Teaching Drama, and Being Hit Over The Head With A Chair

For Emma, who gets upset when I don't update the blog regularly

I used to teach Drama. I was dreadful at it. I would be OK now, I think, but I got stuck behind the 8 ball early on and never really recovered with that class, in my first year of teaching at Big School.

I was recently asked by a colleague to state the worst 5 things that happened at my previous school. Given that at No.4 I had written: "Child tried to hit me over the head with a chair", she was quite surprised that I had "Teaching Drama" in at 2.

But it was a bit like this, you see.

Teaching Drama

When I arrived at Big School, all keen and ready for battle, and received my first timetable with the excitement of a Primary child opening a new set of Staedtler felt tipped colouring pens, I couldn't workout what the acronym Dr meant.

Drama, a helpful colleague informed me, laughed, and walked away shaking his head.

I went to the office to sort out the mistake. No mistake. I had expressed interest at interview, I was informed. Assuming this was true, I lived with my lie. After all, during an interview if someone asks you about your kite flying experience, you tend to talk up one disasterous Sunday with dad 17 years ago as a childhood dream yet to be realised, when do I start? Don't you?

It was years later that I realised that it was they who were lying to me.

So there I was, with two lessons of Drama on my timetable. How bad could that be, I thought? I can learn a few things, work with different department. I could even lose the tie from time to time, dress in black, take a coffee to lessons, swear infront of the kids, let me call me 'Doog'...?

I used to throw up before lessons.

That makes me laugh to look back on it now, but it’s true. I had break duty before the second of the weekly 2. I would stand on duty in the playground, feeling the seconds tick down to the start of the lesson. There was a disabled/staff toilet (yes, I always liked that joke) with a code on the door, and like a bulimic teen I would nip in there and hurl. Then, ready for battle, I would emerge; reeking.

And then I would get my ass kicked. But I learnt a lot. (?)

The school was growing faster than its population, so, in my first year, when you taught a 'non-core' subject like Drama, you could find yourself teaching in places like the refectory. So, 30 kids, in the refec, directly after break.

And to add to my joys the refec after break is where that famous slippery slope you read about actually ends up, with every bad kid in the school sliding down on chip fat and coke to group and congeal, like a stagnant pool of second rate DNA, a walking Daily Mail headline of low life expectations for the less than 5 GCSEs.

Lessons would start with me turfing out all of that lot, and end a long long time later.

Not knowing anything about the subject, far less how to teach it, I fell back on the work the department used. This was suicide as the department were in a worse state than me. Term 1: Group work and Improvisation. Somehow even the stupidest kids can improvise something that can make a teacher look stupid in front of a class. They might have 'Will Spend Rest Of Life Serving And/Or Eating Chips' tattoed on foreheads, but they can be a God for a 60 seconds when I try to bring them down.

Whenever I told off a kid off for fighting, or bullying someone, they would hit me with we're trying to get into character.

When they I told them to put down something dangerous, I was told it was a prop.

When they swore, they said their last teacher, the Head of Department, allowed it. I checked, she confirmed that she did, indeed, let them saying things like m*therf*ck*r and whore, as long as it was in context.

I asked her what strategies she'd used to control the class. She gave me the single most ineffectual piece of advice I have ever heard: If they misbehave again, just tell them they're throwing away their chance to get an A*. That was the last time we spoke.

It never got better.

I went to my mentor, explaining all of this. She'd also arrived that term, but had come from a properly rough school, listened patiently to my story, and said, I'll support you 100%. I'll take the class, or get you retimetabled, whatever. (Pause. Brilliant, I thought) But do you know what I said to myself when they broke my fingers? You're going to get me that f*cking easily. (Pause. Shit, I thought.)

So...

After Thursday's lesson I would dread Friday's. Friday's I would survive and look forward to 9 working days till next Drama lesson. I was so badly in denial that I was teaching it that I never planned my lessons properly, so it just got worse and worse. It's the only singularly negative thing I've ever experienced in teaching.

And yes. Way worse than being hit over the head (well, nearly) by a chair.

Portera Porteñita

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So Knot Me

The Windsor

I'm not a fan of the windsor, to tell you the truth. There is something ostentatious about the windsor knot, like you're trying too hard. At best it makes one look smugly self-satisfied, at worst like a footballer on the way to court. It undercuts any attempt at nonchalant cool, which is surely the aim of a man forced into such attire of on a morning.

I don't worry too long about matching ties to shirts, I pretty much keep it simple. When in doubt, Friendly Fire (blue on blue); this motto has, more than once, saved me vital decision making seconds in the morning coffee cornflake keys scramble out the door.

Frenchmen

I always wanted to wear a tie like a Frenchman in movie. Vincent Cassell, maybe. White shirt, thin black tie, espresso, cigarette. That's it, no job needed, just sit around, doing that and being French. But I don't smoke, and I'm pretty sure that's an essential part of the deal. You can be ugly as sin, but if you're French, and you smoke: you're gold.

What age do you get to when the wearing of a tie is almost essential to preserve your dignity? When I'm old, and look like a taxi driver, I'll always wear a tie. I'll hide behind elegance in the grey suit and unbuffed shoes.

The Half Windsor. This is something I should think about more. That's where we should be. If you're going to teach you son something useful, go with this.

The School Tie

It might have a real name, but it should be called the school tie. Why do they teach you that? Must be because it's the best knot to tie badly, articulating your anti-authoritarian adolescent angst. Have at thee, hegemony, the hoodies seem to say, not only is my tie an inch long but it is an insult to the Windsors.

The Shelby. Something suspicious about that final maneuver.

The Black Tie

The exception. Always forms a perfect knot, first time. From Charity shop cheap to cashmier silk. Ties must respect those that move on. I guess it's a bit of a shop window for them: after all, what man goes to the next place with an open shirt?

