Insignificant Others

Anyone reading this would think I have an inherent hatred for all beings under five and half feet. Except midgets. I like the way they run. Like penguins. But this is simply not true. I also have significant misanthropic tendancies towards taller (supposedly) more enlightened individuals and I think it’s time we had a look at rubbish teachers. There are plenty of ‘types’ under this umbrella and here are my top five, with examples, to let you all in on it.

1. The Drill Sergeant: A teacher who relies entirely on fear to educate the poisonous shrimps. This individual makes behaviour management a nightmare for all the other quivering and fearful members of staff, among whom I timidly count myself, and can occasionally lead to woefully misjudged attempts to replicate the style to try and maintain order. They achieve the double whammy of pissing off teachers and pupils alike, while living a ‘perfect storm’-type existence, oblivious to the negative impact they have on the school. Don’t try to speak to them about it though as they’re likely to stick a Smart Board up your arse – creating a Smart Arse Board.

2. The Mummy: This teacher constructs a wholly inappropriate relationship with pupils and is likely to give out their Facebook details quicker than you can say sex offenders register. One such example concocted such a powerfully strong relationship with their class that when I was to take the group and, during a fact and opinion lesson where they had to state whether certain statements were ‘fact’ or ‘opinion’, I stopped the lesson because of disruption to announce I was to be her replacement, one member growled, ‘opinion’. Hugging and fawning are also conventions of this form as well as perpetual use of the phrase, ‘bless’.

3. The Smug Fuck: Just when the day couldn’t get any worse, this supercilious cum bag is happy to let you know you’re entirely to blame. ‘7.2? But they’re perfect for me? Only last week they all bought me flowers and asked me to adopt them. Silly little things! You just haven’t created a relationship with them – they’re really lovely kids.’ Yeah, thanks. That you’ve spent the best part of a year bobbing and weaving from their tongues and fists makes it even better when someone lets you know how angelic they are for them. Smug fuck.

4. PE and Art ‘Teachers’: It’s not fair! It’s not fair! It’s not fair! Long, mark-free holidays, 1 minute lesson planning, kayaking and street dance on the syllabus – this isn’t a job, it’s Butlins! How I seethe with rage as you leave at 4pm every day, content in the knowledge that tomorrow’s trampolining and potato printing lessons are in the bag and I settle in for another evening of trying to decipher whatever banal ramblings 8.3 have punched into their books.

5. The Mentalist: There’s one in every school. An individual so far removed from reality you get the feeling they only became a teacher because they failed the harmony singing stages of oompa-lompa training. Everything about this person is inappropriate and, as such, like catnip to the monsters. Styled by Playschool with X Men hair, they cry their way around school perplexed by the constant harassment they suffer as day-by-day the taunting just gets worse and worse. I’ve sat with The Mentalist at lunch once, about 5 feet from the kids, as they relived the horror of a particularly bad episode. ‘Then he called me a FUCKING CUNT!’, they nashed, frothing at the mouth while a forkful of jellof rice froze at my open mouth and then splattered incredulously back onto the plate.

So there it is; a summary of how the adults can be just as bad as the kids in education. But which category would I put myself in and where do I fit into this whole sorry mess? Well, I suppose I don’t fit in at all really and that’s why I’m giving it up. The teaching aspect, standing at the front of the class and showing off for a little while, is fine, but it’s the red tape that kills me. That the profession has become a series of box ticking exercises is infuriating – not just for me, but for thousands of teachers out there – and I just can’t see myself coming to terms with that. Plus the kids are dicks.

A very quick turnover from the last post this week because I obviously have to maintain my ‘four a month’ target I plucked out of inconsequentiality. One comment from Olly from a previous post should be noted though, as it was very complimentary and does result in him having a free pass to my bottom at his will. The joke’s on him though, it’s rarely a clean bottom. Peace. Unless there’s any work in it for me. In which case war’s fine too.

I'm An Atheist Get Me Out Of Here

I’m a charlatan. A liar, an imposter, a fake and a fraud. Surprisingly, even though I haven’t let Jesus in (I can only imagine he’s still outside then; all sad and disappointed) I do have some kind of moral compass and it’s this which makes me feel uneasy about what my schools expect on a daily basis. My entire teaching career has involved working in Catholic schools and, as such, I am required and expected to perpetuate the Catholic ethos every day. So, even though I’m a godless heathen, with no more right to stomp about on God’s DIY ball than an infanticidal banker Satanist with shares in Nestle’s poverty death milk powder, every morning I lead the shit out of morning prayers.

