I.E.P stands for Individual Education Plan. They’re written up for children who are finding some aspects (or all aspects in many cases) of education a bit trying. They get updated every few months and all mine were due to be done today. A supply teacher was drafted in and I spent most of the day with the SENCO (Special Educational Needs Coordinator) updating them. I have a lot in my class. As in a hell of a lot.

We started with my good chum Mohammed, he has a Statement (in layman’s terms his problems are so, er, unique that the school is given a certain amount of money by the L.E.A to help sort it out. This money is spent on a very nice lady who, bless ‘er, spends every morning with him helping him with the tasks I set, or occasionally taking him out of class to do his own thang. I have to say, the boy’s done well this year. He’s achieved the target I set in December of counting up to 20 (in order, which was part of the problem), recognising all the letters in his name, getting three smiley faces per day (he’s off that now, gets the same rewards as the other kids. Well, is able to get them anyway) and more besides. He’s not managed to recognise all the sounds the letters of the alphabet make though; W, X, Y and Z are a mystery to him at the best of times, and rather strangely ‘L’.

Timmy’s done well. So well we got him in and asked him what he’d like some of his new goals to be. One of his major hurdles is balance. Standing upright and not falling over can, at times, be a bit of a mission. So after we’d decided his academic targets (he’s achieved all the targets we set last time) he was asked what he’d like to do next. Rather touchingly his big ambition in P.E is to “do back flips”. Explained that they’re actually rather tricky…believe it or not Timmy, but even Mr.Chipz has never (intentionally) managed it. Did once trying to get down from a wall while pissed but that was an accident and I didn’t quite manage to land on my feet, but it was ok; my face broke the fall. We came to the mutual agreement that perhaps it would be best to master the forward roll first, and if he managed that we could look at the backwards roll. You should have seen his face. It was the sort of face Biggles would make if you told him he had to take on the entire Luftwaffe in a bi-plane, at night, armed only with a revolver. In other words; wild eyed determination. Bless his mismatched socks. I’m gonna fucking do this. By July 23^rd (end of term), Timmy is going to be doing forward rolls. Even if it kills me. Though more likely him, but hey, he chose the target.

We then went through all the others, generally there’s been all round successes, but not to the extent that any are coming off I.E.Ps and that’s probably a good thing for now.

Tomorrow we ‘meet’ our new classes. The kids don’t know who their teachers are next year and as usual there’s wild speculation. They don’t know yet that none of the teachers are moving so this year’s Year One are coming to me for half an hour in the morning. I’ll get them in a circle and they can tell me what they like. It won’t be as good as last year. Last year the children just thought of me as one of the teachers who taught the older ones and didn’t know what I was like. As they came into the classroom about four were crying hysterically and clinging desperately to anyone they could grab hold of. My next class know me fairly well so there should be no drama. Damn, they know I’m actually a soft bastard at heart. Rumbled.

Three weeks to go. Three weeks! Then I’m off work for six whole weeks, I guess I should start thinking of something to do, apart from spending all the money I have.

Timmy’s having a last minute burst of brilliance, he’s Star of the Week and everything. He’s been working independently, not crying, trying difficult things without going into meltdown…it’s ace. His only problem is that when he’s confident (which is what we’ve been trying for all blooming year) he can go a bit too far and get a little cocky. I mean, it’s great that he’s exhibiting high self-esteem, and genuinely knows that a positive mental attitude can help you achieve, but he needs to start watching to whom he announces his genius. His bubble is in real danger of being burst by a genuinely high-performing child who tires of him and decides to put him back in his place. At the moment they’re being very nice and telling him how clever he is when he gets things right (it’s a novelty for them to see him doing so well and they’re genuinely pleased for him), but I can see it wearing a bit thin with some of the brighter boys. Oh well, it’ll be one of life’s little lessons if that happens; celebrate your success by all means, just remember that no-one likes a smartarse.

