#oneaday Day 740: A Story About a Girl I Once Knew

Those of you who have been reading for a while will probably know I used to be a teacher. Those of you who are new to this blog… I used to be a teacher. Three years in secondary education, a term in primary.

I had a fairly hellish time for the most part, culminating in having a nervous breakdown and having to get signed off sick with stress. While this meant that I could legitimately sit at home in my pants and play video games all day while getting paid for it (and not having to write about said games), it was a demoralising, embarrassing experience that reflected much of my time in the classroom — demoralising and embarrassing.

But it wasn’t all bad, and lest you get the impression that I spent my entire time in the classroom hating every single child who sullied the sanctity of my room with their presence, I wanted to take a moment to appreciate one particular student who has stuck in my mind ever since. She isn’t the only one, and if I’m strapped for writing ideas I will talk about my memories of the others at a later time. But she is the one that popped into my head when I was considering what to write about this evening. I attribute at least part of this to the fact she has a memorable name, and is the only person I’ve ever known with that name.

Her name was Berri, and when I knew her she was in year 8, or the second year of secondary school. I only knew her for a year, as I was only employed at the school in question for a year thanks to the headteacher who employed me officially being Shit With Money. But that’s another story.

Berri may have only been in year 8 at the time, but she was incredibly mature for her age. She was the sort of kid you could have an actual meaningful conversation with, rather than simply chasing them up for homework. She was intelligent, witty and had common sense. She also had the patience of a saint, something which I display for the vast majority of the time but sometimes found reaching breaking point when confronted with a class of unruly, uncooperative children who thought their weekly Music lesson was an excuse to goof off. Berri never got annoyed, though, even when young Danny, her classmate who liked to climb bookcases and shout “CUNT” at people, was at his worst.

Berri was also very musical, which meant that the vast majority of the secondary school music curriculum was pitched way below what she was capable of. She never minding mucking in and doing a task that was beneath her ability level, though, and if she finished early she was more than happy to go and sit in a practice room playing her violin. Although classical music isn’t particularly cool among kids, seeing a peer who is good at a musical instrument is usually enough to impress even the most unruly child into temporary silence. In retrospect, I should have perhaps taken advantage of this fact more regularly.

In short, I appreciated Berri for being one person in those classes of 30 that I didn’t have to worry about. She was one pupil who actively made my life easier and more pleasant, rather than more difficult and unpleasant. Her practice room was often a haven of calm when the rest of the class, supposedly composing a piece based on Indian raga, were in fact just trying to see who could press the “DJ!” button on the school’s keyboard the most in the space of five minutes. She never said anything, but I could tell from the way she acted and looked at me sometimes that she understood how much pressure I was under, and how difficult I found dealing with the unruly mobs. That look of understanding that she occasionally gave me was one of a few things that kept me safe in that hellhole.

I always thought that she was out of place at that school, populated as it was mostly with the sort of twats you’d see on Britain’s Chavviest Teens, should such a show exist. I hope that whatever reason brought her there wasn’t enough to keep her there, and I hope that in the intervening six or seven years since I last saw her that she has been able to make the most of everything that she had to offer the world. If she went on to university after school, she’d be about halfway through her course now. I wonder what she’s doing.

Wherever you are, Berri, and whatever you’re doing, thanks for making my life a fraction easier. I wish you the best of luck as you look forward to your life as an adult truly starting, and hope you achieve all that you deserve to.

#oneaday Day 736: To Sir and Miss, with If Not Love then At Least Fondness or Enduring Memories

Following a conversation with Andie, I thought I would challenge myself to name as many teachers from my own schooldays as I possibly could, along with the contribution they made to making me the person I am today, for better or worse. Mostly the better, I think, which doubtless they’ll be delighted to know if they do happen to be reading this, as unlikely as that might be.

If you are one of my old teachers and you are reading this and I forget to mention you, I apologise in advance.

Anyway. Let’s consider these in roughly chronological order.

At primary school, our early years were accompanied by Mrs Place. I have to admit I don’t remember a great deal about her, but I think given my tender age at the time, that can probably be excused.

Class 2 in primary school was taken by Mrs Robson, whom I also can’t remember a great deal about. I do remember her not being there one day though, and me being tricked into saying “shit” to Mrs Powell the cover teacher by Natalie Forster, the bitch.

Class 3 was taken by Mr Edwards, who had a bit of a mullet and a moustache. He liked to play the guitar at every opportunity, meaning that “Circle Time” (the point of which I’m still not sure of even having been a primary school teacher myself) more resembled a campfire singalong than anything more meaningful. It was fun though.

