The Dark Lord Badman's Guide to Home Education

BYE BYE BADDERS!

2010-05-17T10:34:00.000-07:00

POSTED BY THE BLOG AUTHOR:

One doesn't like to crow, but really who hasn't cheered and whooped with delight that Balls and Badders Education Bill has been filed carefully away in a Westminster Wheelie Bin!

I strongly suspect Balls will shortly drop any and all involvement with education quicker than you can say, "Who ate all the pies!"

It was a means to an end. Something along the lines of "Look how tough I can be to drive policy through. Wouldn't I make an ideal choice for Labour leader...."

And you know what? I think he'll be an EXCELLENT choice for Labour leader. That should set the capstone on any chance whatsoever of a Labour victory for the foreseeable future and protect the rights of home edders for a very long time. In other words, I would think Balls was totally unelectable as Prime Minister!

How popular is he at Westminster? Well, my sources tell me that he was half choking on a large mouthfull of cake a little while ago and MPs of all parties were queueing up around the block to whack him on the back.... some of them brought clubs....

And as for Badders? I still bear the man no personal animosity whatsoever. I've poked fun, but I don't think I've ever been malicious. I just think its time he faced facts. Your educational beliefs belong to a previous era, Graham. I think it's pipe and slippers time, I honestly do.

So - to my readers and followers, many thanks for your very kind comments. I hope first and foremost that I made you smile and for those with a vested political interest (you know who you are), I hope I made you think.

So now its goodbye from me.... and thank God, its goodbye from them!

THE CHRISTMAS CONFESSION

2009-12-19T11:59:00.000-08:00

You may have noticed that I’ve been keeping a low profile for quite a while. In fact it had been my avowed intention that this blog was ended. However, it’s Christmas and I thought one last foray into cyberspace was called for as the New Year’s Honours List approaches, bringing with it (as it surely must) recognition for my status as the country’s foremost expert on home education.

I wasn’t ever what you might call a fan of Christmas, it encourages unruly behaviour in my opinion and two weeks off from school is a ridiculous amount of time for children to be away from the classroom. When my own offspring were growing up, I suppose there was a bit of purpose to it. I can still remember the look on my daughter’s face when she unwrapped the slide rule and calculus tables I had bought for her…

Yesterday I was on my way back to the car from a rather frustrating Christmas shopping trip when I was assailed by a familiar voice.

“Xmas Shoe! Get your Xmas Shoe!”

My old nemesis was waving the Christmas edition of the Big Issue at me dressed in a Santa hat.

“Get your Xmas…. Oh…. it’s you!”

“Yes it is. And the word is Christmas – not Xmas. I do so hate that!”

She grinned mischievously at me revealing all three of her teeth.

“All right, your Lordship.”

I was instantly concerned. Surely this old harridan hasn’t seen a copy of the Honours List ahead of me?

“It is the festive season. Goodwill to all men and all that. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones,” she caroled. “Christmas Shoe, get your Christmas Shoe…. That better?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but decided it wasn’t worth it. Instead I pulled a £5 note from my wallet and exchanged it for a copy of the magazine. She fumbled in her pocket, but I shook my head.

“No…. keep the change. As you said, it is the festive season after all.”

There was a wicked glint in her eye as she extracted the most appallingly battered piece of mistletoe imaginable and held it aloft.

“Well in that case, you can have a little kiss instead,” she trilled, puckering up and closing her eyes.

While her eyes were still shut I fled.

I arrived home just as Old Mrs Mort returned from her assertiveness class. This is a worrying new trend, especially as much of her homework seems misdirected at me. Her tutor always gives her a lift back from the community hall and was escorting her up the drive as I locked my car.

“You!” yelled old Mrs Mort at the top of her lungs.

I winced, but felt compelled to turn and face her. “Yes? Can I help you…?”

“Yes. You, Badders, I have something to say to you!”

Oh Lord! Whatever now? Why must she shout? People were peering through windows at me as the tutor egged her on.

“Merry bloody Christmas..!” she hissed vehemently.

The tutor beamed. “Very good, Lucy, but perhaps a little too forceful. Try it without the swearing next time.”

Old Mrs Mort crossed her arms and glared at me for a moment before flouncing off towards her front door.

“What’s the matter with you?” my wife enquired as I walked into the kitchen.

“Old Mrs Mort just wished me a Merry Christmas…”

“That’s nice.”

“It felt like being threatened!”

“Don’t be silly. I think it’s wonderful the way she’s coming out of her shell these days.”

I’m not convinced. Of course I blame Smith. These home edders have a nasty way of winding up public opinion – especially against me. Did you see the MPs handing in those petitions the other week? They practically spat out the name “Bad-Man” when they made their proclamations.

“Never mind all that. I can’t seem to find the right present for you this year.”

“Smellies will do,” she said without lifting her head from her economic science activity.

“I’d intended to get you a new ironing board. A high tech version I heard some children discussing the other day. They said it was small and very desirable.”

“Did they?” she looked up amazed.

“Well, in that awful modern vernacular they use. You know the kind of thing they say. They don’t describe anything as ‘good’. They don’t even use words like ‘cool’ or ‘rad’ anymore. Things they think are good are called ‘fit’. They don’t use words like small either, they say ‘cute’ or ‘twee’.”

My wife put down her spoon for a moment and looked at me thoughtfully.

“Badders, what exactly did you hear them say?”

“I can’t remember the full conversation only that they kept on about this ‘twee, fit board’. They were very impressed because they also described it as ‘twee, fit-plus’! I went and asked about it in the kitchenware section of the Co-op.”

My wife’s shoulders appeared to be shaking. “You asked about a Wii Fit Plus in the Co-op?...”

“Yes. You know I think the lad in there must have some kind of educational disability. He tried to sell me some games console or other.”

“Probably home educated,” she laughed.

“No, he wasn’t, I asked. Very odd…”

I was alone that evening as my wife was helping the Rev. Thomas rehearse the children for the church nativity. I had offered my services, but it seems the Rev. Thomas declined. Apparently they will be using a live lamb and for some reason he didn’t want me anywhere near it. I told him I thought it was high time that whole guinea pig business was dead and buried for good, but he went a funny shade of puce and told me that it was – under the vicarage apple tree.

There was a ring at the doorbell and I hurried to answer it. Outside in the porch were two spotty youths. One was sporting a Santa hat and the other wore some kind of hairband with antlers sprouting out of it. As I opened the door they launched into the most tuneless rendition of a carol I have ever heard.

“Good King Pencil’s lass chucks out,
On the feast of Steven,
When there’s no clay roundabout,
Deep and crispy seasoned.”

A collecting tin was rattled in my face and apart from a loud sniff the youngsters stood in sullen silence.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Carol singing, innit,” the taller lad muttered. He rattled the tin at me again.

“Is it? I hardly think one mangled verse qualifies it as that. Sing another one.”

The two lads looked at each other in horror.

“No, we just sing that one…” the tall one said

“..And then people gives us money..” the second lad finished.

“To go away, presumably!” I stated. “No, that’s not good enough. Sing another one. Go on…”

The two lads looked at each other in confusion before one of them launched half-heartedly into There Is a Green Hill Far Away.

“Stop! That’s not a Christmas carol. It’s sung at Easter.”

The tall lad shrugged. “Same fing…”

“No it most certainly is not! Christ was born at Christmas and he died at Easter.”

“Cor… he din’t live very long did ‘e… How’d he do all them things he done in three months?”

The other lad turned on him, “You ignorant pillock.” He turned apologetically back to me. “Ignore him, he’s fick.”

“Go on then. You tell him why he’s got it wrong,” I instructed.

The smaller lad drew a deep breath and said smugly, “Cos he was a magician, wasn’t he. He dun magic, like that bloke on the telly.”

“What, Merlin? Wicked!”

I shook my head slowly. I didn’t want to ask the obvious question, but it has become second nature these days.

“Are you by any chance, home educated?”

“Home what? Wassat about then?”

“Elective home education is when your parents de-register you from school and undertake your education themselves.”

Both lads became extremely animated.

“WHAT!!! Why didn’t I know about this? And that’s legal is it?”

“Well… actually I…”

“And you say you don’t have to go to school? Sweet!”

“No but you see…”

“Cor, wait till I tell Darren…and Stew… they’ll go mental, man!”

“Yes but you have to understand…”

“Oh wait, wait, what about Sophie! Oh we got to tell Sophie, she’ll love this!”

I felt I was losing control of the conversation somewhat. “And Sophie is…. Someone’s mother?”

They both laughed. “Oh not ‘alf! Ben’s mother.”

“And Ben doesn’t like school I take it?”

“Nah, mate. Ben don’t go to school, he’s too young innit.”

“Then I don’t understand. Why would his mother be interested in home education?”

“Cos she’s still at school, ain’t she. She ‘as to leave Ben with her old dear when she goes!”

I could feel a headache coming on.

“You got any leaflets, chief?”

“What?”

“Leaflets on this Selective Home Edu-whatsit. You got any?”

“Well….no…I…”

“Numbers then?

“Numbers?”

“Phone numbers… to ring… for info, you know?”

“Ummm, well, I have the phone numbers for a couple of people I could let you have…”

“Oh sweet!”

“…and the Smith family next door are home educators. They could probably give you lots of information…”

“Really? Blindin’… come on Chris lets go round. Cheers mate!”

“Yes but what I really…”

“You done your good deed for the day, chief. Thanks to you there’ll be several happy kids come the New Year.”

“But… wait… didn’t you want some money…” I called weakly.

“Eh? Oh… nah don’t worry about that – the info you’ve given us is worth more than a couple of coins. ‘Appy Christmas!”

I watched them walk up the drive and turn into the Smith’s garden. Moments later I could hear the excited babble of their voices as Mrs Smith invited them in. I sighed a breath that seemed to draw every last ounce of my energy and closed the door. A sound from the lounge reached me and I scratched my head. Glancing at my watch I could see it was still too early for my wife to have returned. That left only one possibility. Autonomous Ed! I’ve hardly seen the ungrateful, tom cat for weeks. He seems to divide his time between Miranda Smith next door and Old Mrs Mort, but he still sneaks back into the house when he thinks I’m not around. Snatching my umbrella from the hall stand I rushed into the lounge brandishing it and snarling.

“I’ve got you now you fat, ginger traitor!”

I was greeted by the sight of Ed Balls sitting in my favourite armchair and tucking into a mince pie. He looked greatly affronted and put a hand up to his hair.

“I wouldn’t say I was ginger!” he mumbled through a mouthful of pastry. “Perhaps a touch of strawberry blonde, I’ll grant you…”

“How did you get here?”

“Hmm? Oh, through the kitchen. I could see you were busy with a couple of lads at the front door so I sort of … sneaked in the back way. I try to avoid kids if I can. I didn’t think you’d mind. Then there were these mince pies on the table and I thought I’d just try one… or two… they’re very good.”

I dropped onto the sofa opposite and released my grip on the umbrella. “And why are you here?” I asked wearily. I perked up as a sudden thought occurred to me. “Is it to do with my knighthood?”

Ed Balls tapped his nose conspiratorially and hissed a “Shhhhhh” that sprayed pastry crumbs all over the carpet.

“Well if it’s not that, then what?”

He looked offended again as he patted his pockets, coming up with another mince pie. “These really are very good. I’ll bet your wife does scrumptious sausage rolls too. I suppose there aren’t any of those in the kitchen?” he asked hopefully. I just stared at him and after a moment he put the pie down on his knee and brushed the crumbs from his fingers.

“I only popped around to wish you a Merry Christmas and to thank you for all you’ve done. I don’t know if we’ll get all the proposals through in time, to be honest. I’m quite surprised at the level of campaign these home edders have put up in opposition. God help us if they ever form their own political party. Still looking on the bright side, at least the select committee gave us a rubber stamp whilst presenting the home ed loonies with the illusion of democracy. Oh and I wanted to show you this…”

He ferreted around in an inside pocket and produced a badly folded piece of paper which he handed to me. When I unfurled it I found myself looking at a very professional graphic design for a marketing campaign. Two happy children in uniform were giving a thumbs up, whist written on a blackboard behind them were the words ‘EDUCATION = sChOOL’

“What do you think? ‘Education is cool’ get it? We promote school as being cool. The kids will love it. Can you understand how it works? The word ‘cool’ is within the word ‘school’. Clever, isn’t it?”

“Mmmmm,” I grimaced.

“See the ‘s’ and the ‘h’ are in lower case….”

“Yes I do understand, it doesn’t require a degree in quantum mechanics!”

“…so that the letters in capitals say ‘COOL’.”

“Yes, yes yes. I said I understand.”

“Yes, but do you really get it? I’m trying to say that school is cool.”

“Oh for crying out loud!” I thrust the paper back at him. He smoothed out the creases on his knee and grinned at the image in delight. Pie crumbs were wedged between his teeth.

“What home-edder wouldn’t want to be back in school if it’s the cool place to be? I know how kids minds work see. It’s probably harder for you to understand because you are so much older. I still speak their language. It’s all about being down with the youth. Wait till these posters start going up in April.” He tapped his temple. “Psychology, Badders.”

“Actually, I don’t believe youngsters particularly use the word ‘cool’ anymore. I believe they use the word ‘fit’.”

A little frown creased Ed Balls brow. “Well that’s stupid. Anyway it doesn’t work. ‘EDUCATION = schFIT’…. No, that’s rubbish, Badders. You obviously don’t know anything about marketing.”

I ran a weary hand over my goatee. I was developing that dull ache in my soul that seems to be a feature of my dealings with Ed Balls.

“Perhaps you won’t need the campaign,” I offered. “Not with my recommendations going forward.”

He took a fresh bite of pie and sprayed lumps of it as he continued, “I’m worried that we’re going to be beaten by the clock ultimately. Only so much we can achieve this side of the election.”

“But you could be re-elected.”

He went into a choking fit so severe that I had to beat him vigorously between the shoulder blades. He peered up at me through streaming eyes. “Good Lord, Badders, you could have killed me!”

I sat back down as he dabbed his eyes with a silk handkerchief that had ‘Balls’ embroidered on it.

“Actually,” he lowered his voice. “There was another little reason I popped round. As you know the papers have had a field day with all this expenses nonsense. Now it seems one of them has got a hold of my telephone bill and has been going through it with a fine tooth comb.”

I was really puzzled now. Telephone bill? What did that have to do with me?

“They may well be wondering why I was phoning a certain number so regularly back in the summer…. To be precise…. phoning your number…”

“My number?” I asked. “But you only called once as I remember.”

“Officially, yes… but… unofficially…”

“I honestly don’t understand what you are….”

“Could I speak to Mr Bedpan, please?...” Ed Balls droned in a high squeaky voice. “Or how about telling Mr Batman his dinner dinner dinner is ready…”

As the penny dropped I felt my eyes widen in astonishment. “It was you? All those crank calls, they were all you?”

Ed Balls looked so shame-faced he almost stopped eating. “Sorry,” he shrugged.

“Sorry? You’re sorry? Have you any idea how rude I was to the Rev. Thomas?”

“Ah… that wasn’t me.” He waved a finger.

“Well I know that now, don’t I? It’s a bit late now! Why on earth did you do it?”

“Bit of fun?....”

“No – there’s more to it than that. OK, let’s have it. Come on!” I demanded.

“Well there were all these freedom of information requests being made about you…. And we wanted to block them, you see… and we couldn’t think of a good enough reason, you understand and then….”

“Go on!”

“And then someone, I forget who… it might have been me… anyway, someone suggested that if we could claim that you felt vilified and harassed then we could blame the home edders and… and…this really is good pastry, are you sure there are no sausage rolls?”

***

“It’s nearly Christmas,” my wife informed me a few days later. “If you want to send anything to anyone not on my list you’ll need to do it today.”

“I thought we could send something to Ed Balls,” I said flatly.

She favoured me with a narrowed expression. “Huh, after the other night? A whole batch of mince pies he ate, you know that, don’t you. A whole batch. I had to bake more!”

“Yes, I was thinking we could send him a pie. He loved your pastry.”

“A pie?!? Well, I suppose so… what do you want me to put in it, I haven’t got much mincemeat left.”

“No, I’ll sort out the filling.” I said, standing up and going to fetch my coat.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m just popping round to the vicarage. There’s something in the Rev. Thomas’ garden that would be perfect. Where’s the shovel?”

CHRISTMAS SPECIAL... COMING SOON

2009-12-12T10:32:00.000-08:00

CONSEQUENCES AND CONCLUSION (PART TWO)

2009-10-24T06:11:00.000-07:00

“No… that’s impossible…! How can that be?”

The spectre groaned and rubbed its knee. It glared up at me, bald head beaded with perspiration and goatee beard bristling with indignation.

“Well help me up then!” it said in my voice, extending its hand to be hauled up.

I did so in incredulous silence. Finally finding my voice I angrily said, “You’re me! I mean you’re me as I am now! How can that be?”

“I’m not quite you as you are now,” the spectre responded, regaining its composure. It tapped its chest self importantly. “I’m a Lord!” to my chagrin the other me grinned smugly at myself.

“Explain!”

“I’m you after the New Years Honours List. Sir Graham Badman CBE. Awarded for services to education.”

“Then why all this…. Christmas Carol stuff?”

“I’m your subconscious! I’m the doubts you have deep down that home education has a valid place in modern society. I’m the devil whispering in your ear, Badders!”