Parents. I know I’ve just done a post about them but here’s more. I think I have it in for a lot of them at the moment because, to be honest, I’m ready for this group of them to fuck off up to the next key stage and leave me alone. Not that they’ve given me real grief, you read about teachers getting screamed at, physically assaulted etc, and none of that’s happened to me. This class though (the parents I mean, not the products of their soul-less acts of coitus) are a needy bunch, they really are. Fine, not all of them, that would be unbearable, but there’s a hard-core of, well…chavs really. I don’t want to become part of the whole bash-the-chav brigade, it’s one of the last ethnic groups (and the white underclass should fucking count as an ethnic group, every other cunt in the country does) that we can all give a good verbal kicking to with impunity. Oh, them and middle class white males; like me. But since people like me kind of sit at the top of the big steaming heap that is our society I couldn’t give a fuck. Anyway, that said, they are just a bunch of needy, immature, faintly useless chavs. There’s no other way of putting it. And they act accordingly. They’re the ones who are all the examples I’ve used for the ‘C’ answers in my survey. Every single one of which is depressingly true.

Oh, and I’ve not told you the half of it. The survey could have gone to dizzying heights of lunacy but since these are Child Protection Issues which are going on at this very moment I can’t write them here. Honestly, just because you can have babies, doesn’t necessarily mean you should.

Actually, this example isn’t of a chav, it’s about a ‘lady’ of African heritage (see, I remember to use the lingo). Her daughter, who’s lovely, came to me in tears a few weeks ago with a toothache. I looked at the tooth and it was fucking rotten. You must be able to notice that sort of shit if you’re a parent. It must’ve been going off for ages. I asked if she’d told her mum and she replied that yes, she had. Apparently she was ‘going to make an appointment at the dentist’. Fine. Do it sooner next time you negligent bag. Anyway, the next day the kid was fine and I confess, as other events took over the incident with the tooth left my head. She must’ve been to the dentist. Today she came up to me again, this time her ‘teeth’ (that’s plural, kids) were hurting. I asked her if her mum had taken her to the dentist in the end. ‘No, she keeps forgetting’. How? What? I mean…huh?! Anyway, asked the girl to open her mouth so I could have another look. The left side of the gum on her lower jaw has gone black. Black! What the motherfucking Christ is going on? At what point do you fucking give in and take your fucking daughter to the fucking dentist? Bitch didn’t turn up to get her so the girl went to after school club. Head has been informed, incident form filled in, drew on one of those diagrams of a child’s body with close up of face to show where the damage is…so there you go, an officially logged case of neglect. Will grab her in the morning tomorrow and let her know I expect her to take her daughter out of lessons tomorrow to go to the dentist, will drop in helpful phrases like “otherwise I’ll have to get the school nurse in” (they don’t like that, it smacks of them failing, duh, and usually gets some sort of result), “I spoke to the Head Teacher” and “I have had to record this I’m afraid, and it’s in her permanent file.” I tend not to stick my oar into people’s family lives but for fuck’s sake, if the sullen faced bitch can’t sort out her daughter’s pain because she can’t be arsed she would, in my opinion, require a visit to the dentist herself after I’d told her twice. Whore.

A mum came up to me as I opened up (the classroom, not myself) this morning and had a whinge about her daughter’s reading book. This one always does it with an audience, she really should stop because she doesn’t have a lot of success. The girl can read very well, that is certainly true. And yes, to the untrained eye you’d think that the Biff and Chip reader she has is a bit easy for her. (Biff and Chip are a modern day Peter and Jane; good books they are, too) The thing is, you don’t just have your child read the thing through once. You get them to change the end of the story, go through it and identify which words share a phoneme, recognise patterns, spot the adjectives, find the nouns, understand why one word starts with a fucking capital letter and some bastard doesn’t. You get the idea. It’s not just about reading parrot-fashion, it’s about understanding the language, and improving their literacy, which round here is a pretty urgent priority. They’ve all been told this but numb-nuts doesn’t get it and her daughter, to her, isn’t just bright (which she is), but is the female reincarnation of Albert fucking Einstein.