Class 4 was taken by Mrs Barrett, a formidable lady by all accounts who had some very old-school values. The rest of the school was terrified of her, because she had a withering look that could cause geese to fall dead out of the sky if she so desired it. Once you got into class 4, however, it became apparent that she wasn’t so scary after all, and even had something of a sense of humour. Her insistence on strict discipline meant that she ran a tight ship, and her class achieved well. Crossing her made you feel like, as cliche as it sounds, you had let yourself down.

On to secondary school, and my form tutor was Miss Quirk. She was Scottish, had short black hair and said “poem” as “poyem”. She taught Maths, but I don’t think I ever had a lesson with her.

Elsewhere in the Maths department was Mr Wilbraham, who may or may not have had a drinking problem. He was certainly rumoured to have a drinking problem, but I can’t say we ever saw any direct evidence of that. He was another of the Mrs Barrett breed — regarded with fear and misunderstanding from afar, but actually turned out to be very pleasant to work with once you were in his class. He didn’t help me enjoy Maths, however.

The English department was my second favourite department. At various points, I was taught by Ms (not Miss) Derbyshire, who was a bit like Victoria Wood when she was being funny; Mr Bowie, who was the obligatory male teacher whom all the girls fancied, was very cool and convinced me to explore the music of Jeff Buckley; Miss Idziacszyk (I think I’ve even spelled that correctly), who was a good, knowledgeable teacher, particularly at A-level. On one memorable occasion, Mr Bowie came with us to a local recording of Songs of Praise which our steadfastly secular school had, for some reason, been invited to. On that occasion I had my shortest ever relationship with a girl — we went out for a week, during which time I saw her once, kissed her once before she decided she wanted to go back to the way things were before.

The Music department was my favourite department. Initially staffed by Mr Murrall and Mrs Choy-Winters, later by Mr Murrall and Miss Garrick (whom my erstwhile best friend Craig fancied the pants off) and even later by Mr Murrall, Miss Garrick and Mr Wrigley. All of the teachers in the department were laid-back, fun and a pleasure to be with both in lessons and outside. By far the highlights of my time at secondary school were the school concerts, during which staff and student were able to interact in a way that just wasn’t possible in the normal classroom.

Up in the Upper School were the Geography and History departments. Here, two particular teachers stood out — Mr Mason (pictured above) on the Geography side, and Mr Watts on the History. Mr Mason had long hair and a porn star moustache, and always spoke in a calm, quiet voice. Instead of shouting when he got angry, he went quieter. It was terrifying.

Mr Watts, meanwhilem was the exact opposite. He could shout your face off, and frequently did. Despite his deservedly formidable reputation, he was an excellent teacher. Okay, I can’t remember a lot of what we covered in History, but I certainly remember the lessons I had with him — and the occasions he looked out of the window, saw a year 7 kid and just tutted and shook his head.

Mrs Lloyd taught Integrated Humanities and Sociology. She knew a lot about her subject and was also one of those teachers whom it was very easy to talk to. Perhaps it was the nature of the subject itself, which often dealt with issues that affected us directly, or perhaps it was just her nature. Either way, I remember her very fondly.

Then there’s the senior staff. I have fond memories of Mr Cragg the erstwhile head teacher for understanding fully why I turned around and lamped Murray Crofts in the face after the little cunt had been harassing me all day. And Mrs Knight, who was a motherly figure to much of the school in many ways — right down to inflicting embarrassing discipline on those who stepped out of line. (One of the worst punishments, particularly for younger kids, was to be forced to have lunch with her, or to to be on “Five minute report” to her.)

There are doubtless plenty of others I’ve missed — Miss Cuthbert, who was one of heads of Sixth Form, and regularly tried unsuccessfully to get us all being a bit more religious; Miss Stafford the art teacher, whom I didn’t spend a lot of time with (as is probably apparent from the pictures which accompany these posts); Mrs Graham the formidable and terrifying Home Ec teacher.

I know one thing, though — as difficult as schooldays were at times, I’ll remember the adults who got me through it for the rest of my life, even more so than those whom I considered close friends at the time, but have since drifted far away to pastures unknown.

I now know first-hand how hard your jobs were, Sirs and Misses. I respect you even more than I did back then. Those of you who have the courage to remain in education with the kids of today, I salute you.

#oneaday Day 623: Crime and Punishment

It’s been a while since I told a story from my past life at the chalkface, so I feel it’s about time we fixed that with another real-life tale of What Teaching is Really Like.

I worked in three schools (not counting those I did supply teaching in) during the course of my teaching career — two secondary and one primary. One of the secondaries and the primary were in what could politely be termed “somewhat deprived areas” while the other secondary was right on the border of an aforementioned “somewhat deprived area” and a very middle-class town — the sort of place that has shops that sell nothing but fabric, and tearooms rather than branches of Starbucks, that sort of thing.