I suppose I’ve become so used to it now I don’t even think about the ideological hypocrisy it involves, but when it started I was definitely more uncomfortable about the situation. For a start I didn’t know any of the prayers and could only mouth syllable shapes during Mass, that just made me look like I was chewing devil gum in the face of Our (their) Lord Jesus Christ or worse still, attempting to speak in tongues. I was completely clueless about the rituals, the rules and the reverence and squirmed more than Donald Trump at a rights for people other than rich white people conference.

Here’s an example: in my last school there would be a religiousy service for the monsters and once they had been whipped and chaired out of the building at the end of the day, one for staff. The first time this happened I went along with it; sang the songs, bowed in time and joined in with the group amens, but as it finished there was something I hadn’t ever come across. After we’d been grateful/fearful servants for 10 minutes or so, everyone turned to one another and started hugging and shaking hands while all repeating the same thing, ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Odd, I thought, but no more odd than drinking a dead man’s blood, so I went along with it. As I went in for hug number six it finally dawned on me – they weren’t pleased to meet me at all. ‘Peace be with you’, I adjusted, hopelessly out of my depth.

Thing is, as will be the case for those damned souls who tag along without any real knowledge of what the tabernacle is going on, I just don’t do it properly. In the morning, when I remember to, we stand behind our chairs and I ask them to be silent for a moment while we think of... I dunno, grandmas and their tireless efforts to give us a quid when we see them? Recently we had a half day and I asked them to thank Jesus for that, but God Junior had nothing to do with it and really we should have been thanking the builders for knocking into a mains water pipe and flooding the science labs. Were the builders carrying out God’s divine will? If so, he can’t have had much on that week.

So you see, I’m a bloody phony. It’s only when I catch myself reverently bowing my head and leading them in praise that I see the ludicrous nature of what I’ve become. My question is this – if He is up there, will this increase my chances of spending eternity amongst the velvety yum-yums? Or has my soon-to-be-over foray into falsity and professional perjury got my name struck off His son’s birthday card list? Oh, that’ll be rich – on top of everything else, the job’s ensured my own everlasting damnation. Oh yeah, that’s just bloody typical.

Hooray for comments! Al, I knew I could depend on you, you wonderful bastard. You make it all worthwhile, with your scene-stealing anecdotes. Please, feel free to steal away again this week. And, of course, Rob. My next hair straightening appointment is on Saturday at 1:30pm. XOXO Gossip Girl.

PG Tips

True story – a year seven pupil finished school for the day and trotted off back home. Only upon arriving at her front door did she realise she didn’t have her keys and began to panic. When Mum returned from work to find her child snivelling and pouting outside she was furious and contacted the school demanding that something be done as clearly there was a thief at large. The school assured her that this probably wasn’t the case, as thieves gravitated more towards pinching things of monetary value (phones/money/gold teeth) and that the keys would probably turn up.

The next day Mum phoned up the school again – this time even more enraged. The keys had been found, but this wasn’t the issue anymore. Mum wanted to know how we were going to deal with the bully who, apparently, must have followed her child home from school, snuck into the house, taken the keys which they had previously stolen and placed them under a seat cushion before making good her escape. For what reason? Just to wind her child up. Hmm…

Delusional parents are under the spotlight this week – and believe me, there’s a lot of them. These imbeciles don’t seem to understand that children are liars. Not all of them, I’ll admit, but a surprising number don’t seem at all fazed by the act of lying straight to your face. Maybe I’m just jealous because whenever I try to tell a little untruth I start tripping over words, glancing around, getting a bead on, blushing crimson and occasionally spasming with apologetic gestures. The children‘s version, however, is far more impressive. Stare straight into the eyes and declare, with devastatingly audacious commitment, that you don’t know what they’re talking about. Devious little shits.

It’s very easy to see where some of these children get their appalling manners from when you meet the gorillas they were farted out of. Sometimes you don’t have to even meet them – just a quick conversation on the phone is enough to assure you of their cretinous credentials. Calling a mother up a couple of years ago, I was greeted by the unmistakable sound of a belch on the other end of the phone. An actual burp, mind you, complete with a contented gasp of relief immediately afterwards. How is it possible for me to talk to this woman now when we both know she’s a filthy disgrace? Easy – she doesn’t think she’s a filthy disgrace. See? It’s simple; if you’re a filthy disgrace.