“Don’t call me Badders!”

“Look, just hear me out. Let me finish what I’ve started and meet the Ghost of Education Future. See the ultimate outcome of punitive restriction. Look….”

Suddenly the spectre that was me had vanished and someone else appeared from the murky atmosphere. A pleasant woman in her early thirties approached me. There was something familiar about her smile as she clasped her hands together in delight.

I thrust my chin forward. “Do I know you, young lady?”

“Dark Lord Badman!” she breathed excitedly. “After all these years…”

“M…Miranda Smith? Is that you?”

She nodded happily.

As the mists began to clear, I found we were standing beside a high chain-link fence. Reaching up over ten feet, its top was marked out with razor wire and there was a buzz from a low level electric current passing through it. I jumped back in alarm.

“Good God, what’s this? Are we at Parkhurst?”

“No – the local comprehensive,” Miranda corrected me.

“My goodness! Has society become so dangerous that we have to protect schoolchildren to this extent? Is that what it takes to keep out the drug dealers and gang members?”

Miranda looked at me with an odd expression. “No, it’s what it takes to keep the kids in!”

“I don’t understand. This is only one step removed from guard towers with searchlights around the perimeter,” I gave an embarrassed laugh that died in my throat when Miranda said,

“They’re trying that in Manchester first. They anticipate rolling it out across the rest of the country within 12 months.”

I began to walk around the fence, Miranda trailing me. At the entrance to the school a formidable gate led to an area of scanners and x-ray devices. A large uniformed man stared out from under the brim of his cap. He carried a riot stick which he tapped against his leg.

“School security,” Miranda explained. “Come on, Dark Lord Badman, let’s eavesdrop on lessons.”

When I turned to reply, I found we were no longer outside, but within a classroom. The walls bristled with CCTV cameras monitoring every move that was made.

Youngsters of 14 years old were grouped around tables covered in graffiti while a frantic middle aged woman tried to maintain control. I did a quick head count and was alarmed to note that there were more than 40 children.

“Why are there so many in this class?”

Miranda shrugged. “A government report in 2015 stated that 42 was a perfectly acceptable number for class size. Of course it was just one effect of home-ed being outlawed. You can’t suddenly put twenty to forty thousand children back into state education and expect the infrastructure to be there to cope. Since then you have to allow for all the additional children who would also have been home educated, but were now denied the opportunity.”

“The teacher’s desk looks very hi-tech. What do all those buttons do?”

Miranda didn’t answer me but pointed to one youngster’s leg. “What do you think of the ankle bracelets?”

“Yes I noticed that. They’re all wearing them. Some trend is it? Like those silly friendship bracelets, I imagine.”

Miranda shook her head. “Tagging!” She exclaimed.

“What!?!”

“All the kids are tagged. Not just at this school, but all schools. They have to wear the tag so that the local authority can make sure they are correctly contained during school hours. The hours were extended, by the way. School now start at 8.30am and finishes at 5.30pm. The school day was manipulated to achieve government targets ensuring all parents are in full-time employment. School holidays were adjusted in the same way. Oh…and school age begins at 3 years old. The leaving age was extended too. It is now 20 with pupils strongly encouraged to then go on to further education. It’s very clever really. On paper it makes it look as if the government has dramatically reduced the unemployment figures and they’re paying out much less in benefits.”

“Sit down!” the teacher shouted for the fifth time. “Now!”

“Remember CRB testing?” Miranda asked me. “Now the authorities store DNA of everyone who comes into contact with children.”

“SIT DOWN!” the teacher shouted again. Her fingers hovered over the buttons on her desk. “Right! I warned you!” Her hands played over the console like a concert pianist. There were buzzing noises everywhere and various children jerked like broken puppets. I turned uncomprehending eyes to Miranda who pointed once more at the ankle bracelets.

“Low level shock delivered through the tag. The authorities assure us that it doesn’t hurt at all.”

“But this is awful! How can anyone learn in this environment? This isn’t what I wanted at all.” A sudden thought occurred to me. “How am I remembered?”

“Remembered?”

“Yes – Statues, blue plaques, that kind of thing? Memorial somewhere…?”

“But…. But you’re not dead, Dark Lord Badman!”

“Oh… but I thought…. I must be very old then.”

Miranda looked at her watch then caught hold of my hand. “Come on. At this time of day you’ll be in the park. If we hurry we might just get there before you leave.”

Twenty minutes later we rounded the lower path that encircles the local pond and approached a stooped, wizened figure sitting on a bench with a bag of bread crusts. He threw a crust to the ducks every now and then and appeared to be muttering.

“You there! Sit up straight in the water! Have you laid your egg? Hmmm? Where is it? On my desk by the end of break, boy! You! Yes you, beaky, I’m talking to you! Your feathers are crooked! Listen to me – I am an expert you know!”

I stood over the pathetic little figure in shock. Eventually he turned rheumy eyes towards me without interest. His little goatee was decidedly sparse, but still distinguished.

“Why aren’t you in school?” he demanded. “Not one of those ridiculous home-ed brigade I hope?”

Miranda tapped the side of her head and smiled at me sadly.

“I stopped them!” the old me suddenly shouted. “I made them register, I got autonomous education outlawed. I had them working to targets and objectives. I brought in testing and regulation! Then we shut them down altogether. All back to school! I win! I’m in control! Me!”

I didn’t know what to say. I suddenly felt weak to the point that my legs might give way. I dropped heavily onto the bench beside myself in all senses of the phrase. The old me threw bread and muttered at the ducks again. After a while he paused. He slowly held out a crust and put it gently in my hand nodding at the ducks. He smiled encouragingly and mimed throwing.

I turned the crust over and over in my hands.

“Go on!” he said. “…Badders….”

“Badders!” laughed Miranda.

“Badders…..Badders! Badders! What’s all the noise outside.”

I jumped up off the sofa.

“They’re ducks! They’re only ducks!” I shouted.

“What? What did you say? Badders, are you all right?”

I shook my head and looked around wildly searching for Miranda and my older self. I saw only the familiar sitting room and ran a trembling hand over my fevered brow. My wife was looking at me with concern.

“I’m worried about you,” she said softly.

“I’m fine,” I shook off her arm in irritation. “What were you saying about noise outside?”

“It’s next door. It looks like they’re off on some sort of march or demo. Is it to do with this home-ed thing?”

“What? Oh they are, are they? Right!”

I stormed out of the house and strode menacingly to the fence separating my drive from Smith’s. There was a large group of people brandishing banners and placards on Smith’s front lawn.

“What’s all this, Smith?” I demanded.

Smith separated himself from the crowd and approached the fence. He was holding a banner that read; Hands off Home Ed.

“We’re off on a demonstration. These are all members from one of the home-ed groups the children attend.”

I grunted. My head was throbbing – I had jumped up too quickly from being asleep and still felt a little disoriented. “No-one is suggesting prison schools!”

“Pardon?”

“40 to a class. Shock treatment. Tagging.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, but I’ll tell you this. You won’t win, you know. Look at these people and their commitment but you can’t even understand why, can you? All of you in positions of so-called authority bring in these rules and regulations and just expect the rest of us to fall in with your dictate, because that’s what you’ve decided is in our own best interests. But you’ve overlooked something this time.
“You’re attacking our right to decide what is best for our children. In doing so you’re attacking not just parents, but our children too. We may all come from different backgrounds, cultures and religions – but there’s not one of us wouldn’t lay down our lives to protect our children. If you bring in your registration, we’ll resist. We’ll comply with your draconian regulations if we legally have to, but you’ll get no co-operation and nothing in the way of goodwill. If you force our kids back to school then collectively we’ll be the biggest thorn in the side of state education that you could possibly imagine.”

I shook my head at Smith incredulously.

“Smith, you all bleat on as if state education was the most harmful thing in society, when it’s you home edders who are the greatest danger! Children are SAFE in school, don’t you get it! We can see them. We can monitor them. We can protect them. They are SAFE!!!”

A figure was coming up behind Smith, peering intently at me with a steely expression. To my amazement I realised it was old Mrs Mort.

“Wha.... why is she here?”

“Who? Oh, Mrs Mort you mean? She asked if she could come.”

There was an unwelcome smugness in his voice as he continued. “Apparently she was bullied at school when she was a little girl. It took her years and years to come to terms with it. She was saying earlier that if only her parents could have had the courage and ability to home educate her she believes she would have grown up to be a different person.”

He smiled kindly at old Mrs Mort. Her wrinkled little face lit up and she beamed at him.

“Terrible isn’t it. To think that something that happened at school all those years ago can blight your entire life, destroy your self confidence and make you timid and nervous. It’s not right, Mr Badman, not right at all.”

Old Mrs Mort was wearing a T shirt which was odd in itself, but the slogan on it shook me rigid. I pointed a wavering finger at it.

“You…..you…..”

It was a white T shirt emblazoned with artwork from that blog on the internet. You know the one that always tries to make me look like some sort of idiot? The image was Batman with a goatee and carried the words; The Badman Report; Tough on Children – Tough on the causes of Children.

Old Mrs Mort looked down at it delightedly and then turned a glinting expression to me, meeting my eyes with determination.

I had lost the capacity for coherent speech. To my abject horror I felt my mouth forming into an all-too-familiar, wobbly O shape that I knew could ultimately crystalise into a long, drawn out scream.

Clasping my hand to my mouth I turned and fled back to the house.

In total amazement I heard a strident voice ring out behind me. It was the first time in living memory that I had ever heard old Mrs Mort utter a single word.

“I must say he moves surprisingly quickly for an expert with his foot in his mouth!”

CONSEQUENCES AND CONCLUSION (PART ONE)

2009-10-17T15:08:00.000-07:00

I glanced through the net curtain at Miranda Smith. She was peering across the driveway with an earnest expression from her side of the fence.

“Dark Lord Badman!” she called shrilly. “Are you coming out to play or not?”

I ducked back and paced up and down, gnawing on a knuckle. My wife smiled as she walked through the lounge.

“Ah! Sweet! Why don’t you go out and play, Badders?”

I glowered at her. “You know why! I want to keep a low profile for a bit.”

“That’s silly. It’s been two weeks now! Anyway you ran into Miranda when you were leaving for the Select Committee the other morning.”

I turned back to the window ruefully. “She asked me if I’d been CPR checked.”

“She meant CRB,” my wife laughed.

“No she didn’t. She said her daddy told her it was CPR in my case because I’m heartless! Damned guinea pig! Damned cat!”

My wife gave a snort before adding thoughtfully, “Have you been CRB checked, Badders?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I am an education expert! It’s these home edders who are under suspicion.”

She shrugged and went through to the kitchen. Miranda appeared to have given up and resumed her dolly’s tea party on the lawn. She seemed to be talking to a large fluffy doll I was unfamiliar with. I squinted at it for a second as she patted and stroked its ginger hair. Suddenly the penny dropped. It wasn’t a doll at all. It was Autonomous Ed! Traitor!

I grunted and moved over to the computer. I didn’t suppose Rev. Thomas would be coming over to look at it now. Maybe the spell checker problem had resolved itself. I sat down, opened a Word document and began to type a heading for a new report.

I had intended it to read;

EDUCATION REVIEW
Balls Upholds My Position Amid Parents Objections

The spellchecker had altered it to read;

EDUCATION REVIEW BALLS UP
Hold my Poison Acid Pants Suggestions

I angrily tossed the mouse aside and moved to the sofa. I sat there stiffly with my arms folded staring sullenly at the floor. I though about Smith and his family, home-edding over the fence and felt the corners of my mouth turn down. How could he be so convinced that he was right and I was wrong? I am an expert.

“An expert!” I muttered out loud, nodding vigorously to myself. I continued to stare at the floor deep in thought as I mulled over everything I believed in. I saw all my convictions swimming before my eyes in a maelstrom of events recalled from a lifetime in education.

“Who the Dickens are these home-edders anyway” I said, closing my eyes and allowing myself to drift down into my own subconscious. “Who the Dickens…”

I suddenly sat up with a start. The room was darker and colder. Had I fallen asleep? I glanced at my watch, but it appeared to be only five minutes since I had last looked. Why did I feel so odd? I was startled to see a swirling fog slowly enveloping the room. I called for my wife.

“Have you left something on the stove?”

The fog had grown so thick that I could no longer see across the room. Soon I could barely see my hand in front of my face. I became aware of a figure moving in the gloom.

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

A whispering voice answered me with a tut-tutting sound. “Graham Badman CBE. An expert in education.”

“Who’s there? What is all this?”

“A review.”

“Not another one, surely!” I gulped.

“A review of education past. A review of education present and a glimpse of education future!”

“That’s not only ridiculous, but a cliché,” I complained. The shadowy figure was starting to fade away but in its place stood a smaller apparition. A timid, weedy looking boy in short trousers was looking intently up at me.

“Let me guess. You are the Ghost of Education Past?”

The little boy nodded solemnly. “I’m you!”

“What! Good heavens!” As I examined the child more closely I recognised a face that I hadn’t seen in the mirror for a very long time. “Well stand up straight, boy! You’re wearing that uniform like an old sack! Straighten that tie for a start.”

I fussed over the eight year old version of myself, appalled at the smudge on my face. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and scrubbed at it.

“Ow!”

“Well stand still then! Oh this is no good. Stick your tongue out!”

The little me did so. I dabbed the handkerchief in the wet and then resumed scrubbing.

“Oh that’ll have to do! So, what exactly am I supposed to learn from meeting you?”

“We’re at school. It’s Monday, just after assembly.”

The fog quickly dissipated and I found we were in a classroom I barely remembered. The younger me sat down at a desk and I crammed my legs underneath to sit beside him. The teacher was walking up and down the rows of desks tossing exercise books onto them.

“Harris, well done! Gold star!... Jenkins, you should have included more detail.... Patterson…. Acceptable, Patterson.... Badman….” A book thudded onto the desk making the younger me jump. “Badman, I sometimes wonder if I’m wasting my breath. You have failed to grasp the subject, your spelling is atrocious and the only thing you know about grammar is that she married Grandpa! See me at the beginning of break.”

“What!” I exclaimed, appalled. “I don’t remember this!” I snatched up the exercise book and began thumbing through it.

“Good grief! This really is awful!” I glared at the younger version of myself, who muttered something. “What did you just say?”

“I said I don’t like school,” the younger me sulked.

“Yes you do! School is wonderful. Look at all the things you get to study!”

“Who cares? It’s boring.”

I reached over and clapped a hand over my younger mouth.

“Shhhh. Don’t ever say that!” I riffled through the pages of the book again. “What were you studying? Victorian trades? There are two ‘B’s in ‘cobblers’.”

“Maths,” boomed the teacher from the front of the class. “We will carry on with multiplication of fractions. Badman do try and keep up this time!”

The younger me swallowed audibly. “I can’t do this. I don’t understand it.”

“Well, tell the teacher.”

“I have. He says I’m being lazy. He goes at such a pace that I can’t follow.” A thought occurred to him. “You’re me grown up. Can you multiply fractions?”

“Hmmm? No, there’s no need to. Everyone works in decimal places…. Anyway I use a calculator.”

“What’s a calculator?”

“It doesn’t matter…. You need to pay attention to the teacher. Look what he’s doing on the blackboard. See, it’s quite simple he’s turned that one upside down.”

“Why?”

“Well… because that’s what you do… Look, I’ve had enough of this, where’s the Ghost of Education Present?”

“When I grow up I want to be a teacher,” the younger me declared.

“Excellent! And you will be!”

“Then I can change school completely!”

“No you will not! You love school!”

The younger me was welling up. A large tear spilled down his cheek and splashed onto the desk. We both became aware of the teacher’s shadow falling across the desk and looked up fearfully.

“Are you with us, Badman?” he barked. “In all the years I’ve been teaching I don’t think I’ve ever come across a more distracted child. Whatever I try and drum into you, it just doesn’t stick, does it? I can spout about a subject until I’m blue in the face, but you never seem to get it, do you? I can swamp you in a deluge of information about any given topic, but you completely fail to assimilate it. Tell me, Badman, what do you aspire to be when you leave school?”

“A…. a teacher….Sir…”

“Then heaven help the youngsters of tomorrow, Badman!”

Everything began to go grey, the voices becoming distant and the fog billowed up once more from nowhere. I thought I was alone until the whispery voice from before hissed in my face.

“It’s so easily forgotten, isn’t it? How we felt when we were children? As grown ups we make decisions about our children’s lives with the arrogance of adulthood. We never honestly put ourselves in their place and imagine what it feels like for them. Just because we endured something, doesn’t make it right to perpetuate the experience. It takes far more courage to stand up and try something different. It should be applauded, not treated with suspicion.”

The elusive spectre faded once more and a new figure was standing before me. This one was about 15 years old and dressed in a hoodie. The hood was pulled so far forward I could only see the mouth and chin. It slouched and shuffled toward me exuding an air of sullen menace.

“I’m the Ghost of Education Present, innit!”

The fog receded again and I discovered we were in a large modern classroom of over 30 children. A very harassed young woman was trying to maintain order amid noise and chaos. The young hoodie slumped into a chair and stuck his feet on a desk.

During the next hour and twenty minutes I watched the disaffected youth and several of his comrades totally fail to engage with the subject matter. At the end the teacher handed out a homework assignment requiring considerable research and organisation.

The Ghost of Education Present stuffed the photocopied sheet into a folder without examining it.

