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.

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!