“It’s too easy for ‘er.”

“Actually, it’s the appropriate book for her level. Are you doing all the other things I asked you to do with the book?”

“Yeah.”

“Changing the ending, finding the nouns, you know the sort of thing.”

“Er. Yeah.” (bollocks you are)

“She really has to stick with it for now, when she completes the series we’ll move it up.”

“But at ‘ome she reads, like, Enid Blyton!”

“Yes but does she understand it?” (see, losing my patience)

….

“I mean, it’s all very well her reading Enid Blyton but if she doesn’t really understand it, it’s not really doing her any good is it.”

(getting quiet) “I fink she understands it anyway.” (looks sulky. Her mates give up watching and start chatting to each other)

“Well that’s great, super! She really is a very good reader. But for now let’s stick with Biff and Chip as her reader, eh?”

“Y’ok” (miffed)

Fucking hell woman, we’ve had this fucking conversation every fucking term. She’s just got to leave it. Her daughter is a damn sight brighter than she is, methinks. She’s also one of the mum’s who constantly complains about ‘losing jumpers’. I don’t really care, jumpers aren’t my main priority, but I’ve moaned about that before.

Talking of jumpers, here’s a parental gem from the school my girlfriend works at. One of the mums approached her last week complaining of her six year old losing her jumper for the umpteenth time. My girlfriend asked her if the jumper had the little girl’s name in it. The reply just about sums some of ‘em up;

“Nah, but everyone else’s does dunnit so ‘ers is the jumper wivaht the name in it, innit.”

Fucking genius.

Sir,

I have been trying to buy a waistcoat. I think they look teacherly. In my advancing years I no longer feel comfortable wearing a shirt tucked into my trouser as I have a fine and manly paunch, and I don’t wear a jacket and tie because the little buggers could swing on it and finish me off.

I can’t find waistcoats in any high street shops and the charity shops don’t have any either, and they smell, frankly, of piss. Please give me some leads, all I want is a simple, buff waistcoat.

I know you’re the chap to help me here.

I strive to be, and remain as always

Yours &c &c

Mr Chipz

Are you a suitable candidate to send your child to Chipz Primary? Answer the questions below, keep a note of your answers and read on to find out if you are…

It’s the school nativity play. Your child has a small part but has learnt her line carefully and is beside herself with pride. (she’s never been in a play before!) Do you;

• a) Send your nanny to watch, you have a meeting tonight.
• b) Sit nervously waiting for her to come on, and then feel a rush of happiness as she delivers her line and blushes as she gets a round of applause.
• c) Sit talking loudly to your friend throughout, pausing only to answer your phone. Twice.

It’s sports day. You’ve taken up position to watch the 50m sprint for the six year olds. Your child goes like a rocket and from where you’re standing it’s hard to tell whether he won or another little child in his class. The teacher on the finishing line awards second place to your child, do you;

• a) Congratulate her when she manages to find you. You were busy telling the Head Teacher that education would be so much better if classes were streamed by ability and didn’t see the race.
• b) Give your disappointed child a big squeeze and tell her how proud you are of her. Tell her you never knew she could run THAT fast, and promise to buy her a celebratory ice-cream after school.
• c) Storm up to the teacher who called the result and loudly tell him that you have video evidence that your child actually came first. Then spend the rest of sports day loudly telling anyone who’ll listen that ‘this school’s a fuckin’ joke’ when the teacher tells you that they’re not remotely interested in seeing the evidence.