“Shouldn’t you read that in case you need clarification on something?”

He shrugged. “S’a point? Download it, won’t I?”

“I beg your pardon? Are you suggesting that you will simply copy and paste your project from the internet?”

“Yeah, mate! It’s how I done all them others, innit? We all do… well, ‘cept a few who think its cheating.”

“Well it is cheating!”

“So what?… I get top marks, they don’t. 'Nuff said!”

“But when you come to take the exam you won’t know the answers!”

He shrugged. “Don’t matter. I’m never gonna use this stuff anyway when I leave school.”

I sighed on hearing that tired old argument yet again. “But you might! It could become how you earn your living.”

“How d’you figure?”

“You might become a teacher!”

He snorted. “So are you saying that every subject in the curriculum must to be taught to all pupils, even if only a tiny percentage of them ever end up using it to earn a living?”

“Of course!”

“Why not teach brain surgery then? Some tiny percentage of kids will become brain surgeons.”

“That’s a ridiculous example.”

“Percentage wise, far more kids go into the armed forces than ever make their living from history or trigonometry.”

“Your point being?”

“You ought to be teaching kids how to kill someone with a garrote. Statistically it’ll be more benefit than studying Henry VIII.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but everything was going grey once more. Soon I was back in the foggy room with the spectre again.

“Look, I’ve had about enough of this!” I rushed through the fog towards him. “Just who are you anyway.”

The spectre backed away with a yelp. “No, no, no…. keep away…”

Now it wasn’t whispering there was something very familiar about its voice that I couldn’t place. The spectre tripped over its robe and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Triumphantly I leaned down and pulled the cowl from its head to reveal its true identity...

TO BE CONCLUDED…

COUNTERING ILL-INFORMED OPINION

2009-10-04T13:13:00.000-07:00

I watched my wife with a critical eye as she moved the iron back and forth.

“I do wish you’d find something else to do!” she complained.

I picked up the sock she had just ironed and ran an expert eye over the crease. Satisfied, I placed it neatly on the “done” pile and watched her iron its companion.

“Is it absolutely necessary for me to iron your socks? Trousers, yes – shirts, of course, but honestly, socks?”

I handed her my Mr Messy underpants without bothering to answer. She gave me an exasperated look before shaking her head and adjusting the iron.

“And don’t put the crease through Mr Messy’s face, like you did last time,” I warned.

The doorbell rang and I went to the window to peer through the net curtain. An unfamiliar car offering no clues was parked in the drive. I went to the front door and opened it, beginning the routine speech.

“I already have double-glazing and a conservatory, my kitchen doesn’t need replacing and when I want my drive re-surfaced I certainly won’t be asking a grubby, unskilled, intellectually-challenged non-entity like you!”

With the door now fully opened I found myself confronted by Ed Balls. He looked a little taken aback. “Badders?” he asked, a little uncertainly. (I do wish he wouldn’t call me Badders).

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?”

“Yes, of course.” I ushered him in, glancing up and down the Avenue to see if we were observed. I guided him into the sitting room and indicated a chair. He waited until I was sitting, peering at me through those bulging little eyes of his.

“Is it news of my knighthood?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Because you promised me…”

“It’s nothing to do with the knighthood. It’s getting close to the date for the select committee,” he began. “I thought it was time to touch base with you. Make sure we both know where we are coming from. Make sure you are… all right…”

“All right? Whatever do you mean ‘all right’? Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

“I’ve been getting the odd bit of feedback. I understand that you have been feeling vilified and harassed because of adverse reactions on the internet. Reports suggest it has been to the detriment of your ‘mental well-being’.”

He stared unblinkingly at me with those pop-eyes. Although my expertise might not extend far into the world of the medical profession, I know an over-active thyroid when I see it.

“No, not at all!” I laughed nervously. “That was just to prevent my expenses being published under the Freedom of Information Act.”

Ed Balls paled visibly at the mention of expenses. He swallowed. “Yes, well I can understand that. But how are you coping?”

“I’m fine. I’m as mentally sound as anybody else you work with.”

“Yes, that’s what worries me. I ran into one of your neighbours just now. I wanted to make sure I got the right house. You know, the elderly lady over there? It looks like she is building a wall. Quite a high wall actually. She started to twitch when I mentioned your name. Almost like a nervous tic. She pointed at your door, but never uttered a sound. She did make a funny little ‘O’ shape with her mouth, then she scuttled indoors. I must say she moved surprisingly quickly for someone with a breeze block in each hand.” He stared thoughtfully out of the window for a moment.

“Yes well, she’s a bit funny,” I said, tapping the side of my head.

Ed Balls pulled his eyes away from the window with some effort. “And then there’s that thing tied to your tree in the garden. Bit macabre, Badders. Some sort of Totem is it?”

“Thing tied to the tree…?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Look, never mind about that. What you choose for garden ornamentation is none of my concern really. What does concern me is that you appear as a credible authority on education when the select committee starts picking over your report.”

“But, I’m an expert!”

“Yes, but can you be certain that you undertook the report from an unbiased perspective.”

“Of course! When I started I had no preconceptions regarding the extent to which home education is inadequate!”

“And are you confident that your research was thorough.”

“I met over one home education group.”

“Y-e-e-s, I wanted to ask about that. It’s been suggested that you sat there staring at the floor with your arms folded, not actually listening.”

“They were making statements and claims incompatible with the evidence I was trying to gather!”

“…And that the only time you showed any interest was when the negative aspects were being discussed.”

“I’ve just explained that!”

Ed Balls jaws were working silently as if he didn’t quite know what to say next.

“In the interest of ongoing investigation I’ve ‘befriended’ the home educated family next door. That proves there’s no bias.”

“Have you?” His eyes bulged even more alarmingly.

“Oh yes. We get along famously. They value my input and opinion and they even took on board some of my study suggestions.” Through the window I could see Smith in his driveway and leapt up. “There they are now. Come on, I’ll show you…”

I hurried out of the house trailing the portly MP behind me. As I rushed at Smith he recoiled slightly. Turning to Ed Balls, his jaw visibly dropped.

“Isn’t this a bit over the top? If you have any concerns about my home education provision, shouldn’t you have gone through the local authority first?”

“Yes, highly amusing Smith! Look, tell Ed Balls how well we get on.”

“What? Do we?”

“And how you value my input and suggestions.”

“Well, Rob did enjoy studying Scooby-Doo.”

Ed Balls rounded on me in shock. “You suggested studying Scooby-Doo?”

Before I could answer, Miranda appeared in the doorway. “Daddy, I can’t pick up the axe.”

Ed Balls stared from Miranda to Smith to me. “Axe! Good God, Badders! And is this another of your study suggestions?”

“It’s computer software,” Smith explained. “She means she can’t pick up the axe on the computer.”

“And you think that makes it acceptable do you?” Ed Balls demanded.

“Smith, I am appalled!” I joined in. Miranda had spotted me and came skipping over to join her father.

“Hello Dark Lord Badman!” she trilled. Ed Balls shot me a look of pure astonishment that only grew when she continued, “Are you coming round to play with my dollies again today?”

Ignoring her I continued to berate Smith, in an attempt to restore some of my dignity. “Gratuitous violence is not to be condoned whether it’s computer software or not. I don’t regard it as educational hacking limbs off of enemy soldiers or whatever else you’re allowing this impressionable child to engage in. Axes? Good grief, what else? Meat cleavers into zombie skulls, I shouldn’t wonder! Gelatinous brain matter spraying everywhere in a fountain of blood and tissue? Shotgun charges tearing into ruptured flesh? Slippery, grey entrails splattering across the screen?”

“Daddy!” Miranda’s hand flew to her mouth. “I feel sick!”

Ed Balls leaned down to Miranda, “Is that the sort of computer game you’re playing?” he asked.

She looked horrified and shook her head. “Jack and the Beanstalk…” she uttered softly.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “There are no zombies in Jack and the Beanstalk!”

Smith glared at me angrily. “No-one except you suggested that there was! You pick up the axe to chop down the beanstalk! It’s reading software I got at the library tied into Key Stage 1.”

Ed Balls gave me a pained look and patted Miranda on the head. Smith cleared his throat forcefully.

“Excuse me, but have you been CRB checked?”

Ed Balls looked flustered. “I’m a member of Parliament!”

Smith muttered something that sounded like “two legs good, four legs bad” but I couldn’t be sure.

At that moment I noticed the Rev. Thomas doing his rounds with the Parish news sheet. Spotting me he hesitated a moment, seemed to gather himself and then called out.

“Mr Buh-Badman! I have been meaning to speak to you about your computer.” He began to approach the front gate and I danced a few steps sideways to meet him. “Your wife explained about the fuh-phone call and the misunderstanding. She said you’ve been under a lot of stress and didn’t mean to buh-be so rude.”

Ed Balls was suddenly interested. “You were rude to a vicar?” he asked.

“Quite a tuh-tirade, wasn’t it. Mr Buh-Badman.”

“Please, Reverend, there’s no need for formality after all this time. Call me by my first name.”

The Rev. Thomas suddenly jumped visibly and turned stricken eyes to me.

“Nuh-Norman!” he wailed.

I smiled at him and shook my head. “No…. Guh-Graham!”

“No!” he squeaked. “Nuh-Norman.”

Whatever was the matter with the man? I began to correct him a second time when I noticed he was pointing at the tree next to the driveway.

“Norman…!” he said again, his voice trailing away into a small sob. I suddenly remembered what Ed Balls had said about something being tied to my tree and took a hesitant step forward. With a sense of foreboding I forced myself to look up where the Rev. Thomas was staring. Icy fingers of dread were once more playing on my spine as I had the horrible feeling that I already knew what I would see.

There, gaffer-taped to the front of the tree trunk were the desiccated remains of a certain guinea-pig. Its brief sojourn in the wheelie bin had done nothing to improve its appearance. It now appeared to be slimed with mayonnaise and wore a glace cherry on one withered paw like a tiny boxing glove.

Ed Balls and Smith both joined us and we all regarded the grotesque little display in silence. After a moment, Smith became quite animated.

“Hang on! That’s the thing that was left on my doorstep in a Tupperware box a few weeks back. Poor little thing. It’s a hamster, isn’t it?”

“It’s a guinea pig,” Rev. Thomas and I snapped back in perfect synchronisation. He looked at me curiously.

“How can you tell, in that state?” Ed Balls asked in wonder.

“Because it’s MY guinea pig!” Rev. Thomas cried plaintively. “My poor little Norman! He’s been missing for weeks. Someone took him from his run in the garden. I never imagined I’d find him like this! What sort of person…” he began. To my alarm he was looking at me. I pointed at Smith.

“He had it. He said he had it in a Tupperware box…”

“It vanished,” said Smith. I called the police, but that was the day poor old Mrs Mort had a funny turn and they got caught up in that. I forgot all about it until later in the evening and then I couldn’t find it. I assumed my wife had thrown it out. How on earth did it end up here?”

“There’s a note, look!” said Ed Balls. At the bottom of the tree, caught between the trunk and the wall was a piece of paper sporting more gaffer tape. It had obviously been originally stuck to the tree as well, but had since unpeeled. I tried to grab it, but Ed Balls beat me to it.

“It’s a formal warning.” He said. “Your dustmen are saying if you ever leave anything like this in your wheelie bin again you will be prosecuted.” He handed the note to me and I took it with fingers of lead. My blood seemed to have congealed to the consistency of porridge and I wasn’t sure how to breathe anymore.

“Autonomous Ed!” I blurted out.

“What?!” Smith demanded. “I know you have a bee in your bonnet about autonomous education, but I seriously hope you aren’t implying this has anything to do with my children.”

Ed Balls cleared his throat. “I think you better explain yourself, Badders.” He said sternly.

“Cat….it’s a cat.”

“No, it’s a guinea pig.”

“Let’s go inside, Badders,” said Ed Balls. “Come on.” He began pulling my arm in the direction of the house. Smith and Rev. Thomas simply stared.

I looked wildly from one to another of them. “This isn’t fair. You’ve just made up your mind about a situation you don’t understand. You’re all making assumptions that are totally unfounded. Never mind getting the facts straight, oh no! Let’s ignore the evidence, you just carry on and label me as some sort of weirdo!”

“Come along, Badders!” Ed Balls said more forcefully, pulling my arm quite hard now.

“But you’re not giving me the chance to explain. I want you to hear my side of it!”

I was being dragged to the door which my wife was holding open, a worried expression pinching her features.

“This isn’t fair…” I told her in a quiet miserable voice as the door closed behind me.

From the kitchen doorway, Autonomous Ed began striding down the hall towards us.

“YOU!” I hissed through clenched teeth. Autonomous Ed froze, alerted to danger by that supernatural cat sense. He swished his tail but began backing away. Tearing free from Ed Balls grip I flung myself after him.

He yowled and scooted across the kitchen tiles while I chased round the table with a whisk snatched from the utensils pot. “You just wait… I’ll fix you if it takes me five years.” With a final spit of fury, Autonomous Ed dived through the catflap as I tripped over the table leg and lunged.

*****

Some time later I lay looking up as the retreating sun spilled gold across the early Autumn evening. I inhaled a deep breath of crisp fresh air and held it. It was cold, an advance warning of the frosty nights ahead. I exhaled slowly and closed my eyes. Tried and tested relaxation methods had taken their time, but my pulse was almost back to normal. I opened my eyes as my wife joined me outside carrying a cup of tea.

She placed the tea on the concrete floor close to my head and popped a drinking straw into the cup. As she guided the other end to my mouth she sighed and said, “I’ve called the handyman again. He got caught up at his last job, but reckons he’ll be here in about an hour.”

I took a sip of tea and let go of the straw.

“Good. It’s not very comfortable you know, having your head wedged through a catflap.”

“I know, you’ve told me enough times.”

“My nose is cold!” I moaned.

“Never mind. Not long now.”

We remained in silence for a while, me sucking tea through the straw, she staring into the middle distance wistfully.

“You did tell them the real story of what happened with that guinea pig, didn’t you?” I asked for the sixth time.

“I told you I did.”

“And they DID believe you, didn’t they?”

She shrugged. “People believe what they want to believe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sometimes, Badders, when people have already made their minds up about something they can ignore a barrage of evidence to the contrary.”

I squinted at her through narrowed eyes. “This is about my report, isn’t it? You’ve been talking to Smith again. I seriously cannot see what his objections are.”

She pointed up at the sky. “He tried to explain it to Ed Balls with an analogy. What colour is the sky, Badders?”

“What? What sort of stupid question is that? It’s blue.”

“And if a colour blind expert in meteorology decided it was green, what colour would it be then?”

“I have absolutely no idea what on earth you are talking about!”

She shook her head sadly. A few moments later she shivered and rubbed at her bare arms. “It is getting chilly out here. I’m going to start supper.”

As she disappeared from my restricted field of vision a thought struck me and I called after her.

“Did Ed Balls mention my knighthood before he left?”

OBSERVING SOCIAL INTERACTION

2009-09-26T12:29:00.000-07:00

It came to my attention that the Home Ed brigade has been organising picnic events. Surely this demonstrates beyond doubt the devious methods these people will stoop to. Apparently the idea was to prove that home educated children are not hidden. What it actually proved was that home educated children are playing in the park when they should be hard at work in a classroom. No doubt this is dressed up as autonomous education. I tried to explain this to Smith, but as usual the man lacks the ability to understand (none so blind as those who will not see, I always say!)

“What is your problem with autonomous education?” he asked.

“Let me put it this way; if I said I was going to visit an autonomous dentist how would you react”

He muttered something I couldn’t quite catch, but seemed to involve selling tickets, which doesn’t make sense. Anyway, he mentioned one of these ridiculous picnic things was taking place in the local park, so I decided to attend.

As I put the finishing touches to my disguise, my wife studied me with the air of someone singularly unimpressed.

“You look ridiculous.”

“Then I should fit in with the rest of them.”

“Must you wear the hood of your anorak zipped up like that?”

“I need to remain incognito.”

“You could try a false beard,” she said brightly while I favoured her with my best withering look. “Anyway, it’s an Indian Summer.”

“Your point being…?”

“My point being its 73 degrees and you are wearing an anorak with fur around the hood.”

I gave this some thought and had to concede the issue. I didn’t want to arouse suspicion, so I changed my trousers for shorts and wore sandals over my Mr Happy socks. I was quite pleased with the effect when I studied my reflection, although my wife was making a stifled honking noise.

I decided that my car might give the game away so waited at the bus stop. I fumbled for my wallet as I heard a large diesel engine approaching, but when I looked up I discovered it wasn’t the bus, but the arrival of the hospital Dial-a-Ride Transit. As old Mrs Mort was ceremoniously helped down from the back, I waved enthusiastically and called to her.

She stopped in her tracks and peered worriedly in my direction. I have to admit, that a mouthful of fur from the hood of my anorak was preventing coherent speech and it wouldn’t have been immediately apparent who I was.

“Mmmmrs Mmmmorthhh,” I called. “It’sth meeeth!”

She took a hesitant step back towards the Transit and her mouth began forming that familiar wobbly “O” shape. I managed to spit out the fur and in desperation shouted out, “Look! Look here!” as I pulled down the zip on my anorak and pulled it open.

At that precise second the bus arrived and I nipped on board rather sharply. As it pulled away a moment or so later two Dial-a-Ride volunteers were trying to retrieve their hysterical passenger. I must say she can wriggle under the rear axle of a Transit van extremely quickly for someone with a double hip replacement.

