Kill The Bill - Volume Two

Previously on English Bitcherature... Poor, undervalued teacher Andrew Mills was having the birthday from hell, but at least his hair looked good.

...Instinctively I pulled to the right, to leave some room to pass, but the car just pulled up right behind my back bumper and the policeman, who I could now clearly see in the mirror, was indicating that he wanted me over on the left. He wanted me! Why does he want me? What have I done? “Did I go through a red?” I asked Cathryn, who didn’t think so. Racking my brain for a reason, I did as I was told (because I’m a good boy) and parked up next to the pavement.

This next part is the clincher. The tranquility of an approaching storm. I got out and walked towards the law, hoping I carried with me a devastating combination of charm and innocence (the reality being far closer to a hobbling Golem-like figure stinking of desperation) and asked in the best clichéd voice I could, all together now, “what seems to be the problem, officer?”

“According to our records, you’re driving without insurance”, said PC Bastard.

Is that possible? My girlfriend got the policy out and there had been complications, but surely I can’t have been driving around uninsured?

“If you’d just like to give me your driving license and get back in the vehicle, sir, we’re going to make some checks.”

After assuring the police (the bloody police!) that this must be some kind of mistake I got back in the car and told Cathryn what had happened. I phoned my girlfriend and asked her to speak to the insurance people but really all I could do now was wait. And wait. And wait. In the mirror I could see them and they really didn’t look that busy. They laughed occasionally, which must have been lovely for them. And I continued to wait. Then, finally, the bigger of the two walking knuckles got out the car and walked towards us.

I got out and was finally face to knuckle with him. He had the sort of head you could imagine was really good at knocking in fence posts or rolling pastry and you could tell he loved his job. “On this occasion we will be charging you with the offence of driving without insurance.” He said, almost flatlining he was so nonchalant about the whole thing. “Hang on!” I said, “that’s not possible.” The other knuckle had tanked his way out of the car by this point and I was now flanked on either side by two massive mouth-breathers who seemed perplexed that someone was querying their orders.

“Well, it is possible”, said the one whose eyebrows met snugly with his hairline. “We’ve just been checking on our system and it’s confirmed. And another thing, while we were speaking with your insurance company they told us someone was trying to reinsure the car at the same time.” He reported this last bit with a level of condescension equivalent to 107 retirement home nurses or three CJs from Eggheads.

“Relax, Colombo,” I said (obviously I didn't - although I did ask the next bit) “do you really think that if I was trying to get away with not having any car insurance I would immediately go about getting it sorted? I know all about it cos I asked my girlfriend to try to rectify the situation the moment I realised there was a problem.”

“Oh.” He said, looking visibly disappointed that this hadn’t been his Kaiser Sose moment. “Anyway, you have the right to remain silent….” Is this real? Is this actually happening on my birthday? I’m getting my rights read to me, my car taken away and a huge fine all on my special day. OK, that’s enough now. Where’s Beadle? Oh, that’s right, he’s dead. Typical. Although him croaking it did lead to the world’s best tabloid headline of ‘Beadle’s Not About’, which did offer me some comfort in those difficult times. Right, now for some futile bite back.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” I said as I unpacked the GCSE folders ostentatiously from the boot of the car. “I’ll just get my GCSE folders out of here so I can carry them home then,” I added, realising that they hadn’t got the none-to-subtle hint that I was a poor, hard-working teacher who was just trying to do his job.

