Timmy’s a little bastard

This is my first post in ages. The main reason for not writing is that I really couldn’t be arsed, but I’ve justified it to myself as it’s been SATs time at school. And only a couple of people read this so I’m not too worried. The SATs seemed to go ok, I’m still marking them so will comment later.

I would like to take a short moment to talk about Timmy. Regular readers will know Timmy as the shy, timid, mal-coordinated, needy, bumbling yet loveable little rascal who can’t do much about controlling his hands, feet or guts. I’ve tried with Timmy, I really fucking have. His file clearly states that he has delayed development of gross, and fine, motor skills and that he has an ‘immature gait’. This year he’s made real progress. He can throw a beanbag up with one hand and catch it with the other. He can climb over a bit of apparatus in PE without crying (that took a while but he got there), he even started to grow in confidence and if bribed and cajoled enough can now work independently to quite an acceptable standard for his age in some areas. The trouble is this…Timmy’s a little bastard.

I can see how it’s happened, I really can. As little as one year ago Timmy found everything hard, hard in a way most of you reading this would not fully understand. He was terrified of walking down stairs, because his coordination was so bad that it was a genuine risk for him. His confidence was so knocked by his physical problems that quite understandably most academic tasks (at that age, things like drawing a picture without adult help) would reduce him to tears. Thing is, habits form fast in children, and even the ‘dumb’ ones aren’t that dumb. Timmy has learnt to exploit adults’ pity. I think he learnt it before he got to my class…he can’t have learnt in mine because pity hasn’t been that forthcoming. Which is why, when he got to my class in September the waterworks came on several times a day, it was his way of getting an adult to do his work for him.

That’s what I thought at first anyway. It’s taken a while but I’ve got a different angle on him now. He would sit there (still does actually), shaking, dribbling snot, rubbing his eyes, wiping condensation off his milk-bottle glasses, making farty noises and bleating “I can’t do it.” That’s for anything by the way, unless someone asked him to draw a car, it’s the only thing he would do without crying and saying he couldn’t do it at the start of the year. I’ve slowly come to realise that “I can’t do it” started off a couple of years ago as a true statement of fact. However, Timmy quickly realised that every time he did this a nice lady would say lovely things to him and DO HIS FUCKING WORK FOR HIM. This year’s been a shock. His abilities have moved on, so he’s quite capable of working unsupported, I’ve got far needier children in my class who need much more of my time one to one. I’ve got a couple who can’t write. At all. This gets on Timmy’s tits. Timmy it seems, due to this help over the last few years has become accustomed to being a lazy little shit. So “I can’t do it” actually means “I don’t WANT to do it, and I’m fucking pissed off that you are making me do it. You bastard.” The tears of rage are disguised of tears of a more pathetic nature and until recently it meant that the nice ladies who work in my class would end up doing his work for him. Again. The nice ladies have sussed him too now, and boy is he pissed off. We’ve had clashes, me and Timmy.

Also, due to this façade he’s built up of the boy who can’t do anything, he’s got away with murder over the years. Someone’s done something sneaky in the classroom? Someone’s blocked up the bogs? Can’t be Timmy…he’s just not capable of doing such a thing. I used to think that too. Boy was I wrong. Timmy is a devious little sod who knows very well that no-one thinks he’s got a bad bone in his portly body. Hah! Busted! He’s the only boy I’ve seen this year who could string out a lie (when I know he’s lying) and deny the truth until it’s too late. Most kids bale out quite quickly when you tell them, very truthfully, that to confess now would be a lot better than holding out. They’re clever like that. Not Timmy. Here’s an example.