The bus driver eyed me suspiciously as I took my seat near the door and re-zipped my anorak. I suppose this is the sort of thing home edders must get used to.

When I arrived at the park, it didn’t take long to locate a disorganised clamour of people around the far end of the lake. I surreptitiously made my way over to them and proceeded to mingle and observe. Two teenage lads noticed me however and one of them pointed to my zipped up hood.

“Oi, Kenny!” one of them shouted, having clearly mistaken me for someone else. I turned abruptly away and strolled over to a picnic table covered with food.

There was a frothy haired woman sitting in a deckchair behind the table. “Isn’t this wonderful?” she smiled.

“It seems to be quite well attended,” I responded neutrally. “Lots of home educated children. Of course it’s a bit hard to judge the negative effects when they’re running about happily.”

“This is my son, Justin,” she continued, indicating a tousled individual beside her. “He’s 14 now and I’ve been home-edding since he was 8.”

“Good God! He’s missed six years!”

“Pardon me?”

“…I…ah… Good, good, he’s missed six years of… of… tyranny and oppression…” I concluded weakly while she stared at me. I felt something more was called for, so raised my fist in a shoulder high salute. “Yaaayyy!” I whispered in a small little voice.

“Aren’t you terribly hot in that anorak hood?”

“No, no – I need to keep warm. Prevents the shivering.”

“Shivering?”

“Touch of malaria…days in the tropics,” I said vaguely.

“But you’re wearing shorts and sandals.”

“Recurrent malaria…it comes and goes…” I coughed. I don’t really know why, the situation seemed to call for it.

“I’m Joyce,” she said after a moment and extended her hand.

I shook it quickly, hurriedly breaking contact.

“…I didn’t catch your name,” she said.

“I’m Graham Badman.”

“What?!”

“No, no, no…. of course I’m not. No that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? Ha! Graham Badman at a Home Ed Picnic? Can you imagine that? No, that was obviously a joke! I’m… umm….” My mind had gone totally blank. In panic and I looked around the table for inspiration. There was a wasp buzzing around an iced cake. Could I say I was Graham Wasp? No… I noticed an ant crawling on the table, heading for the same cake. I nodded my anorak hood at the table. “Ant on…”

“Anton! You’ll never guess, that was the other name we considered when we named Justin! I’m very pleased to meet you Anton!”

“Oh…umm…yes, right. Yes, Anton! That’s me! Anton. Pleased to meet you too, Joyce,” I was becoming quite uncomfortable. I don’t like over familiarity.

“I’m one of the organisers of this event. You may have seen my name on some of the local forums; Mrs Lotterby?”

“Mmm?”

“That’s my surname. I’m Joyce Lotterby. What did you say your surname was? Perhaps we’ve corresponded online?”

“Certainly not!... I mean….certainly not remembering that we have, Mrs Lotterby…”

“You never know. What’s your surname?”

I dislike eye-contact with people I’m uncomfortable with and was staring at her deckchair. To my horror I heard myself begin to say I was Mr Deckchair, but managed to stop myself halfway through.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that? Mr Deck? Was that it?”

I nodded miserably. It sounded ridiculous, but not as ridiculous as Deckchair. Joyce was looking at me intently. I worried that she may have seen through my disguise so decided to change the subject quickly.

“How many children are here today?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. Let me ask Helen, she was dealing more with attendance.”

Joyce called across to a lady who was talking to a couple of very scruffy looking men. Typical home edders, I thought. Stained shirts, baggy trousers, scuffed shoes, uncombed hair, unshaven faces. Is this the sort of example to set children? The lady excused herself from her companions and hurried over.

“Everything OK?” she asked Joyce. “I was just talking to Paul and David, they’re going to chat to the children and take some photos.”

“There, you see! This is exactly the kind of thing that I’m worried about!” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “You lot should ALL be CRB checked as far as I’m concerned.”

Both women exchanged confused looks and Helen said, “They’re from the local paper. Paul is a reporter and David is the photographer.”

“….Yes…. well that’s what I meant…” Blast! “They should be checked, that’s all I’m saying….”

Helen was staring at me in a rather disconcerting way as Joyce introduced me.

“Helen, this is Anton Deck…..”

Joyce’s son, Justin, began hooting with laughter for some reason I didn’t understand. I worry about the mental well-being for some of these children.

Helen too appeared to be trying to hide a smile. “I’m tempted to say there’s less of you in real life – but I expect you get comments like that all the time.”

I simply stared at her. What on earth was the woman talking about? She cleared her throat and struggled to maintain a serious expression.

“Please to meet you Anton Deck,” (more laughter from Justin) “Aren’t you terribly hot in that anorak hood?”

“No, look I’ve already been through that. I was wondering how many children were here this afternoon?”

“I’ve lost count. Some haven’t yet arrived and a couple couldn’t come at the last minute. Let me see – it must be about 75 or so at present. Excuse me, but why are you writing that down.”

I had pulled a small notebook from my pocket and was noting down the figures.

“I’m a reporter too.” I said in a moment of inspiration. “And what age range do we have here?”

“Well across the board really. Little Hannah over there is six years old, Michael and Sean playing conkers over there are 15.”

I scribbled this down. “Playing conkers?!” I asked. “Unsupervised? With no protective eyewear and clothing?” I wrote this down too. It never ceases to shock me, the blatant disregard these people have when it comes to endangering the lives of children.

“And how would you claim this afternoon was benefiting the children educationally?”

“I don’t imagine it is.”

“Ah… an admission!” I wrote that down. This is just the sort of confession Ed Balls is looking for.

“But it benefits them socially. It proves they are actively interacting with the community and many of them helped with the organisation. Those cakes on the table for instance, Justin made them.”

“Good Lord, but I nearly ate one of those!”

“Excuse me, but what paper did you say you worked for?”

“Umm…. Independent…”

“Really? You must know Paul, then. He trained as a reporter on the Independent. Let me call him over. Paul! Paul, over here a minute! There’s an old colleague of yours here!”

“No, no, no….Lowestoft Independent.”

“Really? But that’s miles away! I wish the local MP was as keen as you were. She said she was definitely going to attend, but apparently at the last minute had something more important to do.”

Joyce grunted. “Sadly that’s the difficulty we face, Anton. A lot of MPs aren’t interested.” She gave a short, hard laugh. “We should’ve invited Ed Balls along!”

“He’d have probably come,” I nodded.

“Really? Why would you think that?”

“Free cake!” I said, indicating the table. Joyce and Helen laughed as if I’d deliberately made a joke, but I was simply stating a fact.

“Oh look, here’s someone with a more sympathetic attitude to home-ed,” said Joyce. “Hello, Reverend, how are you?”

I turned in horror to see the Rev. Thomas striding towards us, cup-cake in hand and smiling enthusiastically. He paused mid stride when he saw me and the trace of a frown crossed his face.

“Huh-hello Joyce. Nuh-nice to see you Helen. Th-this is wuh-wonderful, isn’t it? I’m very impressed with the tuh-turnout.”

“Yes, Reverend, that’s what we were saying. Sorry, I haven’t introduced you. Reverend Thomas is our local vicars, Reverend this is a reporter, Anton Deck.”

Even the Rev. Thomas appeared to be suppressing laughter as he shook my hand. What on earth was wrong with these people?

“Duh-Deck? That’s Welsh isn’t it? I say, Anton, aren’t you tuh-terribly huh-hot in that anorak hood?”

I didn’t know what to do. My disguise seemed to have fooled Rev. Thomas, but surely he’d recognise my voice. I’d have to disguise it. Wait a minute, though. If he thought Deck was a Welsh name, I might get away with an accent…

“No….umm, boyo! I’m fine….um, isn’t it! Touch of malaria see, bach. Although my legs get quite hot since leaving the valleys…. Look you….”

Rev. Thomas was peering at me thoughtfully. “Oh, I didn’t realise you were Indian, forgive me.” He glanced at my legs. “Surprisingly puh-pale skin you have.”

“No, I’m Welsh, see. Isn’t it.”

“Really? You certainly sound Indian! Puh-perhaps it’s the huh-hood of your anorak. Why don’t you undo it a bit. I’m sure the sunlight would help your muh-malaria?”

He suddenly reached up towards my hood. In panic I jumped backwards and caught the edge of the picnic table. Scared that I was going to overbalance it, I grabbed at it and fell backwards landing in a heap at Joyce’s feet. She reached down to me, but I scrambled away, crab like, backing into the leg of the table and causing it to wobble dangerously. A plate tipped off the edge and the iced cake, complete with resident wasp, landed on my chest. There was a sudden silence in the crowd and a sea of faces were staring at me. One of the teenage lads I had first encountered pointed at me delightedly and shouted.

“Oh no! They killed Kenny!”

I rose to my feet with as much dignity as I could muster, knocking the cake onto the floor. It all goes to prove exactly what I’ve been saying about home education all along. Disorganised, unstructured and downright dangerous. I’d seen enough. Brushing aside supposedly helping hands I stepped forward, placing my foot firmly in the centre of the cake.

“Leave me alone! I am perfectly all right, thank you very much. There is nothing to see here. Carry on with your work!”

Rev. Thomas’s head snapped round to meet mine. “There’s something awfully fuh-familiar about you. Do you attend ch-church?”

I’d forgotten to use my Welsh accent. He stepped towards me leaving me only one course of action. I turned and ran. Well, that is I ran as much as anyone can run when they are wearing an iced cake on one foot.

Annoyed at losing its meal, the wasp was also taking a rather unwanted interest in the leg of my shorts causing me to kick one leg out repeatedly. I lost a sandal in the process and progress across the park was slower than I would have wished. Amid cat-calls and laughter, I nearly fell over a small child and stopped abruptly in front of her. Glaring down I found my eyes met by Miranda Smith’s. She looked alarmed for a second, but then suddenly smiled.

“Dark Lord Badman!” she called, merrily. “I didn’t know you were coming!”

“You are mistaken. I don’t know who you are referring to.”

“Why are you dressed so funny, Dark Lord Badman? Is it fancy dress?”

“Look, I’m not me! I’m clearly someone else altogether. In fact I’m Welsh! Now out of my way, I’m in a hurry.”

I pushed passed her as a group of people started to gather around me again. One of them said, “It’s just like I was saying. It’s not just the kids who get traumatised by school, some parents are dreadfully affected by having to deal with them!”

THE IMPORTANCE OF FEEDBACK

2009-08-21T05:06:00.000-07:00

It was bin day today and an unbelievable amount of regulations and restrictions surround the simple task of collecting household waste. I find it infuriating that I am expected to wheel my bin out onto the pavement in order for it to be collected and that’s only the beginning. It must not block the pavement. It must be removed from the pavement within a few hours of being emptied. It must not contain anything other than designated waste. There are even regulations regarding the lid, which must not be open more than 5mm or the bin men won’t touch it.

Why is it that something so simple and straightforward must be over-complicated by officious busy-bodies from the local authority? I think the most insulting part is that it’s dressed up as legislation to protect residents! If we stick to the rules no-one is injured falling over a wheelie bin and no-one suffers from “incorrect” refuse. However, this ignores the huge rat infestation that congregates around overflowing bins that only get collected once a fortnight. These people should examine the failings in their own little empire before they start doling out fines for non-compliance! I hear they even go through the contents of bins to examine every aspect of the householders refuse policy!

Anyway, as I struggled up the path with the wheelie bin an ominous voice summoned me back to the front door.

“Badders!” it hissed in a stage whisper. “Badders, come here!” (I do wish she wouldn’t call me ‘Badders’.

I glanced back at the house, in no mood for trivial discussion. “Can I help you?” I asked impatiently.

“What is this?” My wife waved an all too familiar Tupperware container at me. “Or rather, what is it doing at the back of the airing cupboard?”

“Umm… I can’t quite see it from here, dear… is it some socks?”

“No it is not some socks as you very well know! It is a plastic container of remains. Namely the remains of…”

I fled back up the path, arms pinwheeling in my hurry to clamp a hand over her mouth. “Shhhhhh! For goodness sake, woman – do you want the whole avenue to hear?”

She fended off my hand with a slap to the wrist and a loud tut. “What is it doing in the airing cupboard?” she repeated sotto voce. “I though you returned it to the Smiths!”

“Well, I was going to, but…. I thought it would be too great a shock and then I discovered it didn’t belong to them in the first place.”

“What? Well whose is it then?”

I shrugged. “What would you have had me do, dear? Leave it on the Smith’s doorstep in its little plastic coffin? What on earth would they have thought, when it’s not even their guinea pig? What sort of sick individual would do that?”

She lowered her eyelids and peered at me suspiciously. “I never suggested leaving it on their doorstep,” she said quietly.

“Well it’s a good job I didn’t hand it to them personally, isn’t it? Excuse me, Smith, I’d just like to welcome you to the neighbourhood with the traditional Avenue dish of Guinea-Pig-in-the-Basket. It’s very popular with the professional classes. Do let me know if you’d like the recipe. My God, those loonies in the Home-Ed brigade would have a field day with that one! It would have been all over the internet within an hour. You’d be surprised at the lengths to which some of them go, trying to discredit me and make me look like an idiot!”

My wife was still regarding me with an old-fashioned look. “Yes, well that doesn’t mean you can keep it in the airing cupboard. It has begun to smell! You’ll have to get rid of it.”

“Fine. Yes. Good, I’m taking out the rubbish now; I’ll just empty the Tupperware box into the wheelie bin.”

“You most certainly will not! Have you any idea of the amount of regulations regarding what you can and cannot put in the household waste? If the bin men see that I dread to think of the consequences.”

“Well we can hardly recycle it!” I pointed out.

“You’ll have to bury it in the garden.”

“…..really…. I mean…. Must I?”

“Yes! You can do it when you’ve finished with the rubbish.”

“Do you want the Tupperware box back?”

“No I do NOT want the Tupperware box back! I don’t want to risk you using it again. For all I know you’ve become some serial guinea pig killer.”

I wanted to point out that it wasn’t actually me that had harmed the blasted thing, but the look in my wife’s eye suggested I should keep quiet. She turned to go back into the house, pausing on the threshold to deliver a parting shot.

“And bury it deep. I don’t want the cat bringing it back in!”

With a heavy heart and an even heavier sigh I carried the box over to the wheelie bin and plonked it onto the lid. I gripped the handle and resumed trundling up the driveway. When I reached the pavement, I furtively glanced back at the house, then up and down the Avenue. Re-assured that I wasn’t being observed, I hurriedly pulled the lid off the Tupperware container and tipped the contents into the wheelie bin. I caught a terrifying glimpse of a hideous mummified face staring up at me through discoloured, clouded eyes. It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard from Ed Balls for several weeks.

“Mr Badman!” called a voice and I dropped the bin lid back in shock. I saw Smith beckoning me from his driveway. Horribly aware I was still clutching the Tupperware box and lid, I quickly hid them behind my back and strode over to him. This whole sorry affair is his fault and I wasn’t in the mood for his Home-Ed nonsense.

“Are you all right?” he asked with a questioning look. “You seem flustered.”

“No, no I’m fine. What do you want?”

He smiled at a piece of paper in his hand and held it towards me.

“Miranda wanted me to give you this,” he said. “It’s a poem and a drawing of you, to commemorate your visit the other day.”

He held it out, but my hands were clutching the box and the lid behind me.

“There’s really no need….”

“No, it’s very sweet. She especially wanted you to have it.” He waved it towards me, but I couldn’t bring my hands forward and reveal what I was holding. He might have recognised them.

“Could you just pop it in my top pocket, here?” I indicated which one with my nose.

“Pardon?”

“Just pop it in…. no…? Oh for goodness sake, why are people always trying to put things in my hand?... Wait a minute…”

I wriggled about forcing both box and lid down the seat of my trousers. It was a tight fit. They were extremely uncomfortable and I didn’t like to think of the potential contamination.

“What on earth are you doing?” Smith asked with a mixture of concern and confusion.

“Um… just an itch…”

“My God! What’s that smell? I should see the doctor if I were you!”

Finally I was able to bring both hands forward in triumph. I thrust them towards him, wiggling my fingers to demonstrate the lack of incriminating containers. Smith took an alarmed step back as I took the paper from him, examining it carefully.

“It’s not very good, is it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This poem. It’s not very good. Quite immature actually and the handwriting is considerably below standard. And what’s this drawing? Is that supposed to be me? It looks like a goat!”

“Yes… funny that!” said Smith, dangerously.

“Look, I haven’t got time to mark it now,” I said. “I’ll take it with me and let you have it back later.” The pressure of the Tupperware in my trousers was decidedly uncomfortable.

“Mark it?!”

“Yes – look, sorry to rush, but I need to… um… sorry…. must go…” I began backing away with stiff awkward movements, severely handicapped by the bulky additions to my undergarments. Suddenly I sensed a movement behind me. Closing my eyes, I gulped. I didn’t want to turn around. The last thing I needed now was to find old Mrs Mort watching me. Smith was staring at me goggle-eyed as it was. I turned my head as far as I could and discovered Autonomous Ed, practically standing on his hind legs as he sniffed excitedly at my trousers.

“Shoo! Go away! I don’t know whose cat this is!” I said loudly. I tried to aim a kick, but Autonomous Ed chose that precise moment to throw himself into a full investigation… literally!