“The fact is, Sir, you have no insurance and if you’d hit my little girl…”

“Spare me the emotive speech, please,” I interrupted. “What, so if I’d hit your little girl and she was lying there dying on the pavement with blood pissing out of her little girl face and arms, your biggest quibble would be whether I was fully comp?” Ok, so I obviously didn’t say all of that, but I did ask him to spare me his babble when he began. As I remember it, the lamentable story of the ‘little girl’ had been wheeled out by a Mancunian knuckle when I almost went through a red light as a student in Manchester. Is that their go-to fable to get us, the naughty public, to think again about our anarchic (almost a red light) ways? Was Guy Fawkes not berated on his way to the gallows by a Ye Olde knuckle proclaiming, “If my little girl had been in the Houses of Parliament that night…”

Back to Crimewatch and Crocket and Tubbs were just winding up their collar of the century. “You’ll need this slip to get the car back… Sign here... Stand still for a photograph...” Honestly, the humiliation never ends. Now they actually take a picture of you at the scene. I gave them the classic profile; not that they deserved it and left them with some fairly stock phrases of, “How do you sleep at night?” and, “You really love your job, don’t you?” before stomping off to the train station with armfuls of bags, papers and ill intent. Did I mention it was my birthday?

A little sugar to the pill was that I had to (I just had to) take the next day off to sort out the disaster and got to spend the day dealing with other terrible humans. The car pound is as close to prison as you’ll ever get without spending time at bum-be-gone land, but don’t think anal rape is off the cards yet. Bend right on over there, chief and lube up for the 170 quid, on top of the 200 pound fine.

My two favourite things about the pound were the holding pen (an outdoor cage you have to wait in before being seen, adorned with some of the best anti-establishment graffiti I’ve seen – an example of which is at the top of the post) and the fact that if you don’t pick your car up before 12 noon the next day the fine increases and guess what time the pound opens? 11:30am. Genius. These people should be in politics.

So there you have it. 34 years on the planet and that’s what life gives me for all my hard work. Well, fuck you, life! Now there’s the small matter of the upcoming court case. Next!

Thanks again for stalwart contributor, Rob. A confusing one there for a while, but got there in the end and you, Nabila, for making it clear and getting all racialist. Peace.

Kill The Bill - Volume One

Last year we went to see The Lion King. I’ve had a slightly out of control love affair with the film since the early ‘90s and blub like a stroke victim every time Mufasa takes a tumble, so going to see the stage show was intense. As expected, I spent the majority of the time blinking heavily, swallowing and trembling through gritted teeth to fight back my pathetic impulses, but it was worth it as the production was spectacular. The night before had been spent eating, drinking and showing off, just to ensure I was unable to take the merest hint of sentimentality without crumbling, and then it was off to the West End for further treats the next day.

That was a good birthday. I became 33. Like Jesus.

This year held treats of an entirely different nature, however.

I know this is a teaching blog. That’s how I’ve sold it; that’s what it’s always been about, but I think there’s a place for this tale in the darker recesses of its smelly bottom. It is the textual equivalent of a smelly bottom, so I suppose this anecdote would be the residual culprit – hiding away from sight, but being what you should point the finger at ultimately for adding fuel to my rage fire. Not that I’m condoning pointing fingers in bottoms. Especially if they’re smelly.

Anyhoo, for the last two years I’ve enjoyed the freedom and liberation which comes with birthdays falling on the weekend. You have to love that. It’s all very well having a night out with friends on the closest weekend you can, but it’s just not the same and you know it. Relax, sleep, open pressies, point fingers, the world’s your birthday cake and you can blow out the candles in your own time. Needless to say, that ended this year and we were back to the inferior weekday birthday – and even worse than that – the Monday birthday.

It’s common knowledge that Mondays are the pustulating boil of the week that require urgent lancing to be able to get on with the rest of it. This is the same across the world, but the feeling I’ve had on a Sunday before returning to a week of work since becoming a teacher far outweighs that of any I’ve ever felt before. It starts at about immediately and continues to the cold sweat of around 10pm, when, having ignored or been horrible to everyone I’ve come into contact with, I drag myself heavily to bed with terrible black thoughts splashing round me like a drowning dog. This is one of the reasons I don’t think teaching is for me. Abject terror and sleepless torment. That’s two reasons – stick around and I’m convinced I’ll find more.