All three of them, regardless of location, and regardless of age group, had Problem Children. You could often preemptively tell a Problem Child from the names on the register — generally speaking, if a child was male and called Jordan, female and had some obscure misspelling of a relatively normal name (Kaylee, Abbygale, Rooth) or of either sex and in possession of a completely made-up stupid name (Peaches, Infographia, Cubblers) they were likely to be a Problem Child. Sometimes you were pleasantly surprised — girls named Jordan often ended up being quite nice, and when you got your hands on a new class you often didn’t know the sexes of the pupils, particularly if they had stupid names — but more often than not you’d run into a Problem Child sooner or later.

One particular Problem Child I encountered in the primary school in which I taught had a relatively normal name and, ironically, was one of the brighter kids in the class. But my God he was an asshole. He’d answer back, he’d yell at the teacher, the teaching assistant and his peers, and he’d frequently storm out of the room if he was pulled up on any sort of inappropriate behaviour. When parents’ evening came around, I spoke to his parents about his behaviour — particularly the violent side of things — and I was told that they had simply told him to react to anything he saw as “unfair treatment” by striking back. “If someone hits you,” said the dad, “you hit them back.”

There’s not much you can say to that, really, even with all the Anti-Bullying Policies and Zero Tolerance Initiatives in the world.

Then there was a Problem Child I came into regular contact with during my time at the first secondary school at which I taught. He, too, was an asshole, and this time with no redeeming features whatsoever — i.e. he was a dimwit as well. Again, he’d be aggressive, sweary, belligerent and completely resistant to authority. And again, there was no support from the parents.

“My mum says I don’t have to come to detentions,” he told me upon receiving a detention for being a cunt (obviously not the exact wording I used on the form recording said inappropriate behaviour). “So I’m not coming.”

He didn’t come.

With many of these children — particularly in cases there was no parental support for whatever reason — it was pretty much impossible to instill any sort of discipline in them. There was nothing that they feared. They didn’t fear detentions because they just wouldn’t turn up. They didn’t fear the wrath of the teachers or senior staff members. And they didn’t fear exclusion because that just meant time away from the school they hated so much. There was little to nothing that could be done to discourage these little grotbags from acting like complete bellends.

The teacher training guides would say that punishment is not the way to go — that positive reinforcement is, in fact, the way in which they best learn what behaviours are appropriate and which are not. The trouble is, taken to the extreme, you end up with the ridiculous sight that many schools indulge in — primary schools in particular — which is the weekly Celebration Assembly. Here, the whole school gathers and a selection of children from each tutor group are called up one by one to come to the front and receive a certificate. These certificates aren’t necessarily for academic achievement — and, indeed, usually aren’t. No, these certificates are frequently awarded for “playing nicely with the other children” and “sitting in a chair for over half of the lesson” and “not hurting anyone”. All of those are genuine examples, by the way, unlike the names I gave earlier, most of which were made up.

Now, while it’s nice to celebrate the fact that little Cockbag, who never sits in his chair for more than 5 seconds and loves punching everyone in the neck, actually sat down and completed two maths questions in the last week, it completely devalues the entire concept of “rewards” for everyone — teacher and pupil. When I was at primary school in the late 80s and early 90s, we were rewarded for good work in class or special achievements. Go and colour in a square on your rocket. Have a gold star. Show the class what you’ve done. No-one got a square on their rocket, a gold star or the opportunity to show the class what they’d done for successfully sitting in their chair for more than fifteen seconds at once.

I wonder what on Earth the solution could be. It’s pretty clear from what I saw that the one and only thing that the Problem Children feared was humiliation in front of their friends and peers — something that undermined their “authority”, for want of a better word. So perhaps some sort of Inverse Celebration Assembly would be warranted, where the headmaster solemnly called out the names of the worst offenders each week, brought them onto the stage and forced them to do the Dance of Shame while everyone else pointed and laughed. Anyone who refused to do the Dance of Shame would be fed to the goldfish kept by Class 2, who had developed a taste for human flesh ever since Barry Jenkins kept his hand in there for an entire period for a bet.

But then that’s probably some sort of human rights violation, isn’t it?

#oneaday Day 527: Doing a Bum-Sex

As you may have surmised from some of the earlier entries in this blog, my experiences working as a classroom teacher were genuinely traumatic at the time, on many occasions causing me considerable amounts of stress, depression, panic attacks, you name it.

In retrospect, now I don’t have to deal with the little scrotes on a daily basis, some of the things were quite amusing. These things weren’t amusing at the time (and when you think about it, are often quite tragic) but now I take a perverse satisfaction in the fact that these little horrors who once made my life such a misery will surely find themselves in difficult positions in the future, unless they discover a way to stop being such a twat.