Later on in the evening I lay on the sofa examining Miranda’s handiwork again. Meanwhile my wife applied Savlon to the claw marks adorning my nether regions.

“That’s nice,” she said, indicating the drawing. “Is it a goat?”

Apparently it’s supposed to be me.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment, pursing her lips. “Oh yes!” she exclaimed. “It’s very good…”

WORKING WITH HOME EDDERS (PART THREE)

2009-08-14T03:31:00.000-07:00

Although I felt I had clearly covered the importance of state secondary education, Robert Smith still didn’t seem to have grasped it.

“As a pupil then, what is the incentive for getting five GCSEs if it’s nothing to do with equipping you for the jobs market?”

“So that you can go onto higher education.”

“Why?”

“So you can apply for university and study for a degree.”

“Why?”

“So you can get a job in your specialist field.”

Robert was nodding solemnly.

“Uh-huh… my cousins did that.”

“Well there you are then.”

Smith confirmed that his sister’s daughters had both recently attained degrees. One in media studies and the other in history.

“Neither of them is working in their specialist field,” he finished, rather pointedly.

“Well… of course it is a difficult job market at present.”

“Both of them are saddled with massive debts. The one with the degree in media studies was declined interviews with the local paper, radio and TV stations. They pretty much told her it was a worthless piece of paper. The other one couldn’t even get a job in Sainsbury’s because they said she was overqualified….”

“…But they both have a degree though, don’t they!”

“Y-e-s….. and they have debt collection agencies threatening them with legal action or bankruptcy…”

“…But they both have a degree though, don’t they!”

“The girl with the history degree is training as a plumber.”

“Well there you are then! She has a job – my point proven, I think.”

Smith looked at me oddly.

“She lied about her qualifications on her CV.”

“What? Well, I don’t think I approve of that!”

“She had to tell them she only had three GCSEs!”

I cleared my throat noisily. Robert was grinning in an infuriating way.

“My uncle runs his own business,” he informed me. “He designs computer security software.”

Smith Snr confirmed. “He has some very big contracts, well known organisations, local authorities even a couple of companies in the U.S.”

This was more like it. Surely this was a better example to illustrate the importance of state education.

“He owns a big house with a swimming pool,” Robert added. “Drives a flash car.”

“Good.”

“Better than yours.”

“Well I don’t think there’s any need to go into all of that.” I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was being set up for something. Smith had the air of someone about to prove a point.

“Funny thing is…” Smith said slowly, drawing out each syllable. “He dropped out of school before his fifteenth birthday. Played truant – refused point blank to go. Never even sat an exam.” He smiled at me watching for my response.

I silently concentrated on my clipboard for a while... I silently concentrated on my clipboard for a long while...

Eventually I became aware of someone tugging at my trouser leg.

“Dark Lord Badman?” Miranda asked in a whisper. “Would you like to see my dollies?”

“Ummm… no, er… I don’t think I….”

“Yes, Mr Badman,” said Smith. “I think you should. My wife has been teaching Miranda to sew and she has been making clothes for her dolls.”

“Oh.. well sewing isn’t really my field…” I said.

“But surely as an expert you would be interested to take a look. Go and fetch them, Miranda.”

“They’re in the front garden,” said Miranda. “They’re having a tea party.”

I ran a finger round my collar. “Ah well, perhaps we shouldn’t intrude then.”

“Nonsense!” said Smith with a smile. (Very thin lips, these home-edders have. Genetic defect perhaps…?)

To my great alarm Miranda grasped my trouser leg and began tugging me in the direction of the door. So it was that I found myself outside in the front garden a few moments later, observing a little tableau of dolls sat around the table from a Sindy playset.

“Look, Dark Lord Badman,” said Miranda, picking up a doll. “This one is my favourite. She has lifelike hair that grows when you press a button.

I think I may have recoiled slightly as the object was thrust toward me.

“Umm…oh…lovely. And what... er…what is her name?”

“Dolly.”

I wrote down ‘lacks imagination’ on my form. Unfortunately that clashed with where I’d already written ‘over-active imagination’ earlier. I think that ably demonstrates the disturbed nature of home educated children.

“And did you make the dress she is wearing?”

“Yes. Mummy helped me with cutting out the pattern.”

“Oh. Well that looks very good. And this one? What about her outfit?”

Miranda peered at the doll I'd indicated. “Yes, I did that one all on my own.”

I was surprised. I imagine she must have had a lot of help, but had been primed not to say.

“Oh… I’ve left Hannah upstairs?”

“Another doll?”

“My rabbit.”

“Oh… a pet.” A thought struck me. “Did you have any other pets at all… say, oh I don’t know, a guinea pig… perhaps? One that might have…. disappeared…. suddenly?”

Miranda gave me a puzzled look. “Hannah’s not a REAL rabbit.” Her hand suddenly flew to her mouth. “My Daddy said someone put a dead hamster in a lunchbox on our doorstep.” she exclaimed in a hushed voice.

I shook my head at her. “I think you’ll find it was a guinea pig. I’m frankly appalled that your father doesn’t know the difference.”

“My Daddy said it was put there by some…” she screwed up her face as she tried to remember the right word. “…Sicko.”

“Or…. or it might have been a concerned neighbour who made a mistake after his rotten cat had killed it.”

“Do you have a cat, Dark Lord Badman?”

“Umm….. no….” I could hear my voice rising into that little squeak again.

“My Daddy said the ‘Sicko’ had covered it in glue so its hair stuck out.”

“Well he’s wrong again. It was blood, that’s all… at least… I imagine it was… I mean it probably would have been…. I…. Look where is this rabbit of yours?”

Miranda jumped up with a smile and raced indoors leaving me alone with the dollies tea party.

Now I came to examine the dolls more closely, the costumes really did appear to be very good. Surely Miranda hadn’t made them all. I crouched down for a better look, finally sitting cross-legged on the lawn beside the tiny table. I picked up the nearest doll and made it walk across the grass, allowing myself a little chuckle. How ridiculous I must have looked. I picked up another doll in my other hand and walked it around to face the first one.

“Hello, Mrs Doll. And how are you today.” I asked in a high-pitched dolly voice.

“I’m fine, thank you Mrs Dolly. And how are you.” I answered myself using a slightly shriller voice for the second doll.

“I’m very well. Do you like my clothes. I like yours. Were they made for you?”

I jigged Mrs Doll up and down. “Yes they are, Mrs Dolly. Would you like to take a closer look?”

I put the dolls together in one hand and brought them close to my face, looking for flaws in the seamstresses work.

“Oh Mrs Dolly, they look very well made. Are you sure there’s no manufacturer’s label inside your skirt?” I carried on the conversation. “Yes. Take a look if you like.”

I turned one of the dolls upside down and turned its skirt inside out to peer for a label. Then I repeated the exercise with the other doll.

I heard a strange strangled gasp behind me. I turned to face the road. In each hand I held a half naked dolly, their legs waving under my nose as I peered intently into their garments.

I hadn’t heard the arrival of the Dial-A-Ride Hospital Transport service. The rear doors of the vehicle were open with ramps extending to the ground. There was a man at the bottom, ensuring the ramps were safe. Halfway down the ramp, guided by a volunteer orderly was a wheelchair. The wheelchair was occupied by old Mrs Mort!

All three faces were turned in my direction, each one fixed with a frozen look of bewilderment and horror. Old Mrs Mort’s mouth was forming that familiar wobbly ‘O’ that usually precedes phenomenal screaming. I leapt up. The poor woman was only just returning from hospital following our previous encounter.

“No! Wait! …. I’m not doing anything abnormal… I merely want to look up these dollies skirts!” I cried, waving them frantically in her direction.

Old Mrs Mort somehow shoved her wheelchair operator out of the way. Gripping the wheels of the chair tightly, she reversed back up the ramp into the vehicle and slammed the doors. I must say she moved surprisingly quickly for someone resembling Davros in a hairnet.

She refused to come out and eventually the Dial-A-Ride staff had no alternative but to return her to hospital. My wife informed me later that she appears to have suffered some kind of a relapse, so I doubt it’s actually anything to do with me at all. It may be some kind of agoraphobia I suppose.

WORKING WITH HOME EDDERS (PART TWO)

2009-08-08T06:24:00.000-07:00

I scribbled away on my clipboard and then peered at the children over my glasses. I always find this conveys a sense of wisdom and authority that children respond to. It invokes a sensation of awe and respect usually rendering them silent and attentive.

Robert Smith appeared to be picking his nose...

“I would like to ask you some basic questions to ascertain the level of education you are receiving. Who can tell me what two times five is, hmmm?”

Miranda looked shyly up through her fringe. “Ten,” she said.

I nodded solemnly and wrote on my clipboard. “Smith, I’m frankly concerned that your son wasn’t able to answer a question that simple.”

“Eh…? I knew the answer!” Robert protested. “I left if for Miranda because it was too easy.”

“Six times eight?”

“Forty-eight!” Robert snapped.

“Seven sixes?”

“Forty-two!” Robert again.

“Nine sevens?”

“Sixty-three!” Robert was clearly reciting the times tables parrot fashion with no real understanding of the computation involved. I addressed his father.

“You realise your daughter has only answered a question from the five times table? Why is that, I wonder?”

Smith Snr glowered at me, “Because Robert is answering so fast she hasn’t had a chance.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “All right, Robert – don’t answer the next question. Miranda, this is a question just for you. Are you ready?”

The little girl nodded, eyes like saucers. I leaned down towards her.

“What is the square root of 24.798?”

Smith let out an irritated gasp. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“What’s the answer?” asked Miranda.

“Never mind… We’ll try something else.”

“No, hang on. What IS the answer Mr Badman?” Smith demanded.

I favoured him with a withering stare. “It isn’t MY educational standards in question here, Smith. It is not necessary for me to provide the answer.”

“You don’t know, that’s why!” laughed Robert. The boy’s attitude certainly leaves a lot to be desired. I might need to inform social services.

“Can you spell ‘dog’?” I asked Miranda.

“Duh…?”

“I asked you to spell ‘dog’.”

“Duh…?”

“Does she suffer from hearing disability, Smith?”

“She is trying to spell it, Mr Badman. You’re not giving her the chance to finish!”

“Duh… Ogh… Guh?” Miranda intoned.

“Phonetic alphabet,” Smith explained. I made a tutting noise as I wrote on my clipboard.

“Now ‘cat’?”

“Kuh… Agh... Tuh”

“Now ‘run’?”

To my surprise she glanced at her father and fled the room. I imagine the prospect of having to demonstrate her lack of education was too overwhelming. I wrote that down on my clipboard. Smith and son seemed to find it terribly amusing, which I simply don’t understand. I turned to Robert.

“Can you spell ‘regulation’?”

As he did so the phone rang and Smith left the room to answer it. I smiled at Robert.

“Now spell ‘existentialism’ for me.”

“What?”

“Come on quick… OK, spell ‘antidisestablishmentarianism’ then… come on…!”

“A-N-T-I…wait, what was it again?”

“Oh dear,” I shook my head as I put crosses on my form. I spelled it out correctly for him from my list.

“Now then, what about R.I. / R.E?”

“What’s that supposed to spell? What’s a ‘rire’ I’ve never heard of it?”

“No – we’re finished with spellings now. I want to know about your religious instruction or education. Are you religious at all? I know some of you home educated children are brought up as Jedi or some such nonsense. Have you any normal religious knowledge? Have you heard of Jesus for example?”

“Of course I have. Christians believe he was the son of God. He was put to death on a cross and they believe he rose from the dead two days later.”

“Excellent. And what do you think Jesus would have been like?”

Robert thought for a few moments with a look of concentration etched into his features.

“I think he might have been black.”

“WHAT?!”

“Well… dark skinned, anyway. Probably with dark woolly sort of hair.”

“How dare you!”

“Well he grew up in the middle east didn’t he, of Jewish parents, under the hot sun..”

“You see this is why I am so concerned about standards in home education. For your information, young man, Jesus was white with long straight fair hair.”

Smith had come back into the room and caught the tail end of the conversation.

“Yes, of course,” he chimed in. “White, middle class, read the Daily Mail and voted Tory! Mr Badman, we provide the children with the facts, but allow them to reason things out in their own way. Part of the trouble with formal schooling is that children are taught what to think, but not how.”

“It is not for parents to question the methods of state education.” I informed him, scribbling furiously on my clipboard.

Miranda’s head appeared around the door. She was red in the face and panting.

“Can I stop running now, Dark Lord Badman?” she asked.

“What?”

“You told me to run and I have been. Can I stop now, I’m tired?”

I looked at Smith in bewilderment. What odd children. If this is typical of home education then I’m not surprised I gave it the bad report I did.

Smith handed me a pile of drawings and paintings. He also indicated some pottery work on a nearby cabinet.

“All examples of the children’s artwork, Mr Badman.”

I glanced through them. I have to admit they really were very good. Robert in particular had fine attention for detail and a surprisingly mature style. His work encompassed a range of materials with imaginative use of colour.

“How long do the children spend doing art?”

“However long they want. They’ll keep at it until it’s finished – or they feel they’ve done enough for the day. That piece you’re looking at took Robert a day and a half.”

“A whole day and a half?! What about his other studies?”

Smith shrugged. “He was working intently on that. I didn’t want to break his muse.”

“You didn’t want to break his muse? What kind of educational policy is that? You allowed him to spend an entire day and half painting?”

“Robert cares passionately about art so his education is biased towards it. I really think it could be where his future lays.”

“Painting?! How many people make a career out of painting, Smith! Drawing and painting are all well and good, but they’re only recreational pursuits really. No, you’d be far better off confining this sort of thing to a Friday afternoon and concentrating more of your efforts on proper subjects.”

I made a few more notes while Robert was asking his father what percentage of people leaving state secondary schools get jobs as historians, physicists, biologists, chemists or mathematicians.

I put down my pen and shook my head at him. “The purpose of secondary education is to achieve good qualifications,” I told him. “It isn't supposed to be about equipping you for the job market.”

“Then why are qualifications important?”

“So the school can demonstrate how well it is achieving its performance targets.”

Robert and his father both looked blankly at me.

I sighed. “So parents can determine which school to send their children to!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

WORKING WITH HOME-EDDERS (PART ONE)

2009-07-20T12:36:00.000-07:00

I dressed in my most official suit, stiff white collar and freemason’s tie. I carried my briefcase out to my car, put it in the boot and reversed out of the driveway. I know I could have walked next door, but it doesn’t hurt to let the Smiths take note of the symbols of my status.

Frustratingly there was nowhere to park outside Smith’s house and after ten fruitless minutes I was forced to pull back into my driveway.

Retrieving my briefcase with a flourish I strode up Smith’s path and rang the doorbell, noting the time on my watch was precisely 1.50pm. Smith failed to open the door for a full 20 seconds. I made a note on my clipboard.

Smith ushered me in without a word. I wrote down “surly” in the space on my form for Parent Attitude. I looked around the hallway with keen interest and indicated a door to my right.

“This, I take it, is your environmental provision for educational activity?”

“It’s the living room. You know it is! This house is a mirror image of yours…”

I wrote down “inadequate” in the appropriate space on my form.

Smith led me into the living room where a girl of about seven years old was reading a book. She was a petite, pleasant looking child. I had expected her to be obese and was surprised to find this was not the case. I wrote “malnourished” in the appropriate space on my form.

She looked up from her book with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Hello!” I said. “Let me see if I can guess your name. I imagine it’s something like Sharon or Kylie?”

She shook her head causing her hair to tumble in cascades of curls.

“Chelsea?... Paris?... Posh Spice?”

Smith sighed heavily behind me. “This is Miranda, Mr Badman.”

“Miranda? Are you sure? Hello Miranda, I’m Lord Badman of Becta. Well…. I soon will be, anyway.”

Miranda gasped and her hand flew to her mouth in horror. I was slightly taken aback. “I’m an inspector!” I said grandly, to reassure her.

“The Becta Inspector,” smirked Smith. I glared at him and made a note on my form.

“I’m here to determine the unsuitability or otherwise of your home education.”

Smith made a strangled noise. His daughter continued to stare at me with huge, worried eyes. I decided she was just overawed with the importance of her visitor. Perhaps I could autograph a copy of my report for her before I left.

I turned at the sound of the door opening behind me and watched as a lad of around 12 years old came strolling in clutching a trowel. He stopped short when he saw me and glanced uncertainly at his father.

“And you must be Wayne?... Troy?... Rooney?...”

He grinned inexplicably. “Keef,” he said. “Keef Smiff!”

I nodded and began writing this down. The lad watched over my shoulder. “That’s three ‘f’s in Smiff,” he laughed.

Smith Senior was chuckling too. “You’ll have to forgive my son’s sense of humour, Mr Badman. His name is not Keith or Keef – it’s Robert.”

“Rob – I prefer Rob,” said the lad. To my horror he held out his hand. I looked at it distastefully. Goodness knows what sort of germs he was carrying. I harrumphed and began crossing out the entry on my clipboard. I wrote “inappropriate attitude” on my form.

Miranda sidled up to her brother and spoke in an awed whisper.

“This is the Dark Lord Bad Man!” She glanced nervously at me. “He’s from somewhere called Spectre… and he’s an insect….!”

“Cool!” said Robert and flopped onto the sofa.

I glared at Miranda and wrote “over-active imagination – possibly due to abuse” on my form.