You have a disagreement with another mother which started some time ago over a minor issue unrelated to school. Do you;

• a) Shrug it off. The bloody woman’s common as muck anyway and you wouldn’t lower yourself to the level of actually letting her know she’s got under your skin.
• b) Cringe inside when you see her in the playground but understand that this is a place for children, and that as an adult it’s best just to ignore her and try not to let her intimidate you.
• c) Decide she gave you a dirty look as you stand in the playground full of small children, make sure your buggies clip each other on the way out of the gate and then launch a sovereign-ringed attack screaming ‘you fuckin’ bitch’ at the top of your lungs, sending children and terrified Polish mothers flying in all directions.

Your child’s attendance and punctuality is terrible, mainly because you feel lethargic in the mornings and can’t quite motivate yourself to get out of bed. The Educational Welfare Officer has threatened you with a fine and the child’s teacher has brought you in to tell you in no uncertain terms that your (very bright) child is in real danger of falling behind with serious implications. Do you;

• a) Pay the fine, it’s pocket money. Besides, you’ve been looking for a new school anyway and what with the one-to-one tutorials you’ve arranged for the summer you have no worries about your child’s education.
• b) Feel utterly embarrassed that everyone knows that you can’t get yourself organised and resolve to sort it out, setting your alarm earlier and ensuring that from this day on, your child will have the best attendance record in the school.
• c) Book a holiday at Butlins during SATs and take your child out of school for two weeks.

Your child has packed lunches. Do you pack:

• a) Organic brown bread with vegan sandwich spread, organic grapes, a bottle of mineral water and a pro-biotic yoghurt, insisting that he sits away from all other children as he has ‘allergies’.
• b) Pack a ham sandwich, an apple, a small chocolate biscuit and a carton of home-brand apple juice.
• c) Pack a jam doughnut, a packet of monster munch, two kit-kats, some mini-cheddars and a bottle of blue liquid.

Your child has fallen out with a another child in their class. Your child has told you some dreadful things that the other child has done and placed all the blame squarely at their feet. Your child has lied to get out of trouble before though, and it wouldn’t be the first time they’ve dished out abuse to another child…as all children do from time to time. The Head Teacher has called you for a meeting. Do you;

• a) Send your Slovakian nanny in with a letter stating that your child does not lie, and that if they do not receive an apology from the other child immediately, you will write a stern letter to the Head of Governors making a formal complaint about discipline at the school and the standard of education generally.
• b) Go in and face the Head. You’ll fight your child’s corner and want answers, this isn’t the first time it’s happened. However, if it turns out your child is the one at fault you’ll make damn sure she knows she’s not staying at any friends’ houses for the next month and that new PSP game can be confiscated as well.
• c) Storm into the Head’s office and play your masterstroke of referring to the other child a ‘little black cunt’, and then be bemused when the case is closed, you receive an official warning and get advised that your child’s behaviour is unacceptable.

You are unloading the shopping from the car outside your home when you see a small child sitting on his bike across the street. The child in question has been picking on your daughter recently, calling her silly names and the like. The school has told you that the child’s parents have been informed and he has been punished. Your daughter has told you that he has since stopped picking on her, and that they occasionally play together. Do you;

• a) Do nothing. You have no idea who he is. Surely he can’t live round here, I mean look at him…like a Dickensian waif. It’s a good job your daughter doesn’t have to share a classroom with a little urchin like that.
• b) Acknowledge him with a nod and a hello. He’s only six years old and children will do that sort of thing. Ask him to help you with the shopping, it will break the ice and will probably help your daughter and him gel as they have a lolly in your kitchen together.
• c) Storm over the road, call him a ‘little bastard’, tell him NEVER to go near your Chealsea-Lianne again and flob a big dollop of spit so it lands just by his foot. That’ll teach the little cunt.