Let’s take the cast of Fat Barry, so named because his name was Barry and he was fat. This may sound a bit harsh, but this is a child who, among other things, decided that rather than engaging with Music lessons, he would place a cymbal on his head and wander around pretending to be a racial stereotype of a Chinese peasant in a school with a not-inconsiderable population of ethnic minorities, so in my mind he deserves all the abuse in the world.

I didn’t just take Fat Barry for Music lessons. I also had the pleasure of his company in a subject known mysteriously as “Key Skills”, a lesson which I didn’t learn until after I’d started at the school was basically “the spaz class”, where all the children too stupid (or, more often, badly behaved) to achieve anything whatsoever got the opportunity to sit around and learn how to use washing machines and read.

On one memorable occasion, the Year 8 Key Skills class was tasked with researching famous people, living or dead, that they might like to invite to a dinner party. (I hasten to add I had nothing to do with the planning of these units, so their vapid nature wasn’t my choice — although it’s not as if we could have got anything more intellectually stimulating out of most of them.) As befits a research task, we had relocated out of our stuffy classroom (which on one memorable occasion, I was locked in while the children found it hilarious to climb out of the window, but that’s another story) into the school library.

For once, most of the kids were sitting down actually looking at books — being given the opportunity to look up things they were actually interested in rather than being forced into set topics in English, Maths, Science and all the rest meant that they were, thank the stars, engaged and quiet.

All except for two, who were conspicuously absent. Fat Barry and his friend Shane, whose defining characteristic was the fact that he habitually wore trousers slightly too short for him coupled with prominent Burberry-pattern socks. (I’m not sure Burberry actually make socks.) I could hear giggling from behind some of the shelves, so while the rest of the class were engrossed in their picture books I went to investigate.

I wasn’t quite prepared for what I found. Shane was lying face-down on the floor, with Fat Barry straddling him. (Fortunately, both were fully clothed, although I’m surprised Shane could breathe.) Fat Barry was gyrating somewhat suggestively atop his friend, and I foolishly said the first thing that popped into my head.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“We’re doing a bum-sex, sir!” replied Fat Barry.

In retrospect, what I should have done at that point is open the library door and yell down the echoey school corridors “What’s that, Barry? You’re doing a bum-sex? That’s a bit gay, isn’t it?” because, as everyone knows, accusations of being gay are like the worst things ever at secondary school, leading to the whole problem where genuinely gay teenagers feel that they can’t come out for fear of being ridiculed. I was aware of this problem, which is perhaps why I chose not to do it.

Fat Barry wasn’t gay, incidentally. He had a Grandad with a shotgun that he thoughtfully brought along to one of the rehearsals of the school play — a mildly terrifying moment — and would probably have been on the receiving end of some redneck punishment if he had come out as gay. So his proclamation of the fact he was supposedly delivering anal pleasure to his best friend on the floor of the library occurred for one reason only — to shock and appal.

It worked.

#oneaday, Day 3: My Life with Des

The concept of Des as displayed in my comic is, of course, nonsense and would be genuinely terrifying if it were actually true. But for anyone who has suffered with depression, anxiety or similar symptoms, your own personal black cloud of despair is very much a real thing, even if you can’t see him or make him cups of tea in order to make him go away. (Some people may argue that last point, but I don’t really drink tea.)

Thinking about it, though, “Des”, or “The Black Cloud of Despair” to give him his full name, has been with me pretty much for as long as I remember, right from a young age. In this post, I’m going to explore my relationship with “him” and perhaps work some things out as a result. This probably isn’t going to be easy to write (or read) but it’s cathartic or something. So here we go.

Des sometimes came with me to primary school. I had disproportionately-large ears when I was a kid, or at least a haircut which made them appear that way, and I was relentlessly bullied throughout most of primary school for them, even by people who were (sometimes) my friends. I recall spending many lunchtimes at school either in tears, getting beaten up by the school bullies or getting absolutely furious at one of the dinner ladies. I can’t even remember why I got so angry with her now, but I have vivid memories of kicking a bin over on more than one occasion. Looking back on it, all these things that were happening just attracted Des to me like flies to shit. The relentless teasing and bullying made me feel bad about myself, and I felt wronged, that life was somehow unfair, even at that early age. Des whispered in my ear that I was never going to be one of the “cool” kids, that I’d never be part of the “élite cliques”, and I believed him. I stopped trying to be “cool” and settled for the (ultimately more useful) choice of “doing well”.

So a questionable start there.