School playing field, morning break, a couple of weeks ago. Mr.Chipz on duty. Mohammed came striding over to me from the far end of the playing field. I could see Timmy galumphing after him, but due to his ‘immature gait’ he had no chance in hell of reaching Mohammed before Mohammed reached me. I could see Timmy pleading with him, but when he saw me he doubled back and tried to hide behind a tree. That’s as good as guilty if you ask me. Mohammed informed me that just now, when they were behind da tree, yeh, Timmy got his willy out and showed him. Sounds about right. Boys do that sort of thing. Well, some boys do that sort of thing. I called Timmy over. He arrived gulping air and blubbering. Mohammed was sitting at my feet picking daisies. Knowing those two boys like I do I knew straight away that Timmy had indeed got his cock out. For a start, if Mohammed was lying he would be screaming his head off, claiming that he never lied. It’s one of the benefits of teaching Special Educational Needs children, they can give you some pretty clear signs of what’s going on in their heads. And Timmy wouldn’t be crying so early on if he was telling the truth. I took him to one side and started very gently. Something along the lines of “don’t worry, I just need to know who’s telling the truth. If you were a bit silly then that’s ok.” I meant it too. If he got his pecker out and flapped it at Mohammed, do I really mind? No. What I do mind is when some little shit won’t fess up. And Timmy was really sticking his ground here. What spoiled it for him was when he suddenly turned on Mohammed and accused HIM of being a liar, and then chucked in a few stories about what Mohammed had ‘done’ behind the tree. I know Mohammed, I know he’s a fucking liar, but I also know that when he’s got a certain look on his face the person who’s just said something about him is talking shit. I started to get cross and sent Mohammed away. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of questioning before Timmy gave one more snivel and asked if he’d get in trouble if he told the truth. Bit late sonny. Yes he did get his cock out. Dirty little shit. And then he called Mohammed (his best mate) a liar. Big trouble. He had to sit on the floor of Year Six with the 11 year olds looming over him asking their teacher what he’d done wrong. We didn’t tell them of course but Timmy was in a bad place. Serves him right.

Then last week he had a stroke of pure genius. He watched as one of my meatheads threw a stone which bounced off the wall in the field and struck another boy on the head, causing him to cry and go running off to the medical room with a large lump on his swede. Great idea! Knowing full well that on the other side of the wall is a main road, Timmy started to lob stones over it. Only stopping when an enraged dinner lady nabbed him having heard of the wounded child in the medical room. I grilled him and yes, he knew about the road. Yes, he thinks he hit a truck. Yes, he knew what could happen if a truck travelling at that kind of speed veered out of control. Got his parents in who referred to his act as ‘evil’. Fair enough. He tried to blub his way out of that one too. The Head didn’t buy it and she took over the disciplining side of things. That should have learnt him. Doubt it has though. Because Timmy, little mal-coordinated, half blind, innocent looking Timmy, is a LITTLE BASTARD.

This is a big rant for one child. I apologise. It’s just that he’s infuriated me of late. He may be only seven years old (just) but he is, at the moment, my Nemesis. He’s in my fucking dreams. Dreams where I explode with rage. I think, quite honestly, and this isn’t the acceptable view in my trade, that if he were my own son, I’d slap his chubby legs. There, said it.

Fucking tests…had enough already.

Did some tests on The Kiddies last week. Maths tests. Quite pleased with some of the results, other results make me want to slit my wrists. Hey ho, never mind. Tis the way of things I suppose. Going to hit them with proper SATS papers this coming week. The good thing about Year 2 SATS is that it’s all teacher assessment, which means if they fuck this batch up I fully intend to throw them in the bin and give them other tests instead. Don’t worry, it’s not really cheating as the children can only do as well as their potential allows, I’m not going to fiddle the tests or anything. But they’re supposed to be a fair representation of what they can do, so a one off test is a load of old bollocks as some very able kids might freak out and make an arse of it, and less able kids could have a ‘lucky day’ and have a total anomaly of a result. In other words I’ll give them these tests (because I have to) and then do what I should be doing anyway, which is to trawl through their books and make a decision on their levels due to their day to day ability, not that extra special effort wheeled out for a couple of days. God the whole thing is such a load of toss. I can tell you exactly where all the children are, ability-wise, but that’s not good enough, we’ve got to justify a load of meaningless jobs for tossers by go through the motions and filling in spreadsheets. Bring on the revolution I say.