Your child has been excluded from several schools in the borough for bullying. He has recently started at another school, but you have already been called in by the Head as it seems he has started to pick on a disabled child and occasionally punches the girls. Do you;

• a) Make it absolutely clear that the school has failed your child, just like the previous three did. Your child has a condition which means he is highly intelligent but also highly strung. You will withdraw your child from this failure of a school, and, though it goes against your principles, will send him to a private school that is able to cope with a child who needs freedom to grow, without being harassed by these ghastly children and inept teachers who wind him up.
• b) Burst into tears in the Head’s office. You’re at your wit’s end and can’t understand why he’s behaving like this. Beg for your child to have one more chance, but prepare yourself for the worst. Resolve to have him sent to counselling for his issues with anger, and cooperate with the staff to ensure his behaviour improves.
• c) Accuse the Head, your child’s teacher, and all adults at the school (along with the children he’s beaten up) of racism. Make it very clear that all children behave like this yet it is only your child that gets this level of punishment. Point to years of oppression by the White Man as a cause for his justified behaviour.

Right, how did you get on?

Mostly As: Oh dear, oh dear. I am afraid that you are not in the least bit suitable to send your child to Chipz Primary. Your child is being held back by sub-standard teaching and low ability children. You could stump up the cash (of which you have enough) to send your child to a private school where class sizes are small and you are treated with the respect a customer deserves. However, this goes against your principles as a conscientious Guardian type, so you’ll have to find a primary school that meets your high standards, and then buy a house that backs onto the school grounds. As you couldn’t be nearer to the school’s catchment area they’ll have to take your child. Encourage your friends from your tennis club to do the same. It may deprive some local children from the nearby council estate of a decent education but let’s be honest, it’s a dog eat dog world out there.

Mostly Bs: The staff at Chipz Primary would love to talk to you. Let’s be honest, you’d manage alright as a parent at this school however you must accept that you will make few friends and never truly be invited into the fold. You would be a valuable member of the PTA but you would probably just be marginalised by the other mums and made to feel like an outsider. Your child will make lots of friends but you may start to feel uncomfortable when they start to pick up strange manners of speech, and you will tie yourself in knots every time you let them stay at a friend’s house. You are caught in a terrible dilemma of wanting your child to have friends but not wanting them to come back home on Sundays with nits, smelling of smoke and a temporary case of Tourette’s syndrome. My best advice is you look at a few other schools before deciding on this one.

Mostly Cs: Welcome aboard! Your unshakable principles and fearless approach to self-righteous indignation make you a perfect candidate for Chipz Primary. You will have friends and enemies in abundance and can feel free to resolve all your squabbles in the playground. I must warn you that there are a fair few of them Poles, and there’s them Asians as well. Who smell of curry and foreign food. But still, they’re alright if they keep themselves to themselves and that. You’re an ideal candidate for Parent Governor, and can spend three hours at each Governors’ meeting talking about your child and slagging off members of staff and other parents. Feel free to decline the request to purchase school uniform for your child, and we’ll look forward to seeing you when you decide to make an appearance.

Reports are now finished. I managed a degree of honesty throughout and some mums and dads (dads optional) will be a little aghast to be told that if their sons came to school more they would not be among the bottom achievers in the class. It’s true. Makes me sick…the children aren’t kept at home because they want to be, it’s because their Trisha watching mothers can’t stand being parted from them. Get a fucking grip.

I have to go to an all-girls’ high school tomorrow. I think I’m just meeting other teachers so won’t run the risk of having to face up to a class of urban she-wolves…however I’m preparing myself for bedlam, I know that primary schools are oasis of calm compared to any secondary. Even a ‘nice’ one. Either way, I will probably feel happy that I’m a primary teacher instead of a teacher in a single sex secondary school for young ladies. Did I say ladies? I’ll take that back. Seen the ladies in question out and about, some of them look like fucking nightmares.

With four and a half weeks to go the end of the academic year is in sight. There are little tell-tale signs that July is approaching and the school year is done:

• 1. It’s grey and blowing a fucking gale.
• 2. The summer fair is being planned. Teachers have been asked to bring in a photo of themselves as a child for a really FUN game.
• 3. People are beginning to talk about sports day. Oh god.
• 4. The deadline for reports has passed and half the teachers are still writing them.
• 5. Tests are being done and results collated.
• 6. Tests are being redone in the desperate hope that some muppet was just switched off and might actually get a grade appropriate for their age.
• 7. Children are coming in to school in the pouring rain wearing sun hats and smothered in sun block just in case they get burnt.