After nearly deafening me with her smelly mouth wind, she had another outburst prepared once she realised who it was. ‘Oh, you’re the one who’s always picking on him. That’s what he tells me when he gets in.’ Just so you know, this child had been excluded over 30 times in the two years he’d been at the school (ah, inclusion – watch it working live in the school of your choice) never did any work in class (unless you call writing Mr Mills-based obscenities on the table work – I, frankly, do not) and had about as much right to be in the classroom as bin Laden at a how to avoid capture for over ten years and not get conveniently shot in the face at the arse end of that time seminar. It’s very simple really – just take the phrase ‘you’re always picking on meeeeeee’ from the classroom, change it very slightly to, ‘you’re always picking on hiiiiiiiiimmmm’ and move it to the home (or lair) and you’ve got it.

The delusional parent does not know common sense. He/she stares the obvious truth in the face and concocts an alternate reality where the little angels are not culpable for their behaviour. Just like when I was 14 and wanted to get drunk on anything I could find in the house while my parents were out, chugged down red wine and cooking ale like the plane was going down, coloured the bathroom a stainy shade of chunky pink, fell asleep in all my clothes and was approached in bed the next day by a sympathetic mother who assured me, as I squinted her into a puzzled focus, that I must have just eaten a lot of red grapes the night before.

This seems harmless enough, but be warned, sometimes the fabricated realities can be extremely bizarre. Take the case of the South London Two. This concerns the mother of a child who has since withdrawn them from school because of the dark sciences taking place there. Yes, come closer, if you dare, and heed my warning because schools are not the places you think they are. This mother became suspicious when her child, upon reaching puberty, became far more listless and disaffected. No longer would the boy hold her hand in public or ask for a story at night, preferring instead to listen to loud ungodly music and spend time alone in their room with the door locked. The truth was obvious (and actually cited as the sole reason for the pupil’s removal from school in all reality). The child had been cloned at school and they were sending the evil boy home at night while keeping her good son for themselves for… oh, I don’t fucking know. Make it up for yourselves – she did.

All true, all terrifying. If this is what we can rely on from parents these days, all hope is lost. Although I should state for the record that some parents are great – really supportive and completely sane – but that doesn’t make for good reading, does it? I know what you want and it’s baffling and unpleasant – you ask, you get.

Thanks very much for… oh, that’s right, no-one’s left a comment for over a month now. If anyone fancies joining in, just click on comments and inevitably write something about my hair. Frankly, I’ll take anything these days. Ciao, bella.

Special Needs

The cult of the individual. That’s got to be a typo, surely. It’s this selfish attitude, displayed in classes all around the country, that’s to blame for a lot of the disruption happening in lessons today. ‘You’re special’, ‘nobody sees the world the way you do’, ‘don’t let anyone tell you they’re better than you’ and all that crap. This relentless praise and emphasis on individuality undermines the realities of life and can actually result in understandable confusion and consequential fury when things don’t seem that easy. Truth is, some kids (and later adults) are just a bit useless. It’s true. I went to school with some. So did you. Now I teach some.

We used to know this. I remember teachers ridiculing the particularly stupid pupils at school and that was all right – everyone knew where they stood and no-one had unrealistic expectations about themselves. One assembly, a notably ascorbic English teacher (it’s all beginning to make sense now) remarked, as a known thicky dragged his late self into the hall, that he was tardy because he had spent the morning finishing Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time. Harmless fun, if you ask me. Thicky was none-the-wiser (a family motto, if I remember) but also, crucially, didn’t think he was any less special because of it. He didn’t go home and cry himself to sleep and, in fact, I think he may have used it as inspiration for his seminal GCSE creative writing piece about a hawk called Stephen who was always late. See – being harsh is also good for kids!

Unfortunately, one thing we’re taught to do very early on in teacher training is praise, praise and praise again. They come from primary school being told they’re potentially the next Bill Gates or Isaac Newton, slither through secondary on top of the shoulders of teachers declaring they have a brain to rival Deep Blue and are finally spat out into the world with no option but to sell their smelly bits to drug addicts because they were never taught to recognise the truth. We all have something to offer, but not everyone is a bona-fide genius. They just can’t be!

I have a pupil in my class at the moment who has great ability and demonstrates fantastic insight for such a young girl, but because she’s been told how amazing she is from the moment she was guffed out, she’s a total cunt about it all. ‘I know’, she’ll retort closed-eyed after getting praise from me (never got praise again, that’s for sure) and then waving her grade and comments around for the rest of the class to gasp at and then cry about because they were all told the same thing about how bastard fabulous they all are. This kind of blanket positivity can only lead to legions of arrogant, selfish, ugly-souled arseholes stomping around secure in the knowledge they are the one true voice of the intelligentsia and we should all blink in incredulity at their dazzling displays of brainial dexterity.