Anyway, now that the SATS have started it goes without saying that some dickhead has taken her child on holiday. Obviously she doesn’t mind the EWO (Educational Welfare Officer) breathing down her neck for the last six months as it is. I’ve tried to help her, I really have. But fuck it, I hope they get fined. It might be the only way she realises that her child has a right to a fucking education. He would be one of the most able children in my class if she let him come to school, and he’d have developed some social skills. Instead he’s shy, and to be honest, a bit pathetic. Not an attractive quality in a seven year old. I’m feeling bilious, I would happily shoot her right now. God…I need a pint and no-one’s about. How depressing.

*Bang*

*thud*

SATS and sun

Summer term is well and truly under way, which means for my year group, the tests are a comin’. Week after next to be precise. SATS have been in and out of the news recently. It seems that everyone thinks that for the young ‘uns they’re completely unnecessary and a waste of time, but the government think they’re very very important so they’re happening. The lot we have in charge now are obsessed with tests and league tables. Not just in teaching of course, but across the board. Due to being a youngster in my mid thirties I can’t remember a time where the powers that be were so intent on day to day interference in everyone’s jobs…the cynic in me feels that it justifies the existence of hordes of civil servants who need a proper job and perhaps an older, or more politically astute reader could set me straight and tell me it’s always been so. The rather useless thing about these league tables (which is what the SATS determine) is that they don’t really tell parents anything of any use. Not in my opinion anyway, but then I’m biased. The idea is so a parent who’s shopping around for a school for their child can have a look at the league table and determine which schools in their vicinity have the best education on offer. However it doesn’t really work like that. A school with very high results might just have a lot of well off parents who can afford private tuition and who have a high standard of education themselves, therefore being able to support their child by doing things we take for granted like reading with them for a few minutes every evening. I know that sounds simple but there are a few children in my class who have parents who are barely literate, who tell me in all honesty (which I respect greatly) that it’s impossible to help their child learn to read as their six year old is a better reader than they are. It happens. Also, a school might have a high proportion of newly arrived children who don’t speak much English. That school is never going to come above a half decent school which has barely any EAL children. Anyway, the point is, the league tables are misleading in the extreme and if I were a parent, knowing what I know now, I’d ignore the fucking things and just try and visit all the schools I possibly could and make a judgement on how the place looked, what the Head was like, and I’d make damn sure I spoke to some of the children. They’re the best intelligence you’ll get on the subject. This isn’t sour grapes by the way, our school isn’t too bad on the league table, but I’m also aware we’re not the best in the borough. But by no means the worst. Not even close!

As the run up to the SATS gets under way I’ve taken a decision not to talk to the parents too much about them, there’s nothing they can do at this stage to up their children’s grades and some of them will just turn their kids neurotic. The results don’t affect the children anyway, it’s just me who gets in the shit if they all get terrible grades. The first exams my lot take (in my opinion) which will matter are in nine years time when they take their GCSEs. If they still exist by then.

Another thing the recent heat and sunshine usher in are children over heating and spontaneously keeling over or going a funny colour. Children, especially small ones, over heat in a microsecond. It’s amazing. The strange thing is, I spent the coldest part of the winter telling the boys to put a jumper and coat on to go outside and now that it’s boiling hot they’re all sitting there, determined to keep their jumpers on while they go an alarming shade of purple. Children have no internal survival mechanism, or maybe just a glimmer of one. Without wanting to make crass generalisations (which should tell you I’m about to do just that), some of the Asian children are the most bizarrely dressed. You’ve really got to check the little ones at this time of year. In my school, particularly the Bangladeshi boys. They’ll be sitting there in the heat and if you don’t check you’ll find they’re wearing long-johns under their school trousers, a t-shirt, shirt and sweatshirt. And no, it’s not because they’re from a really hot country and don’t feel the heat here. They fucking well do! You’ll see small Asian boys and girls turning green and it’s only when you start checking them over that you find they’re wearing more layers than Captain Oats going outside for a shit.

The good thing about the sunshine we’re having is that my twice weekly break duties are now a pleasure. We get to go out on the grass where the kids can run free without scrapping over the lack of space on the playground. I’m a pale bastard and for the last few years I’ve actually managed to achieve the colour of a normal white person by getting two fifteen minutes in the sun a week. Any more than that and I go as red as west country halfwit.