Having tried to assure myself it won’t be that bad the night before, I actually woke up feeling OK. Believe me, that’s a Disney fairytale compared with the Serbian snuff movie that generally greets the start of a new week. I grumbled a bit (obviously) but left feeling like I didn’t want to kill myself and all was tolerable. I decided not to tell anyone about the big day at work, as I couldn’t be arsed with the meaningless insincerity, and set about counting down the clock while trying as hard as I could to ignore the children in front of me.

Before I knew it the day was over and I could look forward to present opening, a lovely dinner with my beautiful girlfriend and a couple of glasses of forgetting juice. I was buoyant, flippant, upbeat and I may even have hummed some kind of personal theme tune on the way to the car – you know, something jaunty, but with a hint of danger. I’d made it through the Monday birthday chaff and all that was left was pure wheat.

Pulsating down the ridiculously bumpy driveway that joins school with world, I remarked to Cathryn, who I give a lift to because I’m that type of brother, that the roads seemed incredibly empty. The lights all turned green as we approached as well and I couldn’t help feeling suspicious. “Road’s are really clear tonight, eh?” I said, still feeling uneasy about my conspicuously trouble-free journey.

“Don’t jinx it”, she replied. And that’s when I saw the blue lights in the mirror.

And that's where I'll leave it for now. Tune in next week for the concluding part which, like the Kill Bill films, is sure not to live up to expectations. Thanks to Rob again for commenting last week and getting on board the anti-Jamie train. Together we can bring down his chunky-tongued guilt regime and get on with eating crap and not caring about children. Join us!

Nice Dream

I’ve had an idea for a show. I’m branching out a little here, so bear with me. I take all of the skills I’ve learnt as a teacher and open up an oil rig. Not just any oil rig, mind, one with the best celebrity riggers in the business. I’m thinking Bruce Willis from Armageddon, Ricky Tomlinson from Roughnecks and Mel Gibson from Lethal Weapon as his name was Riggs. Episode one sees the gang finally realising oil is black and Gibson walking off set because he’s a filthy, stupid racist.

OK, so I’m not actually pitching that idea, it was just supposed to be some smartarse way of segwaying into a post about Jamie’s Dream School. And I apologise. It’s good that everyone’s favourite child snatcher is back on the screen again though, telling us we should be ashamed of ourselves. Turns out Oliver left school without any qualifications (who knew?) and wants to know what we, as a society, do about the frighteningly large 15% of kids doing exactly the same thing these days. What are we going to do about it then? Come on, what are you going to do about it?

Actually, what is he going to do about it? Well, a short-term solution seems to be to wheel in some of the country’s oldest people and get them jowl-to-face with a generation who don’t know them, don’t care about them and can’t ever, ever shutthefuckup. It’s less a dream and more of a depressing indictment of our country’s youth’s inability to help themselves, even when they’re offered a jewel-encrusted leg-up. I’m in no doubt as to the direction of a show like this – where we’re going to end up is about as difficult to predict as stink on doo-doo: “Thank you, Jamie! Now we know what we must do to make it better! You are the bestest friend a horrible, futureless skip rat could ever have hoped for!” More formulaic than a Grand Prix, we all know how it will conclude. My concern is – what’s the point?

One good thing the show does is to accurately portray what it’s like to stand at the front of a class in schools these days and since I started three years ago this only seems to be getting worse. Even the good classes can’t shutthefuckup and the ‘teachers’ in the Dream School are all getting a taste of this demoralising exercise in futility. Although he’s a pompous, stuck-up relic, I did enjoy David Starkey (historian, academic, shortarse) calling the pointless thug, Connor, fat in the first episode. Even better than this was his defence in front of the headteacher (who obviously took fatty’s side) where the word ‘porcine’ was used. So he likes history because he is some, but that’s a great cuss in anyone’s book.