Smith said, “Kids, Mr Badman has written a report to the government making recommendations concerning how you should be educated and monitored. Despite meeting with various home educated kids and their parents he appears to have missed all the points. I thought if he could visit you here today and talk to you about your thoughts on home education then maybe, just maybe he might glean a tiny glimmer of understanding….”

“And examine all the areas where you are completely wrong!”

“….or maybe not!” Smith concluded with a sigh.

“First of all,” I said, “Can you show me your desks?”

Miranda looked nervously from me to her father. “What sort of insect is the Dark Lord?” she asked.

“I am not an insect. I did not say I was an insect. I said I was an inspector.”

Smith smiled reassuringly at his daughter. “They’re a little higher on the evolutionary scale.” He said.

I wrote “lacks proper respect for authority” against Smith’s name on my clipboard.

“Desks?” I asked again.

Smith indicated a writing bureau in the corner of the room. “They use the bureau and the kitchen table. There is also a desk with a computer on it in the little study room.”

“Study room?” I was confused. “MY house doesn’t have a study room!”

“You had your back to it when you came in here. It used to be the space under the stairs, but I took out all the panels, strengthened the buttressing for the staircase and put in electric points. It created an ideal open plan space for a computer desk and filing unit.”

I wrote on my form; “Forces children to work in the cupboard under the stairs. May also be structurally unsafe.”

“As the head of Becta I am greatly concerned with technological provision.”

Miranda gasped again and looked worriedly at her brother. “Whose head does the Dark Lord have?” she said, fingers fluttering around her throat.

I coughed loudly for silence before continuing. “Now, do the children have access to a computer?”

“I just told you they did!” said Smith pointedly.

I held up my hand. “I’d like to hear it from the children.”

“We have access to a computer,” Robert intoned in a robotic voice.

“A real computer?” I asked. “Not something else your father has knocked up. For instance does it have a proper monitor with something like a Dell or Acer logo on it – not one that says EtchaSketch?” I laughed at my little joke, but it went over the children’s heads. I wrote “unable to recognise parody” on my form. In my opinion that can often become quite a handicap.

“It’s a proper computer,” Robert said.

“I’ve looked up Fifi,” chimed in Miranda.

I imagined Smith had been showing her the recommendations for personal examination proposed by Baroness Delyth Morgan, until he explained it’s some sort of flower fairy TV character.

I wrote down “unsupervised / unrestricted internet access condoned” on my clipboard.

…TO BE CONTINUED…

ARRANGING AN INSPECTION

2009-07-17T14:06:00.000-07:00

Bit of a contretemps with a Big Issue seller outside Marks & Spencer this morning. Now don’t get me wrong, I have total sympathy for these people, but that’s no excuse for poor grammar.

“Big Shoe,” she was calling out. “This week’s Big Shoe.”

I hurried across. “Excuse me, what are you saying?”

“Big Shoe,” she repeated, waving a copy in my face.

I pointed to my wife a couple of paces away. “Can you see that lady shaking her head with her hand over her eyes? That’s because she doesn’t understand what you are selling!”

“It isn’t!” hissed my wife.

I took the magazine from the vendor and pointed to the masthead.

“Big ISSUE! See? Not, Big SHOE, Big ISSUE. Now, say it again properly.”

“Are you going to buy that one then?” she asked, holding out her hand expectantly.

“That’s not the issue, is it?”

“You just said it was! £1.50 please.”

“I imagine you were home educated,” I said sadly. “It’s not really your fault.”

The vendor was looking at me with a dark expression. “I’m not ‘Home’ anything. That’s the whole point, isn’t it! I don’t have a home. If you’re talking about school, then it may interest you to know that I went to Roedean.”

I was irritated to hear my wife snort behind me. Deciding that there was little point in continuing the conversation I harrumphed and began walking away.

“Stop thief!” yelled the vendor. I thought she had gone mad until I realised I was still holding the magazine. I stopped abruptly, spun round and held it out apologetically. The vendor was right behind me and ended up receiving the magazine forcefully against her chest.

“Hey! What’s your game, then?”

“I really am terribly sorry, that was an accident.”

“I want my money!”

“I don’t want your magazine.”

“I can’t sell it now – it’s damaged. And you touched me in an inappropriate place. I know my rights!”

At this point my wife hurried over, extracting a £5 note from her purse. The vendor was drawing back her leg and taking aim.

***

When we pulled into the driveway I was still nursing bruised shins.

“I could have had the police on her, you know. That was unprovoked assault.”

“Not from her point of view.”

“She was still calling out ‘Big Shoe’ as we left – did you hear it?”

“Let it go, Badders please! Just give me a hand in with the shopping,.”

My wife headed for the door laden with a couple of bags while I chased a frozen chicken around the car boot. I had finally grabbed it when a voice “halloed” behind me. I jumped banging my head on the boot lid. Turning around I saw Smith heading for his front door carrying a toolbox.

“What did you say, Smith!”

He paused. “I said ‘Good morning’, Mr Badman.”

“Is it? Is it a good morning?” I advanced towards him.

“What’s that you have there? I sincerely hope it’s not part of another outlandish home-ed project. The children will be unable to find Scooby-Doo inside the television if they unscrew the back of it,” I laughed at my own little joke, but Smith regarded me stonily. No sense of humour these home-edders!

“They are building a robot,” he replied.

I stopped in my tracks.

“They can’t do that!”

“I know enough about electronics to show them how to attach a battery to a series of motors. You don’t need a degree in physics.”

“But you’re not qualified. What about health and safety? That screwdriver looks sharp for a start. What if one of your children falls over? What if they start fighting?”

“You are being ridiculous.”

“Are they wearing safety gear?”

“They’re only assembling a simple kit. They aren’t using arc welding equipment.”

“I’m relieved to hear it!”

“That’s next week’s lesson.”

“Oh my God!”

“They don’t need any special safety gear for what they are working on today. Most of the model is cardboard and Blu-tack.”

“Blu Tack? Then they certainly need safety goggles.”

“Oh come off it.”

“Goggles, gloves, flame retardant aprons and safety shoes. Make them sign out each screwdriver too, so you can make sure they all get returned.”

Smith was looking at me oddly. “Is that how it’s done in school, then?”

“Certainly not! It’s best not to let the children anywhere near dangerous equipment. No, it should be demonstrated by the teacher whilst the pupils watch and write about it. AND…” I held up my hand for increased dramatic effect, “The fun part is they get to draw a picture!”

Smith nodded, but there was a scowl on his face I couldn’t fathom. He turned to go inside.

“Wait, Smith! As the chairman of BECTA I demand to know more about this robot!”

Smith paused, staring at the front of his house for a moment before spinning back to me. He marched a couple of steps closer, put the toolbox down and folded his arms.

“All right. You win! I have had enough of this.”

“You’ll send them back to school?”

“What? No of course I won’t send them back to school. What I will do is allow you to see the children, because I’ve had enough of your narrow-minded, blinkered attitude. You can see them, you can talk to them. You can ask them about their home education. I'll even bring some examples of their work. We can meet at a suitable, neutral environment; cafe or library - you can choose.”

“I need to see them in the teaching environment so that I can determine if it’s suitable,” I said, waving the frozen chicken at his front door.

“It’s a semi-detached house joined onto yours! It’s identical. There aren’t dungeons, secret sweat shops or chains and whips! But no… no you’re right. You can come in. You can inspect the environment. Although I’m totally opposed to state interference and inference, you can come in.”

“Because you know deep down I’m right!” I smiled triumphantly. I started heading for the gate.

“Not now!” Smith moaned. “We’re in the middle of something. We don’t have time for being interrogated with a frozen chicken. We will agree an appointment.”

I took exception to this. “Smith, if people know they have an appointment to be inspected they have time to prepare. They make sure they only present those facets of establishment and policy that show them in an unrealistically favourable light.”

“You're a former school inspector, so you should know..."

“Exactly!....No, wait…. That’s different!”

Smith sighed heavily. “All right. Tomorrow afternoon then. 2pm.”

“No, that’s not how it works. I make the appointment!”

He watched me through half-lidded eyes.

“Tomorrow afternoon. 1.50pm,” I declared.

Without another word, Smith picked up the toolbox and headed back to his front door.

I hefted the frozen chicken delightedly as I headed for my own house. I was already formulating a list of questions for the children.

ADDRESSING LEGITIMATE CONCERNS

2009-07-08T12:06:00.000-07:00

I sat holding my head in my hands as my wife stood regarding me from the doorway.

“Are you alright, Badders?” she asked with concern.

“No… headache…”

I sighed heavily and stood up, pacing across to the French windows. I had to get that Tupperware box back. Perhaps if I explained to Smith. He seems halfway reasonable for a home-edder. He could even pass for normal given the right lighting. My mind made up, I strode out of the lounge and headed for the front door.

After I had rung Smith’s bell, I calmed myself with a quiet mantra. “I am an expert. I have done nothing wrong. I am admired for what I know. School Education is good.” I was quite pleased. I especially liked the last two lines. Perhaps there were the beginnings of a speech there for when I am made a peer. I tried again a little louder. “I am admired for what I know. School education is good.”

Unfortunately Smith chose to answer the front door when I was half way through.

“….know. School education is good!”

“Eh? ‘No school education is good’? What’s this, a change of heart, Mr Badman?”

“…I was just…rehearsing…for something….look there’s something I need to discuss with you. Don’t try and confuse me with your home-ed nonsense. Could I come in?”

“We’ve been through this already. I’m not prepared to let you in. The children are safe, well cared for and receiving tuition as detailed in the educational philosophy we provided to the local authority.”

“But I need to come in!”

“No – you do not.”

“I demand to be allowed in.”

“Will you please lower your voice? The children are still in the process of de-stressing from the overbearing intimidation meted out by the state education process. They have a deep mistrust of authority, especially where it is enforced by belligerence and shouting.”

“I don’t want to see the children! I want to see….your… um… sandwich boxes…”

“My what? My God, my wife was only saying the other day that you lot will want to examine the contents of our fridges next in case there are grounds for dietary abuse.”

“No….its….ah…it’s not the contents…. So much as the utensils they come in… Plastic boxes. I’d like to see your… um… your… plastic container collection….”

Smith’s eyebrows knitted over severely narrowed eyes.

“My plastic container collection?”

“I….like….plastic….containers.” My voice seemed to be deteriorating into a whispering squeak. I was appalled to hear myself say; “I…collect them. I wondered if you had any…to spare…. They don’t have to be empty… I ….like… cleaning….them….”

“Are you feeling unwell?”

“Mmmmm….. headache….lie down….”

“Yes – I think you better had!”

“Could I… come in there and….lie down?”

“Among the plastic containers?”

“Yes!.....or…or indeed….no…”

We were both distracted by the arrival of a police car pulling up to the kerb. Two officers climbed out and began walking up the garden path. I don’t know why I did it, but I put my hand over my face and ran past them, back to the safety of my own property.

I rushed into the back garden. I now had only moments to try and redeem the situation once and for all. Grabbing my folding ladder from the shed I put it up next to the fence as close as I could to Smith’s property. Racing up the steps I peered into their garden. Thankfully it was empty and I had a clear view of the conservatory. Peering at a wicker coffee table inside, my heart missed a beat. I wasn’t certain, but it looked like the Tupperware box on top.

I quickly ran back into the house, retrieved my expert-standard binoculars and was back at the top of the ladder in less than two minutes. Fumbling with the focus, I nearly fell twice and had to grip the ladder hard to steady myself. What on earth was the matter with the blasted things? Perhaps I needed to focus on something further away and then bring them back to bear on the coffee table.

I tried looking at the chimney pot. That was better, but still blurred. I tried the next house over. Now it was much clearer and I lowered the angle of the binoculars a little.

Greatly puzzled, I seemed to be looking at something resembling rice pudding, but more yellow. It was moving, which was even more confusing. As I stared, a pudgy hand came into view and began squeezing lumps of the ugly mess. Greatly intrigued, I spun the wheel to pull the magnification back a bit…

I found myself staring at Old Mrs Mort through an upstairs window. She had removed the top half of her frock, her upper torso bulging against formidable looking undergarments. She was massaging some sort of medicinal cream into the thick folds of her upper arms, but had frozen to the spot now that she had seen me at the top of my ladder watching her through expert-standard binoculars!

With mounting horror I dropped the binoculars and began waving wildly.

“I’m not spying on you, Mrs Mort, I wouldn’t do anything as disgusting as that! Not….not that I’m saying you’re disgusting…no, no no! I mean you’re very…um… you know! I mean if I was twenty years older….no, no, no…that’s not what I mean…”

Her mouth was opening – she was going to scream!

I waved my hands frantically. I suspect I may have looked like a large bald headed bird with a small distinguished beard.

“Look, you silly woman. I’m not interested in you!” I waved the binoculars at Smith’s conservatory. “I’m trying to get a better look at Smith’s lunchbox!”

She threw back her head and screamed. Several times!

In panic, I overbalanced on the ladder and tumbled headfirst into Smith’s garden. Fortunately, I was unobserved (I found out later it was because the entire Smith family plus the two police officers had rushed to Old Mrs Mort’s aid). Something seemed to take over my body and I found myself opening the door to their conservatory – grabbing the Tupperware box from the table and rushing back to the garden.

With no ladder on this side I was forced to improvise. The Smiths have a circular trampoline and I began bouncing vigorously. I sincerely hope this does not constitute the full extent of their provision for physical education.

Sadly, the sight of me bouncing up and down clutching a Tupperware container of dead guinea pig did nothing to settle Old Mrs Mort who was now screaming loud enough to set off several dogs in the neighbourhood. I must say she has impressive lung capacity for someone in whalebone stays!

Finally achieving the correct velocity and trajectory (something I imagine the Smith children would struggle to calculate); I leapt back over the fence. Unfortunately one foot came down in the fish pond, but at least the Tupperware box and I were intact.

Old Mrs Mort had lapsed into silence (I learned later that she had apparently entered a catatonic state of shock and hasn’t uttered a sound since).

I quickly hid the ladder and rushed back into the sanctuary of my house.

My wife was observing the commotion in the Avenue through the net curtains as two burly police offices broke down Old Mrs Mort’s front door. I shoved the box under a cushion and made out I was nonchalantly reading the paper.

Autonomous Ed sat at my feet and the stupid creature began licking my wet shoe. Perhaps it was an attempt to say sorry.

“I don’t know what on earth is going on out there!” my wife said.

“Hmmm?” I asked, feigning bored disinterest.

“I said….Good heavens, what is that cat doing?” she asked, turning her eyes back into the lounge.

Autonomous Ed had finally succeeded in retrieving a goldfish from my sock and was glaring at me in triumph.

After all I’ve done for that animal!

BENEFITS OF PUBLIC SCHOOL EDUCATION

2009-07-03T09:38:00.000-07:00

I went down to the newsagent very early this morning. It’s not that I’m avoiding people – I’ve done nothing wrong – it’s just that people sometimes seem to misunderstand the things I’ve done right!

I tiptoed quickly past next door. It’s been several days since the guinea pig debacle, but I couldn’t help glancing at the doorstep, half expecting the Tupperware box to still be there. It wasn’t, of course…

I intended to tiptoe past old Mrs Mort’s house too, but I simply had to stop to admire her clematis. I noticed the bedroom curtain twitching and glanced up to find Mrs Mort observing me sternly. I beamed my best reassuring smile, threw my arms wide and mouthed, “Beautiful!” but she jumped back visibly. I hurriedly tried to indicate the clematis, but she drew the curtains surprisingly quickly for someone in a hairnet and curlers.

Finally, I tiptoed past the Rev. Thomas’ house. I’m sure it’ll all blow over in time, but better to let him make the first move.

I stood in a small queue waiting to pay for my Daily Mail. I was delighted to note that Sir John St John, our local nobility, was paying for his paper ahead of me. I allowed myself an inner smile. Ed Balls has promised me a peerage (that was the deal for writing the report he wanted me to write), so soon I’ll be able to sit alongside Sir John in the House of Lords. Lord Badman. Sir Graham Badman. Not before time, though. I wonder if Sir John would be willing to give me a lift in his Bentley.

Stan, the newsagent was wittering on about some rubbish he’d been listening to on a radio phone in.

“It’s all a lot of nonsense if you ask me,” Stan, was saying. “I’ve never gone in for all that psychic stuff.”

“Hmmmm?” Sir John was counting out coins, clearly only half listening.

“I think the young woman must have been on drugs – don’t you agree? Sex with a ghost – what a ridiculous claim.”

“Ah…. What? What did you say? On the radio was it? Good Lord, that takes me back! I remember many a pleasant evening. Course, I wouldn’t have gone on the radio and bragged about it! Kept it to myself. People wouldn’t understand, you see. Young people today – very brash. I didn’t tell a soul for years.”

“Are you saying you think it’s true?” Stan was open mouthed.

“Of course! Done it meself, several times. I just explained that, didn’t I?”

Stan handed over Sir John’s change, still staring incredulously at him. “You’ve had sex with a ghost?”

“……GHOST?..... Sorry, old boy, I thought you said GOAT.”

Sir John quickly exited while I re-evaluated if I would want to accept a lift in his Bentley after all. Stan was still staring through the open door as I handed over the correct money for my paper.

“Did you hear that? My God, you have to wonder what goes on in public school, don’t you?”