Des joined me at secondary school, too. On my first day at secondary school, the small group of us who had been together in the same class for all of primary school were now scattered around different tutor groups with a bunch of strangers. Strangers whom we were obviously expected to interact with.

Des whispered in my ear again. “You don’t know what to do, do you?” he said, a mocking tone in his voice. “You really have no idea.”

I didn’t. I actually turned to my friend sitting behind me and said “I can’t remember how to make friends!” and he just laughed me off. But I genuinely couldn’t. And to this day, it’s never a conscious process. It just sort of happens, with some people more than others. Those people that I instantly “click” with? Those are the people I know are going to be true friends, the ones who will never disappear from my life, even if distance or time separates us.

The bullying wasn’t quite so bad throughout secondary school, and I at least had a group of friends that were less fond of turning their backs on me at regular intervals, so I was able to stand my ground a bit more. But Des was still there, and I totally lacked the confidence to do any normal teenage things like ask girls out because he’d always be there, muttering that there’s no way they’d ever want me. I went out with two girls throughout my high school life: one of them cheated on me in front of me at the school prom (classy, but she’s now married to the guy so fair play to them, I guess) and the other got together with me on a school trip to a local recording of Songs of Praise (I know, right), promptly disappeared for a week and then decided that it wasn’t working. Well, great.

Sixth form was better. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that sixth form was my favourite time to be alive. Des left me alone throughout this time, and I got on with my life. I did the things I enjoyed to the best of my ability and have some of the fondest memories with my friends of all time during that period. It seemed like things were finally taking a change for the better, and as the time to go to university drew nearer, it seemed like my whole life was ahead of me and that I could finally look forward to what was to come instead of resenting the past.

And sure enough, university was pretty great. Barring one small incident at the very start of my time there where I met someone whom I was absolutely sure within a matter of minutes was the “right person” for me who then got together with someone else because I was too hesitant to speak up (that and she liked him more, I guess), Des mostly left me alone throughout university, and I again enjoyed good times with great people.

Since then, though, he’s been back. Occasionally he goes away for a while, but he always comes back. During my work in teaching, he was ever-present, enveloping me, telling me over and over that I couldn’t do it, that I was going to get found out, that I was useless, that the abuse and insults the kids threw around were personal, that the fact I couldn’t control a class was symptomatic of my failure as a human being.

I jacked it in after suffering what amounted to a complete emotional breakdown in the middle of one day. I had to leave early that day, and I never returned, having been signed off sick.

I wanted to hide, and I did. I felt like I hadn’t had any real friends at that job, and the few people who did show some concern I pushed away, partly on the advice of a professional body and partly because I couldn’t face them. Through this time, my wife stood by me, even though she was also going through difficult times at work and trying to figure out what she wanted to do with her life, too. I appreciated that. If I’d been through that time by myself I’m not entirely sure I’d be here writing this right now. Codependence isn’t helpful in the long run, but it is certainly a means of surviving a situation while it’s happening. The other person can see when Des is moving in, and can swat him away. But you have to learn to swat him away yourself sometime.

I eventually moved back to Southampton when I got what appeared to be my dream job. It was a retail job, but not. I was getting to use my teaching and communication skills on a daily basis, play with gadgets and enthuse about them—and above all, I was damn good at it. When I was selling stuff, I frequently topped the “charts” for the day, and held the record for “most shit sold in a day” for the longest time—possibly still do. When I was teaching people how to use their computers, customers frequently requested me specifically because they thought I was good at what I did.

For a long time, it seemed as if Des was gone for good. But things changed, as they tend to. A shifting focus in our working environment left some of us feeling a little uncomfortable that we weren’t performing quite the same roles we’d been hired to do. Although many of us were technically salesmen, the thing we’d loved about the job was that it wasn’t a “high-pressure, hard sell” task. We just talked to people enthusiastically about the products, and this genuine enthusiasm helped people come to their conclusions far more than any amount of rabbiting on about warranties and membership programmes.

No longer, though. Des started to creep in, though in this case, he actually offered some good advice. “This isn’t right,” he said. “You shouldn’t be doing this. This isn’t what you’re here for.”

I voiced my concerns reasonably—something that had always been part of the culture of the workplace in question—and found myself on the receiving end of what can only be described as out-and-out bullying. This eventually left me with no option but to resign from the job I once loved so much. Not only that, but the circumstances of my departure clearly stymied my chances at later returning to the company in a different region. I had thought I had left bullying behind a long time ago, but it wasn’t to be. I still have a copy of my lengthy resignation letter, which plenty of other people agreed with wholeheartedly.

I moved back into teaching—a move which I talked about a few days ago—and regretted it. Des stopped being helpful and started telling me that I was no good again, a feeling that was further backed up by OfSTED inspectors with clipboards telling me that I was no good.