Unsurprisingly, the lessons which the losers actually took to were all practical (Ellen McArthur on a yacht, Jazzy B helping them mix tracks on Macs) but so what? Is sailing going to help them write an application form? Is Magix Music Maker going pay their gas and leccy? Nope. I appreciate that this is an attempt to address the appalling figures quoted above by looking at alternatives to the traditional curriculum, but the focus in schools these days must be on getting children to take some responsibility for their own learning.

At one point, after the vermin have sobbed their stories out in front of each other about how they weren’t catered for, respected, or helped in any way at nasty-nasty school-school, Jamie stands before them and bleats, “I’m sad that all of you feel consistently let down by the education system.” How fucking dare you?! These are the kids who don’t just mess up their own lives through perpetual rudeness and disruption, but also those of their classmates and they’re the ones who feel let down? I think they should be made to travel to every teacher and pupil’s home whose lives they destroyed or made a misery of and offer themselves as human furniture for the rest of their lives. While Jamie cooks a great, big lovely steak and shutsthefuckup. Mmmm, steak.

Thanks again for the comments from last week's effort. Particular thanks to Al for making my supercilious spewtum all the more unconvincing by showing how dumb I actually am and of course to my lovely girlfriend for adding her two pennieth worth. I agree about keeping them behind if they fail the year too. Except in cages. In a lake. Until next time!

Heavy Metal

It’s a power thing. Isn’t it always?

If we look to academia, it states that, ‘Power is a measure of an entity's ability to control its environment, including the behaviour of other entities.’ If this is the case, I am completely lacking in any whatsoever. As much as I am perpetually informed of my manipulative, controlling and selfishly dominative traits by various past partners, this just never translates into a classroom environment. The level of hatred from them and self-loathing from me remains, it’s just there’s no make-up sex. I don’t allow make-up in my classes, you see.

Labour’s 2001 Education Act brought with it the inclusion of…. inclusion and ever since then schools have been fucked. The long and short of the policy was that those pupils who scream, shout, punch, rip, fart, waft and so on would not face the understandable and justifiable consequences of this. There were to be no more exclusions without (literally) months of prolonged court battles and by this time the little shits would have been prepped so much, brilliantly-devised soundbites, in the shape of limping angelic infants, would convincingly spill from their downturned mouths like a pitiful stream of innocence. ‘How could you, Sir?!’ The judges roared, shaking their fists in the school’s direction and gently dabbing poor Tiny Tim’s tears with a patchwork quilt comprised of teacher’s P45 forms as he barely musters the strength to give you the finger on his journey from courtroom back to classroom.

So what now? Well, now, when a child calls you a pedophile, hits you, bites you, leaves knuckle marks on a female colleague’s chest, throws a table through the window, throws themselves through a window, steals from you, spits at you and tells you exactly where to stick your education (all witnessed first-hand) you are taught to ask the question, ‘what can I do to gain you access to learning?’ I’ve often thought of this as being tantamount to running after a child with a tenner, pleading with them to take it and the kid whipping round and spitting, ‘fuck you!’ in your direction.

It’s not even the children’s fault. We give them the power in the relationship, which is a bit like giving a heroin addict the keys to your needle and foil collection for safe-keeping. Kids are kids. They’re stupid, excitable, bouncy and fun – but one thing they're not, is responsible. That’s what we have to be (although I am bouncy, on occasion) and that means giving the other pupils whose education suffers as a direct result of this power struggle a fighting chance and taking those children who can’t handle it out of mainstream education. The amount who can’t handle it will drop rapidly if they see that something is actually done and then we can avoid nasty little (but ultimately glorious) incidents like the one in Mansfield, where a teacher nearly bludgeoned a child to death with a metal weight screaming, ‘Die! Die!’

Inclusion kept that child in front of the teacher, goading and taunting him until he couldn’t take it anymore and if you don’t want to see more of the same, it’s time we overhauled the system. Either that, or take some shares out in your local metal weight emporium, sit back and enjoy the profitable carnage.

