teacher in gravy. Literally, what with it being the North.

Talking of which, I was thinking the other day about what phonetic spelling looks like in Northern Primary schools. I teach down south, and I’m used to young children using their phonic knowledge to work out their own spellings, an important skill. For example, say if a child is trying to write “I think my mum will give me one pound if I go shopping with her on Thursday” (mundane, I know) they’ll often write something like, “I fink my mum wiw give me wan pond if I go shopping wiv her on fursday”. I’m talking about young children working independently so don’t bother harping on about spelling or grammar. How would a child from up north write that, if they didn’t have adult support or a dictionary to help them? I used to live in Humberside and I bet the teachers see a totally different pattern of spelling up there. I’m intrigued. Also, what does a phonics letter-sound session sound like up there? Same goes for strong accents from all over the country, I’d love to see English exercise books from a cross section of the country. I’d probably struggle to read some but not others. Maybe it’s just me who finds this interesting. I can feel you all electrified with excitement!

Any teachers read this pile of toss? If so please let me know where you are and what the spelling’s like.