I’ve jinxed it now, it’s going to fucking snow next week, I just know it.

Concern

With only a term to go the following things are concerning me:

• 1) Why does Trey think that “one more than 49″ is 18?
• 2) Why can’t Summer even formulate an answer to the same question?
• 3) Why, when asked any question, any question at all, from a maths question to an inquiry about the whereabouts of his coat does Timmy just blink and go silent? If he were the fruit of my own loins I must admit I would smack his legs just to see if he’d wake up. This sounds horrific and barbaric I’m sure but you try spending just one fucking day with him and see how you feel!
• 4) Why has the little boy who started off the year as the nicest boy in the class become a lying, thieving, spiteful little bastard? Actually I know why and social services are involved with the ‘family’. Still, it concerns me.
• 5) Why do whiteboard pens for the kids only last one day?
• 6) How is it that six and seven year olds can lose their sweatshirts at such a rate? They just vanish into thin air.
• 7) Why are parents of six and seven year olds incapable of writing their child’s name on the label of their sweatshirts?
• 8 ) What perverse law of nature is that makes sure that your special needs child with behavioural problems settles down and becomes a model of decency in time to coincide with all the other boys becoming very unpleasant for the week?
• 9) Why are the three women who constantly badger me with worries that their children aren’t improving academically the ones who are being hounded by the Educational Welfare Officer for not bringing their children to school very often? What the fuck is wrong with these people?
• 10) Where the fuck are all the pencil sharpeners?
• 11) Who is the thief in my class? Raffles? I can’t fathom who it is at all.
• 12) Why is it that one teacher and one classroom assistant can oversee outside play with no dramas or rioting, but with six midday supervisors it sounds like a riot in Borstal?
• 13) Most of my class have made real progress across the board this year. Why then does this not give me joy, when the lack of progress of just a couple (with a bad track record of making much progress) make me sick with worry?
• 14) Why do a small number of mums from my class think that it’s appropriate to threaten to beat the shit out of each other when their six year old sons have a playground spat?
• 15) Where is Wally? I can’t find the bastard on any page.
• 16) Why, after a year and a half of doing assemblies at our school does the vicar still insist on picking the school lunatics or very young children to answer her questions? You’d think that she’d have learnt not to destroy her own assembly that way by now.
• 17) Why do I have a hundredweight of gluesticks but no decent coloured paper to stick?
• 18 ) What the fuck is that smell? I’m sure it’s Timmy. Christ, what does that woman feed him?!
• 19) Who is it who stinks out the staff toilet by the office? I know it must be a woman and this disturbs me for some reason.
• 20) Why does James have no volume control? I think I need to ask his mum to take him for a hearing test. Surely he’s deaf.

Democracy

In an out and out push to make Napoleon go nuts and fall off his ‘niceness’ wagon I have to tell you that I’m at home today. No work for me. Why? Democracy in all its glory, that’s why. Last week it was Democracy what got me off the hook of having to do a day’s honest graft by giving me the right to walk out on strike. This week Democracy has galloped to the rescue by closing my school so that it can be used as a polling station. I tell you what, my grandfathers fought the Germans and the Japs for this very reason, so that their grandson could loaf around for a few days. I think they’d be proud.

Anyway, so I’ve got a day to fill. I might do some stuff on here. I will also post on the TES website, there seems to be a glut of extremely pompous teachers out there who don’t appreciate that some of us shoot from the hip and rap about the truth. While they hand-wring about that woman in the basement in Austria (which is revolting, but I don’t see how having a pissing competition to see who can sound the most horrified helps anyone), I point out that we’re superior to the Austrians as they gave the world Arnold Schwarzenegger and we gave the world Geoff Capes. Geoff bloody Capes! This has made me unpopular so I intend to strike while the iron is hot and see how many corduroy wearing lesbians (that’s teachers to you) I can turn against myself. I wish you all a good day’s work. A fantastic day. Now get on with your work. If indeed drawing cartoons for a living constitutes work. Which it doesn’t.