I get a horrible feeling that this is just to be a weekly vent; somewhere where I can gratify myself and endlessly go on about how hard done-by I am. You know, the sort of self-indulgent ramblings that would make Raul Moat blush. And then shoot someone in the face. To prevent this I also want to add something genuinely funny that happened to me in my teaching role every week, just so it’s clear it’s not all bad. It’s just mostly bad and sometimes tolerable.

Here’s one: last year I agreed to go to Liverpool with a group of gospel choir kids to help support the music teacher, who’d done a fantastic job in getting them to represent the school in a national scheme to get boys singing. As we sat on the train, one of the boys came up to me and asked, ‘what part of London is Liverpool in?’

At first I sniggered, thinking it was a joke, but when I realised he was serious I said, ‘No, Liverpool’s not in London. It’s up in the north-west of the country – you know, above Manchester; around that way.’

The boy thought for a moment and, obviously even more confused now, said, ‘Well, what’s Liverpool Street then?’

Yes, it’s funny, but it’s also painful and depressing. Perfect!

Thanks again for your comments from last week. What I loved was the effort that goes into coming up with all these floral descriptions and comparisons, only to have the whole thing revolve around my hair. Just for you then, as I walked into school for the first time since the ill-judged chop the air filled with the unsettling sound of exaggerated dry heaving. Just what you want when you’re feeling self-conscious anyway. To ease the pain next week I’ve decided to pluck my eyebrows and wear kitten heels.

Chat soon, bye now!

True Gits

Being a teacher is bloody weird. It doesn’t seem like five minutes ago we were all slagging and bitching about our own teachers and now I’m the one being slagged and bitched about. Not that I’m suggesting for a moment that in my other workplaces I haven’t been slagged and bitched about as well – being both a slag and a bitch makes this a given – but I suppose the main difference is that in these other places and when we were kids, at least we had the decency to do it behind their backs.

The first thing that struck me about teaching these days is the barefaced audacity that the kids have in their 21^st century slagging and bitching. As a teacher, particularly as a new teacher in a difficult school, you can go to work confident in the knowledge that you will definitely be abused, tormented, ridiculed and humiliated – the fun is guessing which one it’ll be that day. ‘You’re a prick, Sir.’ Yeeeee-haaaa! ‘Hope you’ve got AIDS, Sir’. Whoop-whoop! ‘Fuck you, Sir’. Wheeeeee! It really is a joyous pursuit. What I particularly like about it is the duality of being so incredibly rude, but then following it with the cap-wringing, floor-staring and almost Victorianly polite suffix, ‘Sir’. It’s like someone slowly and sadistically inserting a red-hot door knob up your arsehole and then offering you a beautifully-embroidered handkerchief and chancing, ‘mop yer brow for you, guv’nor?’

I remember, in my first week, a few boys were walking up the corridor and behaving perfectly normally until they saw me there. Seizing a chance to look good and, more importantly, make me look like an embarrassingly ineffectual fool – easier than you’d think – they began to shout, swear and eventually fight their way towards me with the subtext of seeing what I was going to do about it. Being new and a massive coward, I really didn’t know what to do about it and so, quivery and fearful voice at the ready, I just started shouting.

It’s a funny thing, shouting at teenagers. They live in a constantly loud world filled with loud music (God, writing that couplet makes me feel about a thousand years old) loud opinions and loud clothing and so what the hell kind of impact would a slightly amplified middle class voice – which sounded a lot more like I was asking for a wine list in a noisy, but lovely, restaurant than reprimanding a group of out-of-control bastards – have on them?

“Boys! Boys!”

So my first question is, is there anything camper than that? It sounds more like a proclamation of sexual preference than castigation and the ‘boys’ in question reacted in precisely the manner you’d expect. Mimicry and ridicule. “Boys! Boys! Oo’s dis guy?” they shouted to each other as they continued to barrel down the corridor, pretending to be oblivious to my obvious discomfort, but really almost visibly growing in size because of their hilarious parody and my resulting shame.