“You surely don’t think deviant behaviour is encouraged at public school, Stan?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know. I went to the local secondary and we didn’t have goat molesters there. We had everything else, mind!” he added with a low chuckle.

“But at least you were safe,” I pointed out. “Not like all these children in home education. Who knows what goes on there? All sorts of atrocities. Did you know it’s a cover for child abuse? Physical, verbal…. all sorts.”

“I didn’t realise that. Funny, I can think of lots of instances in the news where it’s gone on involving teachers and church officials, but I don’t remember an instance with a home-ed kid.”

“Oh you don’t need physical proof. It’s the opinion of a leading expert in the field. What more evidence do you need? Ask yourself why these kids aren’t in school in the first place.”

“Cos a lot of schools are rubbish and fail the children on lots of levels?”

“How dare you!” I snatched my paper off the counter. “I shall give serious consideration to taking my custom elsewhere in future.”

Stan shrugged. “Your choice. That Mr Smith comes in here with his kids. They live next door to you, don’t they?”

“Yes they do and there’s a case in point. You DO know they’re home educated?”

“Yes. They’re nice kids. Very polite, seem ever so intelligent. Never any trouble, either. I can’t say that for the local school kids.”

He pointed to a notice on the window. It stated that no more than two children from the local school would be permitted on the premises at any one time.

“If you ask me, schools are a breeding ground for bad behaviour and attitude.”

“Well I didn’t ask you! I do not need your limited opinion. I am an expert, I need no-one’s opinion, thank you very much.”

“D’you know what Mr Smith told me yesterday?”

“No,” I hissed. I just wanted to get away. I should have just walked out.

“Some sicko left a dead, mutilated hamster on their doorstep. Stuffed in a Tupperware box an’ all! I’ll bet that wasn’t done by a home-ed kid!”

“It was a guinea pig, not a hamster. And it wasn’t mutilated, it was simply covered in someone’s blood.”

“He said it was a hamster.”

“Well that rather proves my point, doesn’t it? How can you entrust the education of young minds to a man who doesn’t know the difference between a mutilated hamster and a blood stained guinea pig!”

“They would have taught them in school to recognise the difference would they?”

I opened my mouth to respond – but found I had lost the will. I sighed.

“It must have been unpleasant for them. Family pet, too,” I said.

“Eh? Well, someone’s family anyway,” he responded.

“What? You mean it… it WASN’T theirs?!?”

“No. They don’t know who it belonged to.”

My head was reeling so much I missed the next thing he said and had to get him to repeat it.

“I said they’ve called in the police. Forensics, I shouldn’t wonder. Could be a big story in the papers. Who knows, I might need to take on extra staff!”

When I arrived home Autonomous Ed was sitting on the front wall. I’ll swear he was smiling. After all that animal’s done to me!

EDUCATIONAL PHILOSOPHY AND PROVISION

2009-06-25T10:47:00.000-07:00

I came rushing down the stairs when the phone started ringing. My wife was reaching out to the instrument, but I yelled at her to leave it and snatched it up. I’d been waiting for this. All through my bath I’d been planning what I was going to say. It was no surprise when a wheedling voice enquired;

“Hello? Is that Muh-Mr Buh-bare-bare-badman?”

“No, this is not Mr Bare-bare-badman. Mr Bare-bare-badman does not live here, you intellectually challenged mollusc. Neither does Mr Madman, Mr Batman or Mr Bedpan. You’ll find no-one here called Sadman, Crabman, Fatman, Splatman, Taxman, Ratman, Catman, Saucepan or Katmandu. I will not deign to converse with morons who call up spouting verbal diarrhoea in stupid, squeaky voices. You are an odious, pathetic non-entity with the intelligence level of a pine cone. If you ever call here again I will track you down and personally see to it that you receive the full frontal lobotomy that you so richly deserve and that will no doubt result in a doubling of your I.Q!”

I slammed the phone back into its cradle, drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly with a sense of achievement. I strode purposefully into the kitchen, beamed at my wife and kissed her on the forehead.

“Are you feeling unwell, Badders?” she asked with concern.

“Me? Not a bit of it. I feel really good. In fact I feel so good that I think I won’t have my usual Choco Straws for breakfast, my dear. No – I think a boiled egg is in order this morning.”

I almost skipped to the kitchen table and grasped the handle of the saucepan waiting for me there.

An icy hand of dread ran its fingers up my spine and plucked the small hairs at the base of my neck. I turned stricken eyes to my wife who stared uncomprehendingly at me.

“Whatever’s wrong?” she said.

With nerveless fingers I grabbed the saucepan lid. Trembling slightly, I raised it an inch or two and peered within. I slammed it back in place and leapt back as though electrocuted.

“Badders?” She touched my arm and looked at the saucepan in bewilderment.

“It’s still in there.” I said.

She reached out and pulled the lid off the saucepan allowing us both to stare at its occupant. The guinea pig stared back at us with sightless eyes. The blood from my scratched hand had congealed in its fur forming stained, dried spikes that stuck out at odd angles. Rigor mortis had pulled its lips back from its teeth giving it a terrifyingly angry sneer. One little paw was raised in a frozen poise of accusation.

“You’ll have to take it back.” She said quietly.

“Are you insane woman? They’re home-edders! I’m Graham Badman. They’ll think I did it deliberately. My God – what if they go to the papers?”

“I still think you ought to take it back. Perhaps if you explain….”

“Explain! How’s that going to come across? ‘Excuse me, Smith, but as you liked my idea for studying Scooby-Doo so much I thought you might be interested in my next idea. I thought your children might like to dissect your guinea pig which I seem to have asphyxiated in my saucepan having first marinated it in my own blood.’ ”

“You suggested they study Scooby-Doo?”

I waved an arm impatiently, “Not now….!”

“I wonder if it did die from suffocation,” she mused.

“What? What?! No, perhaps you’re right. Maybe it couldn’t face the shame of living in a house of home-edders and decided to end it all. Hang on, I’ll have another look. Maybe there’s a suicide note scratched onto a sunflower seed!”

“There’s no need to take that tone, I’m only wondering if it was shock rather than suffocation. You did say the cat brought it in, before you smothered it in blood and stuffed it in a saucepan.”

“You’re not helping, you know.”

We both stood gazing at the unfortunate cavy. It continued to stare back with its glazed eyes.

“No – sorry, Badders. You have to take it back.”

“Really? Couldn’t we just…. um….”

“If you’re about to suggest flushing it down the loo, you can forget it!”

“No, of course not. But we could put it in a bin bag and…”

“No!”

“But they’re home-edders!”

“So?”

“They’ll do something weird with it!”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“You don’t know what they’re like. I’ve talked to them. They’ll see this as an opportunity for a ‘learning experience’. They’ll be making a coffin out of paper mache and composing a eulogy.”

“You’re being ridiculous!”

“No I’m not. They’ll dig a big hole in the garden and sing sad songs while the children shake maracas and tambourines and blow kazoos. And you know the worst part of all? They’ll dress it up in their next report to the local education authority as part of their educational philosophy and provision.”

“Nonsense!”

“No it isn’t. They’ll say its art and craftwork, creative writing, music tuition and bloody gardening!”

My wife put the lid back on the saucepan. “It goes back,” she said firmly. “Now!”

“Oh….. must I?..... I thought I might just….”

“NOW!”

I sighed and picked up the saucepan. This wasn’t going to be a success. I went through the kitchen door with a heavy heart.

Autonomous Ed was sitting by the front gate washing himself.

“This is all your fault!” I moaned. He stopped washing, one paw held in mid air and glared at me from lowered eyelids (after all I’ve done for that animal!) I waved the saucepan at him threateningly. “You did this.”

He actually backed away. He clearly thought I was going to throw it at him. Delighted, I waved it at him more vigourously and ran towards him. I stumbled. The lid went flying over the gate and rolled down the pavement. I only just stopped the guinea pig following it, leaped over the gate and raced after the lid.

It came to a very noisy halt, colliding with Old Mrs Mort on her way to the postbox. She looked at it and then slowly drew herself up to regard me with a suspicious eye. Mindful that our recent meetings had gone none too smoothly I gave her my most you-can-trust-me-I’m-an-expert smile and stooped to retrieve the lid.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs Mort,” I said “Must keep the lid on my…er casserole. Don’t want it going cold, do we?”

She peered into the open saucepan and gave a strange little cry. I thought she was going to scream and rushed to calm her, but she fled surprisingly quickly for someone who bulk buys anti-chafing cream.

Finally arriving at Smith’s front door I rang the bell with a sense of trepidation. He opened the door without offering any greeting and regarded me owlishly.

“Hello, Smith. I was just wondering what you might be doing with the children.”

“Here we go again,” he sighed through gritted teeth.

“No, no, no. You misunderstand. I just wondered if….ummm…..gardening? At all?”

“What on earth are you implying?”

“A bit of singing, maybe. It’s a nice day. In the garden…nature….biology…spot of dissection, perhaps…..no, no, no NOT dissection. Sorry, I was thinking of something else.”

“Look is there some point to all this? I’m in the middle of showing the kids how to rewire a plug. I don’t really have time for being harassed with a saucepan.”

“Rewire a plug? Good Lord, is that safe? I mean where are they going to plug it when they’ve finished?”

Do you know the insolent man actually closed the door in my face! I was left there with the saucepan. I slunk back home, but fortunately my wife had gone out to the W.I. Quickly decanting the guinea pig into a Tupperware container I sneaked back to Smith’s front door and quietly left it on the step.

I kept a low profile for the remainder of the day.

“What on earth have you done to upset Rev. Thomas?” my wife demanded when she returned home.

“Nothing!” I was baffled. “I haven’t seen the man for days.”

“It’s a funny thing – but when he’s really angry his stutter completely disappears.”

“His….stutter…?”

“Apparently he phoned here this morning to discuss your spell checker problem and you were incredibly rude to him. Quite frankly he told me you can stick your computer…” and she went on to describe something anatomically impossible.

Odd that. I’d have thought a man of the Rev. Thomas’ education would have had a better grasp of human physiology.

OPPORTUNITIES FOR LEARNING

2009-06-22T13:22:00.000-07:00

According to my wife, Rev. Thomas is something of an I.T. whiz. She’s going to speak to him later and ask him to give me a call about my spell checker. He’s a lovely man. It’s such a shame about his very pronounced stutter. And yet he’s always cheerful. An inspiration for all of us.

Most people who own cats are used to them bringing home little presents of mice and birds. Frogs and toads appear to be Autonomous Ed’s specialty. I’ve spent many an hour on my knees coaxing a petrified amphibian from under the sideboard. On one memorable occasion the stupid creature even brought a grass snake in. However, even this did not prepare me for the sight that met my eyes in the kitchen this morning.

“You boy! What have you got there?”

Autonomous Ed lowered his head and stared sullenly at me. The terrified animal clamped in his jaws struggled frantically and plopped onto the quarry tiles. It skittered across the floor in a desperate escape bid. The cat was after it in a flash, batting it with a paw and sending it flying. It landed upside down at my feet and I quickly scooped it up, getting my hand quite badly clawed by Autonomous Ed in the process (after all I’ve done for that animal!)

A few moments later I carried the victim into the sitting room. It seemed unaware that it was safe and continued to wriggle madly. In the process it was becoming quite sticky with the blood from my wound.

My wife looked up from her crossword puzzle.

“Good grief, Badders! What are you doing?”

“It’s a guinea pig,” I explained.

“Oh my God, it’s covered in blood! What the devil are you doing to it?”

“I think it belongs to that home-ed lot next door.”

“Well, surely that’s no reason to kill it. Good grief, there are laws, Badders. I don’t care what you feel about home education, that’s not right!”

“I’m not trying to kill it, you silly woman! That’s my blood I’m covering it in!”

“Whatever for, they’re vegetarian aren’t they?”

She really can be very obtuse sometimes. I spoke slowly and in measured tones.

“When I picked it up, I got badly scratched…” she opened her mouth but I held up my hand for silence. “NOT by the guinea pig, by the cat. I need you to get me a plaster, but first I need something to put the guinea pig in.”

She rushed into the kitchen and I could hear cupboard doors banging frantically. She hurried back clutching a large saucepan. I raised an eyebrow in question, but she merely shrugged.

“What do you want me to do, Badders? I’m all out of guinea pig cages!”

I carefully placed the guinea pig in the pan and it started to scrabble at the sides. I didn’t think it would be able to get out, but to be safe I put the lid on and went off to get a plaster.

On the way back from the bathroom the phone rang.

“Hello, is that Mr Bedpan?”

“Look, will you please stop calling this number. I am not amused by your childish nonsense and quite frankly I’m starting to get very irritated.”

“Calm down, Mr Bedpan. Don’t get flushed!”

“There – you see! You aren’t even consistent. A toilet flushes, a bedpan does NOT. If you’d paid more attention in school you might at least have been able to construct a well thought out prank that built to a logical conclusion.”

“Yeah, I see what you’re saying. That’s the trouble with a bedpan. It’s not much to go on, is it? Ha ha ha!” *CLICK*

That’s it! I swear if I get one more of these calls there will be repercussions. I was quite flustered. What with this spell checker business, the guinea pig incident and having to put up with home-edders lowering house prices in the Avenue (we’ll never be able to sell) my head ached.

“I’m going for a walk,” I announced as I breezed through the sitting room. “I need some fresh air…”

I only got as far as the front gate. I could smell smoke. Looking back at the house I realised the smell was coming from next door. Tentatively, I opened their gate. I started to walk up the path, sniffing as I took each step, then pausing a moment. It was an elusive smell and I found that by moving my head one way or the other it was either stronger or fainter. Sometimes it was barely noticeable and I had to sniff quite loudly to detect it at all. If I took a big stride sideways it also seemed stronger and a couple of quick sniffs confirmed my suspicions. A big stride backwards and a long, drawn-out sniff confirmed it was fainter again. A movement caught my eye and I turned to find Old Mrs Mort on her way back from the postbox staring at me in alarm.

Panic and a desire not to draw any attention seemed to deny me the power of coherent speech.

“Home education…..” I hissed, waving a finger at Smith’s front door. “Smell that!” I sniffed loudly a few times to encourage her to do the same. Her mouth made a small “o” shape and she started to edge backwards.

“No, don’t scream!” I squeaked and rushed to her, but she hurried off surprisingly quickly for someone in support stockings.

This was clearly a ridiculous way to proceed. After all, I have nothing to hide. Any right-thinking individual can see it is Smith who is suspect, so I strode confidently to his front door and rang the bell. The smell of smoke was very much stronger this close to the house.

The door opened and Smith gazed at me with that infuriatingly open expression. No-one should look that approachable. Just what is he trying to conceal?

“Mr Smith – I’d like to know exactly what you’re doing in there. I have grave concerns for the safety and well-being of your children and strongly suspect you are engaged in activity that is contradictory to their welfare.”

Would you believe it? He raised an eyebrow as though I was the deviant!

“I would like you to allow me access to your house so that I may address directly the issues that concern me.”

He continued to regard me silently for a moment before he answered, “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘No’?”

“No, I won’t allow you access to my house.”

“Are you ‘home-edding’ now? Is that what the smell is?”

“We are currently engaged in an opportunity for learning that was prompted by the children themselves, yes.”

“Wha….by the children?! What sort of education system is it that allows the children to decide what they should learn? It takes experts to decide a curriculum, not children. What is they want to study? Scooby-Doo?”

He shrugged, apparently unconcerned.

“They aren’t studying. Though actually your suggestion about Scooby-Doo is quite inspired. My eldest is a brilliant young artist, way beyond the capabilities of the teacher at his last school. He’s very keen to learn about animation. The Scooby-Doo cartoon began as simple cell frame animation in the 1960s and has progressed to a largely CGI based graphics production. Along the way it encompassed live action, green screen integration allowing the producer to realise a convincing three dimensional interpretation of the original two dimensional medium. It would make an extremely interesting topic that he’ll find fascinating. Thank you very much, Mr Badman.”

“But….but….but it’s a cartoon. You can’t study cartoons! It’s not a school subject!”

“Ah ha and I think you’re beginning to see our point.”

“No I am NOT!” I was deeply insulted.

“And what are you teaching the children today, Smith? How to build an atom bomb? Is that what the smoke is? Or perhaps it’s a history lesson and you’re re-enacting Joan of Arc!”

One up to me, I think.

“Actually, Mr Badman, there’s nothing in the process of uranium enrichment that would produce the type of smoke you are concerned about. Atom bombs don’t explode by lighting the blue touch paper! Also, my children aren’t interested in history, so we don’t bother with it in the formal sense.”

“Not learn history? Have you any idea of the damage you are doing to your children?”

“When I was at school I studied the rise of communist China, the history of Greek medicine and the decline of the cotton weaving industry,” Smith said.

“Exactly. Good sensible school curriculum subjects.” I nodded in approval.

“I can’t remember a single fact about any one of them. Not once have I needed to use any of that knowledge since leaving school. I have an O’Level in History yet I couldn’t put the Kings and Queens of England in chronological order. What exactly was the point of what I learned, Mr Badman?”

“It was the school curriculum.” I proudly explained, but he was shaking his head slowly and sadly at me.

An attractive young woman of about thirty appeared behind him in the hallway. She was wearing a blue and white striped apron and held a spatula.

“Are you ready, darling?” she asked. “The barbecue is at the right temperature and the children want to put the sausages on…”

“Barbecue…? The smoke!” I nodded as the penny dropped.

