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!
Showing posts with label proposals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label proposals. Show all posts
Monday, 17 May 2010
Saturday, 19 December 2009
THE CHRISTMAS CONFESSION
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?”
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?”
Saturday, 24 October 2009
CONSEQUENCES AND CONCLUSION (PART TWO)
“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!”
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!”
Saturday, 17 October 2009
CONSEQUENCES AND CONCLUSION (PART ONE)
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…
“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…
Saturday, 26 September 2009
OBSERVING SOCIAL INTERACTION
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!)
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
“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!”
Friday, 21 August 2009
THE IMPORTANCE OF FEEDBACK
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.
“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?”
Friday, 14 August 2009
WORKING WITH HOME EDDERS (PART THREE)
Although I felt I had clearly covered the importance of state secondary education, Robert Smith still didn’t seem to have grasped it.
Smith looked at me oddly.
“Nonsense!” said Smith with a smile. (Very thin lips, these home-edders have. Genetic defect perhaps…?)
“Oh. Well that looks very good. And this one? What about her outfit?”
“My rabbit.”
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!
Saturday, 8 August 2009
WORKING WITH HOME EDDERS (PART TWO)
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…
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