So I left. Shortly afterwards, I found myself with no job, no money, no wife and no-one but Des for company on many days. On those days, there wasn’t much I could do. Des would surround me, bombard me with thoughts and feelings of what might have been, what could have been, regrets and the like. He frequently laid me low, unable to function for the vast majority of a day. He made me shout and scream to no-one, to break things, to lash out at empty space and myself because there was no-one else to lash out to. He made me question whether it was even worth carrying on trying, because I felt like I’d been “trying” for so hard and never getting there.

And when I had to leave that place I’d called home, he came with me, taunting me, pointing at what had happened as somehow a failure on my part.

And perhaps I have failed at certain things in the past. But failing at something is a sign to do one of two things: do better, or do something else instead. And that’s what I’ve been doing since then. It hasn’t yet found me a full-time job, it hasn’t yet got me any money, it hasn’t yet got me back into my own place.

But it has helped to define me, to understand myself and my limits. Des has made me into the person I am today and put me in the situation I am currently in. When a concept or a feeling is with you for so long, it can’t help being part of who you are. It’s how you deal with it that makes the difference. Instead of listening to Des’s taunts and just nodding along, believing every one, I should punch him in the face, tell him to stop being such an asshole and then prove him wrong.

In short, I should see him as my personal trainer, not the school bully. It’s difficult to redefine the way you look at something. But I don’t really have an option any more.

Here’s to the hard work ahead, and it hopefully paying off.

#oneaday, Day 193: Constants

Things that stay the same are supposedly boring. But they have their uses. And they don’t have to be boring at all. Look at great works of art, literature, music, whatever. They don’t change. They’re always the same. And yet people flock to see them, read them, listen to them year after year after year.

Things that stay the same can provide comfort and a sense of familiarity. Whether this is the discarded magazine that’s been sitting on the floor next to the bed for the last six months because you couldn’t be arsed to find a home for it, or the friend you went to school with, that sense of familiarity can help provide some kind of firm grounding, even when all else is chaos.

Back on Day 106, I used the term “crystallised memories” to describe static objects that had memories inexorably attached to them. In some senses, this is a similar concept. But the memories that are attached to the objects can change over time. Things that are constant stay, by their very nature, constant.

Take this evening. I went to visit a friend I was at school with. Although he’s got a house, is living with his girlfriend and came to the disturbing (to him) realisation that he’s been working the same job for ten years, he’s still the guy I went to school with. Perhaps not visually. But certainly in attitudes and behaviour. We get together, and we start acting like a couple of sixteen year old dickheads like no time whatsoever has passed. When in fact a significant proportion of both our respective lives has passed, with significant changes afoot for both of us.

We contacted another friend via Xbox LIVE while I was there. Again, a constant in terms of attitude, behaviour, character. It was like nothing had changed.

After I left my friend’s house, I went for a drive to the local supermarket to pick up a couple of things I needed. This drive, again, was comfortably familiar. Although there have been some minor changes to the road layout in a few places, for the most part, these were the roads I learned to drive on, so I know them like a thing you know the layout of really well.

This is good. This sort of thing makes the whole “moving on” thing that much more bearable. The idea of moving to a new city was somewhat appealing; but the idea of being alone there and not knowing anyone was not. Taking a step “backwards” and picking up where I left off with these people while at the same time rebuilding my life into the image I want it to go into? This is (hopefully) a good thing. We shall see, I guess.

My life, and that of a number of other people too, is all chaos and flux right now. I long for the time when everything settles down and I can just start enjoying myself. I hope it won’t be too long before that happens. Positive steps have been taken this week. So let’s hope those positive steps lead to full-on positivity.

Things can’t be that much worse than they have been. The needle has to swing the other way sometime. I’m hoping now (or at least “very soon”) is the time.

#oneaday Day 61: Call me Gordon

I’m a free man! Yes, my contract finished today so as of right this moment I am unemployed. At least as far as that pesky full-time work goes. I’ll tell you one thing I won’t miss, and that’s the 40-mile commute with the immensely predictable traffic around Winchester. I don’t know what it is about that place, but the M3 slows to a crawl and all of the roads in and out of the city also slow to a crawl, so it’s impossible to win whichever way you choose to go. I let fly with quite a few obscenities on the way home tonight as all I wanted to do was get home.

I’m not going to be sitting on my ass doing nothing, though. I have plenty of things lined up. I have some music pupils starting this week (and, of course, if you know anyone in the Southampton area who is looking for a music teacher, kindly point them in the direction of http://www.pjedmusic.co.uk) and I am shortly to put up a site advertising IT tuition services. Then I’ll be doing some writing, too, for a couple of different sites: Kombo.com and DailyJoypad.co.uk, both of which are going to be a great way to get some exposure for my writing, along with the stuff I’ve done for Good Old Games and WhatTheyPlay in the past.