Just so you know this isn’t all the ramblings of an embittered twat (not all, but mostly) a recent article backs me up – albeit less furiously. Rather than making them feel brainer than a zombie special of Come Dine With Me, this extra praise, and I quote: ‘lowers children's motivation and may turn them into "praise junkies"’. See! Actual proof from a newspaper! Too long have teachers had to declare on parent evenings that pupils they know would have difficulty counting to one are ‘really bright’ and ‘have real potential’, when it’s all just indoctrinated soundbites spewed out to make everyone feel less like killing themselves. I say let them have it.

I’m sorry but your son/daughter is possibly one of the most stupid humans I’ve ever met. Although it insists it’s very clever – your own doing, I understand – I’ve had to differentiate substantially since it lumbered into my classroom at the start of the year. I now write the learning objective on my knuckles and punch it repeatedly into their face in the hope the proximity of this to the brain may actually allow at least some learning to penetrate. Unfortunately it appears its skull is over six inches thick, which would render my attempts almost completely pointless were it not for the pleasing woodblock percussion sound it emits. Next! (So pompous, I know, but fun though – yes?)

So, the decision is ours. Have the little emperors and empresses grow up to be either ludicrously deluded or hopelessly conceited about their own ability and live a life populated by these nightmarish caricatures, or kill them all and then yourself. It’s your choice. Or… Stop telling kids they’re all astonishingly bright and let truth and sanity back into the classroom. Discuss.

Look, it's the Royal Wedding! My favourite breaking news on the BBC's rolling news tickertape was (actual quote) 'New black and white photograph released of couple.' Now that's news. See the photo at the top of the post? That's how much fun I had when I was dragged along - minus 99%. Laters!

No Drama

Previously on English Bitcherature: Mr Mills was experiencing a moral dilemma - tell the university and risk the future education of the children, or suck it up for the kiddiestinkles...

Obviously I told them. I have never considered myself to be anything less than a very selfish person, so to do otherwise would be a contradiction of my very soul. I can't do that. I won't. The can of worms though - Jesus Christ. The university told me that they know now and not to worry about anything; they were going to take care of it. So, like a sex tourist in the Lucky Fucky Thai massage parlour, I lay back and waited for relief. Needless to say, nothing happened, except the school did relent on my drama lesson. Thanks a fucking lot.

Just before beginning, I had gone to a short meeting with the head of drama and another staff member about what to expect - which had resulted in me still not really knowing what was going on, but at least I knew where the drama rooms were now. It had never been my favourite lesson at school because, as a terribly self-aware middle-class cliche, I didn't like taking centre stage and prickled with embarrassment at the mere thought of 'performing' (this may come as a surprise to those who have ‘enjoyed’ my recent obsession with karaoke – but what can I tell you? I flowered into an egotistical show-off. This is my 2^nd blog. About me. Do I need to spell it out?) but teaching it couldn't be all that bad, surely. Just give them a scenario, sit back and enjoy their pathetic but amusing efforts like a begrudgingly aroused Roman emperor.

The boys were already waiting by the time I got to the drama room. They had been at the school for a year in comparison to my four days and for this glaring oversight, they were to make me pay. 'Line up quietly!' I shouted as I arrived, 'or no-one's going in!’ I mistook their dumbstruck silence for regimented compliance and, inwardly smiling to myself about my new behavioural management skills, I led them into the green room. The school was falling to pieces when I arrived and the drama department’s green room was a prime example of this. Truth be told, most of the green paint which had given the room its eponymous title was now peeling off the walls and the monsters had done a real number on the rest of it. The blinds were a disheveled shadow of their former selves, having been clawed at and swung on for years, and what remained of them lapped weakly at the windows in an unsuccessful effort to keep the glare of the sun out. The chairs were bent and broken and Wilde-esque social commentary adorned the walls in the shape of graffiti with such considered witticisms as ‘Fuck drama’ and ‘Ms ________ loves black cock’ now playing their part to inspire the next potential Colin Firth or Sidney Poitier – my favourite actor, obviously. (I left the name out of the drama teacher as she may not like her sexual preferences mooted all over the web. There are literally… a few people reading this)