“The smoke,” said Smith nodding back. “Goodbye, Mr Badman.”

I was left staring at the door which closed in my face. To my horror I could hear Smith calling to his children, “Mr Badman from next door has come up with a splendid suggestion for a project……”

I returned home feeling a little disappointed. It could have gone better, but at least I feel he is starting to take my concerns on board.

AN INTRUSION INTO PERSONAL PRIVACY

2009-06-19T08:52:00.000-07:00

I was sitting in bed this morning drinking a cup of tea, when Autonomous Ed wandered in. He sat down near the wardrobe, glaring at me. After a moment of retching, that quite put me off my cuppa, he coughed a large hairball into my slipper! I was absolutely speechless. After all I’ve done for that animal! I’ll swear he smiled at me and then swaggered out.

Breakfast was disappointing. I couldn’t find my “Mr Tickle” cereal bowl anywhere (but I have my suspicions).

I met the Rev Thomas in the High Street. Nice chap. Really terrible stutter, it must be very difficult for him. He’s always cheerful though. There’s a lesson there.

The youth that served me in PC World appeared to have curvature of the spine and a bizarre speech impediment of his own. After nearly every sentence he grunted something that sounded like “ya-gemmie.”

“Most probably a virus or summink, ya-gemmie?” he opined.

“I beg your pardon? Did you say it was a virus?”

“Yeah. You ‘ave t’be careful what sites you visit, ya-gemmie? You have to arkse yourself if it’s safe, ya-gemmie?”

“I’m sorry… did you say ‘arkse’? I’m not sure I’m following this…”

“No worries, chief. I can sell you some software, ya-gemmie?”

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but were you home educated by any chance?”

“Nah, mate, Hamperleigh Grammar School.”

“Good God…”

“I ‘ated it!” he went on “Couldn’t see no point in half wot they learned us, ya-gemmie? All I left wiv was a GCSE in woodwork an’ a ASBO in intimidation.”

“Worryingly, I see this sort of situation far too often,” I told him sadly. “It very clearly demonstrates a total failure in parenting.”

“Ya what?”

“It is the responsibility of parents to ensure their children enjoy the school experience. Are you seriously telling me that you didn’t learn anything?”

He thought for a moment. Actually, he thought for quite a while. I’ll be honest; he stood staring into space for so long I wondered if he’d suffered some kind of a seizure.

“Oh yeah, there was this one fing I learned.”

I was reassured.

“Dave Collins showed me how to hack the security lock on a nicked mobile phone. It was well wicked...”

“I was actually hoping for something you learned from a teacher.”

He looked confused. “Dave Collins WAS a teacher.”

“What!”

“Maffs….’e taught maffs, ya-gemmie?”

Eventually I returned home £35 worse off, but reassured that my spell checker issues would soon be eliminated.

The phone was ringing as I came in.

“Hello? Could I speak to Mr Batman?”

“What? Look is this the same person that called before?”

“I just need to speak to Mr Batman. I need to tell him it’s ready.”

“What are you talking about? Tell him what’s ready?”

“Dinner.”

“Dinner?!?!?”

“Yeah! Dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, Batman! Ha ha ha!” *CLICK*

I’m not going to stand for much more of this. I’ve been very patient with these crank calls, but they’ll suffer my wrath if it doesn’t stop happening.

I inserted the CD for my new anti-virus / anti-spyware program into the computer and it began installing. After some time I was prompted to accept the licence agreement.

Have you ever actually read one of these agreements? I was outraged. This software company actually assumes the right to access information about me and inspect my files and settings. It interrogates my hard drive and gathers data that it doesn’t have to share with me and then stores that information for as long as it likes. Potentially, it could hold data on me forever!

It determines if my processing speed is adequate and my provision for memory meets whatever standards it dictates. If it feels my system doesn’t meet this requirement it can refuse to install.

Even more insulting is the statement that failing to comply with the licence is regarded as an illegal act. In such an eventuality it will communicate in secret with the software developer and furnish them with a full and detailed report.

Who do these people think they are? How dare they inflict an arbitrary set of regulations and dress them up as a mechanism for support and protection?

I had to agree to the licence, just to continue doing something I had every right to be doing. It’s regulation gone mad, if you ask me.

After all that, I don’t know what this spyware thing is supposed to have achieved – but my spell checker issues are worse now then before I installed it!

I sat down and wrote a very stern letter to the manager of PC World… but I don’t think I can send it.

Every instance of the word “spyware” has been changed to “underwear”.

Dear Sir,

I wish to express extreme dissatisfaction with your recommendations for resolving my underwear problem.

I was assured by your senior sales manager, Darren that good underwear protection would resolve embarrassing issues I have been experiencing. Apparently underwear requires frequent cleaning, which I had never considered.

However your underwear product has done nothing to enhance my performance and left me feeling quite sore!

I am now considering wiping everything clean and avoiding underwear altogether

Yours,

G. Badman,
Expert

I really am quite cross. I wonder if I could use the computer next door to send some emails?

GAINING THE CONFIDENCE OF HOME EDUCATORS

2009-06-17T15:14:00.000-07:00

The day started badly when I awoke from a particularly disturbing dream. I was trying to gain access to the Big Brother House to ensure the Housemates were meeting the five ECMs, but was being obstructed by that McCall woman.

I had a bath to calm myself down, but couldn't find my favourite ducky anywhere. (I have my suspicions). I also have the nasty feeling that my spell checker is on the blink. Either that or someone in this house has been teaching it new words. I was typing an email to Ed Balls earlier and the alternative spelling it provided for "Balls" was nothing short of a damned disgrace! I shall be speaking to PC World in due course!

My wife stood watching me when I had a glass up to the dividing wall.

"Badders, what are you doing dear?" (I do wish she wouldn't call me Badders).

"Shhhh. I'm listening to next door."

"Spying, you mean?"

"Certainly not! I'm merely trying to ascertain if they are engaged in the unsuitable practice of home education, based on your statement from the other day."

"And can you tell?"

"Well......it's very suspiciously quiet....in fact I can't hear anything at all....And you know what that means, don't you?"

"They're out..."

"They're almost certainly engaged in some perfidious practice that they'd rather keep secret. I notice we haven't actually SEEN the children today. Ask yourself why!"

"It's half past eight in the morning!"

"Exactly - what are they trying to hide?"

"They're out..."

"What?"

"They're out... they went out earlier, about half an hour ago. That's why you can't hear anything."

"Good grief, woman I do wish you'd furnish me with all the facts before you get me spying through the wall!"

The phone started to ring and I angrily snatched it off its cradle.

"Is that....er.....Mr Madman?"

"Are you trying to be funny?"

"Sorry? Is that Mr Madman or not?"

"No it certainly is not! Who is this?"

"I need to speak to Mr Madman.... Is he there?"

"There is no Madman here!"

"That's a matter of opinion, mate. Ha ha ha......." *CLICK*

I've been getting one or two crank calls like this since my report published. I was now so angry I decided to have it out with the neighbours as soon as they returned, which didn't happen until after lunch.

I knocked on the door, casting an expert eye over the state of the front garden and outside decor while I waited. The door was eventually opened by a chap in his mid thirties. My wife must have this wrong, I thought, this fellow looks quite normal!

"Hello, can I help you?" he asked with no trace of regional accent.

"Good afternoon Mr Smith, is it?" at which he nodded. "I'm Mr Badman from next door. I am an expert in education. I've written a report that you may have heard about in the news."

He was eyeing me with a neutral expression.

"I hope you don't mind me enquiring, but I've heard a rumour that I'd like to nip in the bud, so to speak. Before it gets out into the Avenue at large. About you. About you....ahem.....home educating your children!" I lowered my voice to minimise the offence.

"Yes, that's correct."

Can you believe it? He was almost brazen with it - as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

"But.... could you not get into the school of your choice?"

"We took the children out of school because it was failing them. It didn't provide for their educational needs and enforced an outdated regime that is unchanged from the 1950s. We believe the school system is fundamentally flawed. It stifles individuality and independent thought and fails to meet or nurture the educational, aspirational and ideological aims of young people in the 21st Century. It enforces a draconian state of authority and metes out punishment disproportionate to regulations belonging to a less sophisticated society. It consistently fails to address issues important to this generation by preserving its middle aged, middle class fossilised concept of education. Put succinctly, it is mis-managed by a set of misogynist, ante-deluvians incapable of adapting to today's challenges."

".......Did you not like the uniform at the local school? Because a lot of us experts in education believe that red is quite a vibrant colour..."

"It's got nothing to do with the uniform! Did you take in any of what I said? You compel the children to study subjects they have no interest in and that have no relevance whatsoever to the challenges and issues awaiting them when they leave school. You overload them with 15 hours or more of homework a week, fail to provide the necessary resource and punish any inability to regurgitate verbatim acres of mind-numbing boring data that is instantly forgotten and never revisited following each stage of the process. In the meantime you totally fail to equip them with the life skills essential to their eventual function as an adequate well-balanced member of society"

"....is it the parking, then? Are you able to access the school bus?..."

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Yes, yes, I assure you that I am.....something to do with bullying wasn't it? Look, I was bullied at school and it certainly didn't do me any harm. There's a lot of nonsense talked about how schools should address bullying. It's actually character building to be bullied. A rite of passage, if you like. I well remember having my head flushed down the lavatory on a regular basis and running home crying with my hair smelling of Toilet Duck. But they couldn't do it now, because I'm virtually bald. So who has the last laugh now, Norman Ecclesthwaite, eh!"

I had become quite heated, raising a clenched fist into the air and raising my voice.

Old Mrs Mort who was on her way to the post box clutched her handbag tightly and yelped. I tried to calm her down, but she ambled off surprisingly quickly when I rushed to her.

When I turned back to Smith's door he had closed it and gone back inside. I could have handled it a bit better - but at least I feel I've broken the ice.

I'll probably leave it a day or two before I ask to see the children though.

I started typing an email to Ed Balls. I wanted to express concern that home educators wreck and distort the issues outlined in my report. However, my spell checker kept replacing "wreck and distort" with "rectum disorder" so I had to give it up. I really must call PC World in the morning…

SUITABILITY OF PARENTS IN HOME EDUCATION

2009-06-16T11:07:00.000-07:00

I wandered into the kitchen this afternoon to see how my wife was progressing with the task I had assigned her. She was supposed to be covering my report with some old wallpaper to protect it, but didn't seem to have got very far. Not only that, but given it was past 1.15pm there was something else that immediately gave me concern.

"Are you chewing?" I demanded.

She looked suitably sheepish as she held up a Polo packet.

"In the bin. NOW! And give me that packet."

She handed it over and hurried to the pedal bin. I tucked the Polos into my top pocket while she returned to her seat.

"You may see me at the end of the week to get these back. Now, how are you getting on with covering my report?"

"Actually, I've been flicking through it and there are some parts of it that I don't understand."

I smiled in that reassuring I-am-an-expert kind of way and sat down opposite her at the kitchen table.

"This part about inspectors having the right to enter the home where a child is being educated..."

"Yes, go on."

"Is that really.... necessary....?"

"What?! Of course it's necessary. Who knows what sort of environment these children are being taught in? Listen, this may shock you, but I strongly suspect a lot of these homes don't have a proper blackboard!"

This didn't seem to shock her at all. She can be a funny woman sometimes.

"Not only that, but what about changing facilities? When it's time for P.E. there needs to be a proper area where the children can get changed."

"What about their bedrooms?"

I regarded her sadly with a slow shake of the head. She just doesn't think these things through.

"Unsupervised....? Have you any idea what kind of chaos that could lead to? Towel-flicking, clothes not hung up on pegs, shoes in the middle of the floor. And have you considered inappropriate behaviour?"

"Not recently," she sighed with a curiously wistful expression, I thought!

"Some of them might use it as an opportunity to get away with wearing jewellery or make up." I explained.

She leafed through the report a bit.

"And your concerns on the suitability of parents to teach children....?"

"Look, we need to ascertain what sort of views these children will be exposed to. What if the parents have strong religious or political views? They might not be the correct ones!"

"Such as....?"

"Challengers of authority! Anarchists, Communists, Maoists, Trotskyists, neo-Trotskyists, crypto-Trotskyists, union leaders, Communist union leaders, atheists, agnostics, long-haired weirdos, short-haired weirdos, vandals, hooligans, football supporters, tree huggers, muggers, tree-hugger-muggers, headshrinkers, real ale drinkers, punk rockers, glue-sniffers, dole-scroungers, vegetarians and people with ginger hair!"

If anything, she looked more alarmed.

"But applying your criteria, what would you be left with?" she asked. "Thugs, racists, bully-boys, psychopaths, sacked policemen, ex-security guards, disgraced prison officers, ex-military fascists, neo-fascists, crypto-fascists, loyalists, neo-loyalists, crypto-loyalists and people with rampant dandruff!"

"Exactly!" I proclaimed, "The backbone of the teaching profession!"

We were both distracted by the banging of the catflap. Our malevolent tomcat was heading for his bowl until he spotted me. He paused mid-stride to favour me with his normal baleful glare. I honestly don't know what it is with this animal. He seems fine with everyone else, but has a demonstrable lack of respect when it comes to me. I named him Edgar Allan Poe when we first got him, but my wife has taken to calling him "Autonomous Ed", which infuriates me!

He sat down on the quarry tiles and began licking his nether regions, one eye still fixed on me in open challenge! In the kitchen, I ask you!

"You see!" I waved a finger at the cat, "That's exactly the kind of thing we need to prevent. And not just that.... do you realise that in some of the homes where children are being educated the parents still..... they still have.... relations?!"

"Mother's coming on Saturday," she said. She can be quite obtuse at times.

"Sex!" I was becoming exasperated, "Imagine that!"

She got that strange wistful look in her eyes again. I swear I don't understand the woman at all sometimes.

"But even if everything you say was true," she said slowly, "wouldn't children at school still be exposed to all of that when they go home... and at weekends.... and during holidays?"

"Well now you're just being silly," I said. "You’re just trying to justify your own narrow viewpoint with unsubstantiated supposition."

"Yes, I see that," she admitted. "It really needs an expert to be able to do that sort of thing."

"Exactly!" I treated her to my full-on 'what-a-clever-girl' beam. "And I AM an expert!"

"Yes, dear..." she said, but in a strange and quiet way.

"Come on, now," I patted her hand. "Finish covering that report. It'll be breaktime soon and you can go outside and fetch the washing in."

She continued in silence for a moment while I grabbed a chalk from my pocket and threw it at Autonomous Ed.

"Oh... I nearly forgot," she said. "You know the new family that moved in next door? I was talking to the mother earlier. It appears that they're home educating their children....."

I'm sure she must have that wrong. This is a nice neighbourhood...!

A PHONE CALL FROM ED BALLS

2009-06-13T06:20:00.000-07:00

Ed Balls was very pleased with my report into Home Education. But that's no more than I would have expected (I am an expert, after all!)

He rang me as soon as he'd received it. "Badders, old chap!" he exclaimed (I do wish he wouldn't call me that...) "Just the ticket, mate!" (....mate..!!?!)

Anyway, it looks like HM Gov. will put all of my proposals into practice, which is no more than to be expected (I am an expert).

If there's one thing I really can't stand it's amateurs (I think they refer to themselves as 'parents') believing they know what's best for children.

The teaching profession was created for a very good reason and has been serving the best interests of children since its inception. How could these lentil-weaving, tree-hugging, dole-scrounging, home educators possibly believe the education they provide is equal? They don't have teaching qualifications!!! End of discussion...

Just look at the product of our secondary school system. Young adults, well-adjusted, peaceful, dedicated to the achievement of true excellence, which as you know can only be measured by examination results.

I explained all of this to Ed Balls on the phone, but I don't think he got it.

"Yeah, yeah, very interesting, Badders, but basically your report provided the whitewash we needed to force through legislation we had already prepared..."

"Whitewash?"

"Yeah, mate. Whitewash... It's a Government term for a full and balanced report by an expert chosen by the Government."

"I'm not sure I understand.... What are you implying. Because, I AM an expert you know..."

"Yeah, but only in state education."

This confused me. But Ed went on to elaborate;

"I mean how many kids have you personally home educated, Badders?"

I was deeply offended. What an outrageous and ugly suggestion.

"NONE!" I said, somewhat forcefully.

"Exactly! So you're not really an expert on education per se, are you? If we'd wanted a balanced report we'd never have asked you in the first place. We'd have also involved home educators in the process!"

I was beginning to get more and more confused.

"But I am an expert.....!"

"Yeah, yeah. We've been through all that."

"But what you're suggesting I've done would be similar to asking David Cameron to decide Labour party policy..."

"Yeah, exactly!"

"Or Abu Hamza to suggest changes to the Jewish religion...."

".....er.....yeah....... Look, must go. People to see, human rights to trample on, I'm sure you know the kind of thing. Bye, Badders, speak soon."

"Um, er, yes, right. Well if I could just say....."

"Missing you already." *CLICK*

I went into the lounge a little unsettled. Not something I'm used to at all. My wife called through to ask if I'd like ham or cheese sandwiches. She always asks me for guidance. I am an expert you see.

My head was still spinning when she placed the plate in front of me. So much so, I forgot to give her marks for food preparation and presentation.

"Cheer up, Badders!" she said. (I do wish she wouldn't call me that)...