Right now, it’s late, there are drunken morons shouting incoherently outside my window and I’ve just finished recording an episode of the Exploding Barrel Podcast with the ever-awesome Minotti brothers. Just looked out of the window and the noise was being made by two… I hesitate to call them “men” because they were acting like the kids I’ve been teaching. Two of them. It sounded like a bloody football crowd. And this after Southampton was (apparently) voted “most welcoming and friendly city in the UK“. (I call bullshit on that, by the way, in case you hadn’t guessed).

Tomorrow is the first day of a new beginning, or something. I’m meeting one of my (potential) new pupils, I’m getting some stuff sorted ready to do my website writing and I’ll have the chance to kick back and actually relax a bit for what feels like the first time in months. It’s like a big weight has gone from my shoulders.

I feel bad for my colleagues I left behind as they are without exception awesome people that I will miss a great deal, and they’re in a tough situation that is going to be hard work to get through. What I won’t miss, however, is the stress of that job, the (8-year old) kids who climb walls and get brought in by the police, the reams and reams of ultimately fairly meaningless paperwork, the finger-wagging “official” people telling us that we don’t know what we’re doing and… well, you get the idea. Here’s to a more positive future, but I will spare a thought for those great people I worked with regularly.

I’m just rambling now, clearly. I think it’s time to go to bed. Up and at ’em tomorrow morning… and PAX is creeping ever closer. I can’t wait.

One A Day, Day 38: False Start

I got it the right way around.

Normally, teachers surviving until half-term will immediately collapse upon finishing a big block of time at school, then be struck down with some mystery unpleasant illness, rendering them incapable of enjoying their holiday due to any combination of snot, sneezing, coughing, puking, diarrhoeaing, headaching or good old-fashioned exhaustion. I managed to get through most of the holiday without feeling too bad, with only what I thought to be a “stress cough” showing itself in the last few days, before developing into full-blown unpleasantness on the Monday I returned to work. Found myself burning up, sore-throated, coughing, clumsy and generally a complete mess. So I’ve had the last couple of days off sick.

Being off sick is always a strange experience. When you’re off sick from a teaching post, the feeling of guilt is enormous, even if you know you genuinely are sick. Of course, there are people everywhere who take the piss with sick days, but that’s no reason that the rest of us should feel guilty at taking some time off to recover. Fortunately, the one good thing I can say about the school I currently work at is that they’re pleasantly understanding about illness and don’t even demand a day’s worth of cover work to be sent through, unlike a previous place I worked. Yes, that’s right – one previous school I worked at actually expected you, however sick you were, to send in some cover work for the day. That didn’t help with the guilt.

Still. I will be back in tomorrow, worse luck. Not looking forward to it. The first day back wasn’t fun, though that was probably mostly the “not feeling well” talking. Going back again after the class having had a couple of days of supply teachers isn’t going to be any more pleasant. And the knowledge that the inspectors are coming back soon, along with a whole host of “monitoring” activities, is not making me feel any more positive about the whole thing – but at least there’s not that long to go. In fact, there are only three and a half weeks to go. By now, I don’t give a shit about the outcome of the aforementioned “monitoring” or the inspection, but that doesn’t mean I can just switch off from the whole unpleasant experience. Unfortunately, there’s no way of me “opting out”, despite the fact that my negligible contribution to the school will soon be a distant memory.

Oh well. I guess all I can do is keep my fingers crossed that the inspectors decide to show up after I’ve left. It could happen. But, with my track record of “luck”, it probably won’t…

One A Day, Day 35: Eve of the War

Don’t know what happened with yesterday’s post – I definitely wrote the whole thing, but for some inexplicable reason, half of it disappeared. Oh well. Can’t go back now.

Well, here it is – the end of my week-long vacation, which has gone by far too quickly for my liking. I feel suitably rested – or I did, at least. Right now? I don’t feel very good about tomorrow. I have a 40 mile drive followed by 8 hours of being somewhere I don’t want to be with people I don’t want to be with, followed by another 40 mile drive back. But at least there are only four weeks to go. Four weeks! I can manage that, right? Of course I can.

It’s the other obstacles that are in my way that are stressing me out more, to be honest. The daily grind I can just about deal with, by simply telling myself “It doesn’t matter” (in the style of The Rock) repeatedly, over and over again. The things I’m not looking forward to are the two-day Parents Evening (yes, you read that correctly – a two-day Parents Evening), where I will inevitably be stuck 40 miles from home until late at night; the inevitable re-inspection of the school (which, knowing it doesn’t matter, I don’t really care about the result of but still don’t want to have to put up with the stupidity of); and finding a new job.