The lesson started and I got the monsters to sit in a circle, as per my 15 second introduction to teaching drama the previous day. To be honest, I was a bit lost after this, but it didn’t matter because the class took the rest of the lesson into their own rat claws anyway and whatever I had prepared (acorn into oak tree, anyone?) hit the skids immediately. One boy, who had a surname for a Christian name proving his devilish intentions, kicked the proceedings off having clearly had enough of my, admittedly appalling, attempts to engage the class (this was week one with no guidance, don’t forget – he said insisting it got much better. It didn’t). As I gave out my instructions, not really even convincing myself, the boy, let’s call him Knob Rash 1, began beat-boxing at the top of his… tongue? I was just a bit shocked to start off with, but this was clearly a massive distraction and I had to try and deal with it. ‘That’s very impressive, Knob Rash 1’, I said, trying to appeal to his better nature (unaware at this point that children don’t have one) ‘but can I get on with the lesson, please?’ His response came as a beautifully crafted fuck you, literally spat out as the beat-boxing continued, punctuated with a few obligatory, ‘You can’t tell me what to do’s in between.

By this time the circle had become fragmented and, while I concentrated on Knob Rash 1, all the other Knob Rashes had decided to act out a very convincing gang warfare scenario. The two rival gangs now sat on either side of the room (a classroom suddenly seemed very appealing) and hurled insults and pennies at each other in equal measure. I abandoned Knob Rash 1 as a lost cause (although real potential for next season’s Britain’s Got Knob Rashes) and embroiled myself in South-East-Side Story through a shower of coins and ill intention. It was a futile endeavour, however, as these kids had been doing this kind of thing for a long time now and were as devastatingly prepared for me, as I was unequipped for them.

The moment I approached one side of the room to ‘sort it out’ (pathetic, just pathetic) they stopped completely and looked around with upturned palms and puzzled expressions as to why I was reprimanding them. While they did this, the Crips’ coins hailed down on us all from the other side and outrage overtook confusion (although the whole thing was clearly a pleasure for some who were visibly shaking with devious delight) as the injustice of their reprimand was too much for them to bear while the others got away with it. This toing and froing went on for some time, with the same thing occurring on either side to a now furiously fast beat-boxing soundtrack until the bell finally rang to indicate playtime was over and I shakily lowered myself onto a chair. Which promptly broke.

Ironically the acting had been first class from many a Knob Rash throughout the whole sorry affair, but, as has been my experience, the kids don’t capitalize on their natural talents. They just use them to make me look like a prick. If only that was a GCSE.

Sorry for the delay since the last post. I’ve been on holiday – nervously pushing chocolate into me to melt the pain away – and have only just woken up, really. I handed my notice in last week though and so the quest for a new career, the point of this whole sorry affair if you remember, has now begun in earnest. Giz a job then. Shalom.

Badman Begins

Maybe a little background then. Something to make you feel powerful, enduring sympathy and pity for the pathetic teacher boy. Yeah, teacher boy, what’s your problem anyway? All those holidays; finish at 3:30pm – you don’t know you’re born! But quite the opposite; I can confirm I do know I’m born and I know this well because I feel the unmistakeable and unbearable burden of life booting my wobblesome pink arse until it skids painfully across a bumpy tapestry of disappointment every day. I was born and that was actually OK – it’s just the rest of it that became problematic.

Thinking back to the day I got my acceptance letter onto the teaching course at Canterbury, I was over the moon. Trembling hands tore open the envelope and slowly revealed that my future was saved! I was no longer to suffer at the cruel hands of shift work – I could enjoy holidays like the rest of the world and weekends were mine again! It felt good to escape the relentless and unforgiving clutches of subtitling (charity work really, which I obviously don’t want to talk about) and now a whole world was opening up to me of opportunity, hope and lovely little childers. Come here, you lovely little things. Don’t cry, Mr Mills is here and he will help you. Aid you. Guide you through the difficult times. Sure there’ll be tears along the way, but in the end we’ll look back on our time together and laugh so hard the eye tears will start coming out of other places and then finally the blood. The endless blood and screaming.

I really was happy though. Both the school and the university had had to bend a little to accommodate me as I applied so late for the GTP programme, so I was honoured, privileged and humbled all at once. That’s the middle class for you. The group interviews went well, after some expert tutorage from the Head of English – although the interviewers did try to put you off by pretending to be disruptive pupils during the presentation of what you’d prepared, which I couldn’t help equating with (and then seeing all too clearly during the interview) blithering adults in nappies searching for an elusive and confusing sexual thrill – and my place was fixed. I was to teach and God help them all.