My point is, if there is a point, that we would never have done this sort of thing when we were at school. I lived in perpetual fear that my slagging and bitching would eventually be found out and I would be seized by those in power and viciously dealt with. Sort of like a free-speaking Libyan – topical alert! Topical alert! These revolutions are really helping with my similes at the moment. Their lives have not been lost in vain. The fact is that this fear just doesn’t exist anymore in schools. Kids don’t care if you see them being rude about you these days and, in fact, actively pursue situations in which they get the opportunity to make you look like a twat in front of as many people as possible. That’s part of the game now and one of the reasons I can’t take it. I don’t want to play anymore. I’m going home and I’m taking my dignity with me.

Anyway, this post was about all of that, but really it’s about the fact I got a new haircut, which may as well have been the word ‘victimise’ tattooed on my face. There it is. My life is over.

Thanks for the comments for the first posting last week. Nikki, you managed to be funnier than the whole thing in one sentence there. Thanks for that. And, Rob, it was a Tuesday. Until next time, my lovelies!

The Pursuit of Happiness

Sooooo…….. Last time we met I was full of hope and ambition. It was the last week of a life-changing trip down through the Americas continents, if I remember it rightly, and I’d seen enough awe-inspiring sights to ensure things would be different from now on. No more would the crutch of television hold me up as I merely existed my way through life. It was about experience and living and I wasn’t about to waste that opportunity in front of the fool’s lantern, drinking and sneering at the next batch of Big Brother cock snots as they paraded around the new fucking room, which was actually called the Fucking Room. Where they were encouraged to fuck.

Any guesses where this is leading then? Well, you’re wrong, you bunch of bloody doubters. When I got back to the UK I did make changes. Didn’t like the job, changed it. Relationships in turmoil, changed them. TV in the bedroom, changed it. So, as you can see, a lot of bonafide alterations from life as it was, to life as I wanted it to be. And no TV in the bedroom as well – may seem like a little thing, but to me it was like losing a testicle. My favourite one too – ol’ lefty. You remember him. Juts out a bit, but he’s all heart. And gross hair and veins.

Sooooo…… Does all of this equal happiness? Is this the final posting where I superciliously bestow my secrets and wisdom to enhance your experience on Planet Patronising Bastard and then flick a casual V sign in your direction as I cast my flaxon locks back and roar with the kind of self-love and mastubatorialism that would make Gordon Ramsay appear the very picture of Dickensian manners?

Nope.

Still pissed off. Still dissatisfied. Still envious of literally everyone else in the world.

But then that might be a good thing. People do their best work when they’re up against it. Look at the Egyptian slaves who built the Pyramids. They may have been getting continually whipped throughout their miserable, but mercifully short, existences; taking the sort of daily abuse unthinkable by today’s standards (unless you do actually still live in Egypt – topical alert, topical alert!) but look what they produced. My point is that if you sweat and toil, someone will appreciate it thousands of years from now, so it’s all worth it. And stop moaning, you long-dead, long-suffering Egyptian slave irrelevances.

Unfortunately, my erections are nowhere near as spectacular as Egypt’s, so you’ll have to make do with the sort of banal musings that, in 2007, had The Guardian’s Allegra Stratton saying absolutely nothing and elicited the following review from The Independent’s Robert Fisk:

(I have absolutely no idea who Robert Fisk is – it’s just a name I was given. I don’t even think he reviews anything. The point I’m making is that I’m a nobody. Do you see? Are you happy now?! My girlfriend thought you wouldn’t get it if I just left it blank and insisted I added this caveat to make it clear. Well? Is it clear? Probably. Is it funny? No)

The long and the short of it is that I’m back. I’ve been working as an English teacher in Peckham and Greenwich for the last 3 years and now I want to change it all again. This will be about how I manage that. Or wind up a serial killer. It really could go either way.