I have to go now…I have to speak to a parent. Sigh.

Christ, is it really that long since I’ve posted? Well I’ve been busy. Sort of. My student’s back for a three week stint and as a result I’ve done no teaching. None, not one bit. She’s got one week left which is probably a good thing as I’d forget how to do it if she stayed any longer. She’s that good.

So I’ve been doing clerical work, which is what I got into teaching to try and avoid. I’ve been sorting out art type things, and above all writing reports. Actually it’s about half nine on a Sunday and I’m sitting down to write more of the bastard things. I’d love to post a few up so you can see just what a miserable task this is but I really can’t risk it. Take my word for it though, it’s a bastard. Talk about an exercise in diplomacy. We’re not really supposed to go into the land of ‘could do better’ so there’s a whole new range of teacher-speak bollocks that parents must try and decipher. In keeping with modern business we’re not really allowed to give a bad reference you see. Here’s a few phrases that I use in my reports that might be familiar if you’re a parent. I’ve put the translation along with them;

I have enjoyed teaching your child:    The teacher means it, treasure this statement.

When focussed…                                Your child is a disruptive bastard.

A strong minded child…                     Spoilt bastard.

Can be sensitive…                              Your child is wet.

Always has something interesting to say:       Talks utter bollocks.

Finds concentrating difficult:              Thick.

Prefers to work alone:                                    Lacks social skills, unable to collaborate at all.

Must try to remember…                     Never fucking learns at all.

Must try to control his temper:           Fucking psycho. Your son will end up a statistic.

There are many, many more. I’m lucky in that there are a lot of children who don’t need any subtle phrasing. They’re just nice kids. In fact, you don’t want to rave about them too much in case you look like a weirdo.

I’d best start writing, I will endeavour to write more from now on.

Oh, we had a very important directive last week during our staff meeting. Word has come down that from now on children with parents of differing ethnicity are no longer ‘mixed race’. I repeat; they are no longer ‘mixed race’. They are (drum roll please)… ‘children of black, or African heritage’. Unless of course they’re white mixed with Chinese in which case they are ‘children of Chinese heritage’. Which begs the question, if the same child was in China, would they be seen as a ‘child of European heritage’? We are looking for clarification though because the teaching staff are now split. I got the impression that while ex-mixed race children are now ‘children of black heritage’, ‘black children’ are still ‘black children’. However some colleagues got the impression that even the totally black kids are now children of black heritage. This came up because someone important in the borough has children (she’s white) with a man of black heritage. As a result the children are, essentially, white. However she wants them labelled as children of black heritage. Fine by me, call ‘em what you fucking want, Love. However, sounds like they’ve got more white heritage. Or perhaps the heritage bit goes to the minority group. It’s getting confusing. Don’t worry though, I’m not being all Daily Mail and spluttering about this, words are words and I’ll call anyone whatever it is they like to be called. I couldn’t give a flying fuck if someone’s got ‘heritage’ or they’re just plain ‘black’. I got the impression though from this dictat that came down that ‘black’ is falling out of favour too…we may be going the way of America and going for ‘African heritage’ instead, on the basis that people aren’t actually black. Fair enough. Can I still call myself white though? It’s less confusing. I’m reluctant to be labelled as a ‘person of duel Welsh and Scottish heritage’, it’s fucking long-winded and a bit misleading as I speak like a southern Englishman.

Anyway cutting-edge-of-modern-education fans, I’ll let you know ASAP what the ruling is on this one so you can work out what your new ethnicity is. This is the thing about teaching in a large metropolis, we’re at the fucking sharp end of modernity, us.

Right, reports. Sigh.

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.

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*

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.