The speed at which the whole process had taken place meant that I was woefully underprepared in terms of research and understanding about what the course actually entailed. I knew it was training ‘on the job’, but the details were fuzzy after that and I just thought I’d learn as the year progressed. This, in retrospect, was a mistake.

On day one I should have known something was wrong. It felt wrong, but then what did I know? Literally nothing and, being so middle class, I wasn’t about to rock the boat by having even the merest hint of self-belief so I just let it slide. Week after week after week. It felt wrong that on the first day I was immediately in front of a class. It also felt unsettling that I was teaching four separate subjects. Surely it was perverse for me to be on practically a full timetable at such an early stage? But still I carried on without questioning, keeping all the building indignity and fury inside me in preparation for the inevitable massive tumour or frenzied bloodbath – whichever came first.

On my first university day, which I nearly wasn’t allowed to go to because of cover issues, it became painfully clear that the school had been taking the piss. As a ‘supernumerary’ member of staff I wasn’t supposed to teach anything until after Christmas and certainly not several different subjects – acting as a poorly paid education plug to fill the gaps for cheap. Then came the moral decision of whether to say anything. Would it make me a bad person? It wasn’t the department’s fault, rather that of the Headteacher (terrible, awful, scratchy arsehole) but it was the kids who’d feel it. They would get a series of supplies in until the situation was rectified and there’s no doubt their education would suffer as a consequence. But what to do? What to do? Happily this didn’t interfere with ongoing Operation Tumour though – as I squirmed over my decision I just swallowed hard and felt the familiar purr as it swelled inside me.

More next week, if you can be bothered. Thanks to Al for tipping his hat to Garthe Knight on the last post. Ironic post-modernism means we can laugh again. Au revoir.

The Garthe Knight

OK, so back to teaching. This was originally supposed to be an account of how I left the world of education and slipped, effortlessly, into another realm. Something more inspiring and less shouty. I didn’t used to shout that much; only behind closed doors using a pillow to prevent obvious bruising, but since becoming a teacher I’ve shouted at more kids than Old Mr (insert your own relevant name here) who knows who you are, your parents and where you live.

That’s the thing I really want to get rid of, this monster I’ve created – Mr Mills. At first it was a novelty, people addressing you so formally when you’re not used to it, but soon he becomes a separate entity with his own affectations and morals. The way I behave in a classroom is nothing like who I actually am as a real human. Anyone reading this (I know you’re out there, I can hear you breathing. Mum?) can see I’m a crass and sometimes depressed character who has wildly violent flights of fancy involving anyone and anything that could potentially get under my skin. So anyone and anything then. But this is certainly not who I am when the bell rings. Or tolls, if you like.

I don’t care if you chew gum, but Mr Mills hates it. I couldn’t care less if your shirt isn’t tucked in, but don’t let Mr Mills catch you looking like that. Let’s face it, Mr Mills is an arsehole – just check numerous desks for confirmation of this – and I don’t like the way he uses my face to shout out of. You can’t really blame me though, as a teacher you have to adhere to a set of rules I knew nothing about when I first started. They are as follows:

1. You must never reveal, even for a moment, any knowledge of popular music. Particularly hip-hop. Unless you refer to it as the hip and the hop. I have done this.

2. To all pupils you are now at least 48 years old and all the new haircuts in the world won’t change this. Trust me.

3. Any vernacular you may have previously used that could be interpreted as an attempt to infiltrate yoof culture is now strictly off limits. Nothing is cool or trendy to you anymore and the word ‘fashionable’ can only be used in reference to ruffs and Elizabethan Britain.

4. You now care about the environment in an overbearing manner and if a child drops litter in front of you it is to be treated as a hate crime.

5. You think children have something interesting to contribute to society and aren’t all just massive sponging oxygen thieves.

I also used to think that you had to be a walking leather patch who strictly voted Labour and read The Guardian, but this isn’t always the case. One genuinely surprising thing is that apparently you can be a teacher who votes Tory and reads The Daily Mail and this is perfectly acceptable. I can’t help but feel that’s the ideological equivalent of working in a children’s hospital but eating all the babies. Am I wrong? Mr Mills doesn’t think so. Pompous prig.

Anyway, he’s on his way out now and not before time. Puts me in mind of when Michael had to battle his evil twin, Garthe Knight, on Knight Rider. Look up a picture of Garthe Knight if you fancy laughing at Hasselhoff and if you weren’t bored of doing that about 10 years ago. ‘A shadowy flight into the dangerous world of a man who does not exist.’ That’s me as a teacher! I never knew how similar my life was to Michael Knight’s – although I’m pretty sure I shout more than him.