I don’t have a new job yet. I have applied to several. I haven’t heard anything back from any of them yet, but going on past experiences of applying for jobs, HR departments are extremely slow. I haven’t given up hope yet, and the Universe may well surprise me by throwing something I actually want to do for a good amount of money my way. Until then, though, the uncertainty is the killer. If I had the security of knowing that I had a new job to go to – to look forward to – after the end of this particular nightmare, I’d feel a lot better about my remaining time.

Still, can’t be helped. All I can do is just keep applying for things and eventually someone will appreciate me. Right? Right. Of course.

On a lighter note, we recorded the SquadCast for Machinarium tonight – an adorable little indie point-and-click adventure featuring robots and no language. My current tentative plan is to edit that next weekend, so keep an eye out for that one. Also watch this space for more exciting Squadron of Shame podcast news.

See, I like doing that stuff. The annoying thing is no-one wants to pay me for it!

One A Day, Day 10: On The Edge

Part the First

Horrible day today. The behaviour of the children is getting worse and worse and I feel powerless to do anything about it. Probably because I am powerless to do anything about it. My predecessor apparently used to “bellow” at them every so often to get them to be quiet, but last time I bellowed at them (which got the point across nicely, incidentally) I ended up being the one getting told off for it. Which is pretty ridiculous, really.

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. Children respond to shock tactics and humiliation. The stupid culture of reward that is instilled in modern education now does not achieve anything. When you reward children for everything, including sitting down on a chair (I’m not joking) all rewards completely lose their impact and all you’re left with are punishments… which don’t work because the kids don’t respect adults. It’s a complete no-win situation and short of a drastic shakeup of the education system, I don’t see a way forward. But it’s not politically correct to punish children. It’s not even politically correct to shout at them any more. Teachers are impotent in the face of poor behaviour.

Take one kid in my class. I won’t use his real name. Let’s call him Jack. No, actually, let’s call him Cock. Because he is.

Cock has a difficult home life – one of those indecipherable ones involving domestic violence and on-off relationships. As a result (apparently) he’s become the person he is – rude, argumentative, confrontational, violent, cheeky and lazy. The school he’s at now – where I teach him – was about his third in the space of a couple of months when he arrived.

I can’t do anything with him. And when he chooses to kick off, he drags the rest of the class along with him. Because, being kids, they find it hilarious when he lies on the floor, or runs around chasing people, or starts shouting “The Pakistanis are coming!”. In a school with a rather large ethnic minority population.

And there’s nothing you can do about it. He’s been spoken to by me and senior members of staff at the school. His parents have been spoken to. He’s had letters home. He has special sessions with teaching assistants. Yet still he’s an asshole. His home life is used as a constant excuse for his shitty behaviour. And while it may upset him, that’s still not an excuse. There’s too much hand-wringing over what are delightfully termed “challenging” children. They should suffer the consequences of poor behaviour just like everyone else. Except no-one else really suffers any consequences either.

Right. Starting to see the problem here.

Still, after handing in my written resignation I calculated today that I only have 51 days until my escape – only 35 of which are actually teaching days. Which is nice. Beginning to wish I had just given them a week’s notice and buggered off.

Part the Second

So Apple finally announced the iPad, the official name of the “Apple tablet” which everyone has inexplicably known about for months. And already there are painfully unfunny jokes going around about the “iTampon”. I may just be grumpy because of a shit day, but I don’t find that even a little bit funny – largely because we’ve had things called “[something] pad” for years and no-one has ever commented. My estimation of the intelligence of the Internet has just dropped a notch, and I’m reminded of something Mark Whiting of the Squadron of Shame said on our Deus Ex podcast – “Back in ’99 we all thought the Internet would turn into SkyNet. This was before we knew it would turn into 4Chan.”

As for the device itself… it’s a big iPhone which, at this time, I have no interest in owning. I like proper computers too much to even consider a tablet. Call me a traditionalist.

Part the Third

At the time of writing, in 12 hours’ time, there will be something exciting announced on Good Old Games. They have been cock-teasing everybody for the last few days on Facebook and Twitter… tomorrow we’ll get to finally find out what the big news is. I’m certainly intrigued. You should be too.

Now it’s late. Time for bed for me. This entry has been fragmented, but so has my brain. I really don’t want to have to go in and deal with those kids again tomorrow… but I have to just keep counting down to first freedom and then an undoubtedly awesome time at PAX East. I can’t wait. For either thing.

Good night.