The Dickie Bow. No real need, is there? There's always one fella at every wedding who can sort you out. He'll wander in to the Grooms inner circle on D-day, on the pretense of an errand, and opportunely offer a helping hand, leaving the room, a conquerer, with a false modesty that fools no one. You whisper when he's gone that he practices for such occasions.

The Clip On. Never seen one, to be honest. Can't believe their convincing.

Health and Safety

Pictured this sign in an heladeria (ice cream shop) in Cafayate. Nothing better for you, it seams.

Strangely, Katie was watching the news today and they had a feature on 'the Argentine diet', showing a potato, a hunk of meat, some bread and a tomato on a desk in front of the anchor. The anchor got quite excited by the expert's ground breaking statement that you should be eating 5 portions of fruit and veg a week. Damn straight, she said, and went off on a domestic rant about all we ever eat at home is milanesa and pure, milanesa and pure, it's so boring.

So, maybe the key to unlocking the notoriously volatile and moody Argies is nothing more than diet? But they'll never get the message out: we can't have all those therapists out of work now, can we? Half the city out of work?

Ah well... It's nothing a good ice cream can't cure

Dumb and Dumber

Ah, I love this time of year, for in the UK at least, it's exam results time.

It's when the newspapers can rake through last year's cuttings, change the date on last year's headlines and repeat the same old stuff. We all know the routine by now, don't we?

Somehow you find yourself listening to Radio 1, who appear to have taken over from UCAS as the official way to find a course at university. You become aware that it's exam results season and you start reminiscing about how you found out about your results, back in the day when an O level actually meant something, and there was none of this going into schools and shouting at your teachers if you failed then. Oh no. If the results were better than last year they would light the school beacon.

Then you see the papers, and a 7 year old Asian kid is on the front of Times cause he's got 6 As all in Maths A level (Statistics, Pure, Applied, Extended Hypothetical, Hyperextended Hypothetical and Adding) and he's very excited about going to Oxford. And the Daily Mail goes absolutely berserk about how easy the questions are, and links it to immigration and complains about Sex Ed: too much Sex and not enough Ed.

Well, I used to see all of this through the blood tinted spectacles of the bullied and the thick at a London comprehensive. Quite a decent High School really, we had a pass rate of about 50% at GCSE. But let's examine those stats.

That's 50% of students achieving an A* to C. Which means that in the better subjects your Top Set would get a C or above, half your middle set would get a C, and nearly none of your bottom set would get anything.

This was one of the better schools in the area.

So in this generally pleasant place, a 50% pass rate means that only half of our students passed half of their subjects.

The headlines are seem a bit harsh on these kids. There are few conversations more difficult than trying to console a crying 16 year old who after 12 years of schooling has just got 4 Cs and a Ds, and everything she's been told about the world is that if she 'fails to get 5 GCSEs' she is screwed for the rest of her life; crying her eyes out because she desperately, desperately "did not want to end up like her mum".

This conversation is difficult enough even when you don't have a copy of the Times under your middle-class, coffee drinking, guilt ridden, cardigan-warmed arm, subtly shifting the headline: 'Even a Massive Spaz Can Get an A*' says Philemon, 15, Britain's brightest student, shown here with his 15 A* certificates. "I didn't even know it was test," he joked, through his ironic hoodie.

But in spite of my honest defense of those kids who really do try - and they exist, and really cannot do any better, and really have believed everything they've heard every assembly, every Headmaster's address entitled 'Do Well (To Make Me Look Good)' - I find that I have to, even though it pains me, I have to agree in some part with the dumbed down brigade.

And you will too by the time you read this below. These are examples of "objective testing" questions, otherwise known as multiple choice, from recent GCSE papers. Old lady, beware. The kids are coming after you in a space probe.

GCSE Science (Edexcel, 2006)
Our moon seems to disappear during an eclipse. Some people say this is because an old lady covers the moon with her cloak. She does this so that thieves cannot steal the shiny coins on the surface. Which of these would help scientists to prove or disprove this idea?
A) Collect evidence from people who believe the lady sees the thieves
B) Shout to the lady that the thieves are coming
C) Send a probe to the moon to search for coins
D) Look for fingerprints

GCSE Science (Edexcel, 2006)
Many people observe the stars using
A) A telescope B) A microscope C) An X-Ray tube D) A synthesiser

GCSE Biology (AQA 2008)
When we sweat water leaves the body through…
A) Kidneys B) Liver C) Lungs D) Skin

Higher paper in science GCSE, Edexcel

At the astronomical club Alec and Louise discuss the possibility of intelligent life existing on other planets.

Which of the following statements supports the possibility of existence of intelligent life in our galaxy?
A) The galaxy is expanding very quickly
B) The earth is over four billion years old
C) The search for extra-terrestrial intelligence has spent millions of hours analysing signals from space
D) There are so many stars in the galaxy

Satire is dead. As is Britain: The Next Generation. Long love the moral and educational panic.

Feminism, What Did I Ever Do To You?

Time was, a long time ago, when a man would return from work, remove his hat and winkle pickers, his wife would take his coat, assure him that the children were in bed, offer him a whisky and tell him that his dinner was in the oven, when would he like it served?

Well, if my weekend was anything to go by, those times are dead, and a long long way in the past.

At around 730am last Sunday morning, I was slumped at a breakfast table in a beautiful old estancia house in the Argentine campo, with 7 loud, lovely, sprightly chocolate cereal eating children, and 3 jaded, dishevelled coffee drinking Dads, whose 3 respective wives had crawled into bed about 2 hours earlier, last seen at 530am. So it was that we served the kids their breakfasts, brought rounds of coffee, spoke in monosyllables, took turns by the warmth of the stove, and slagged off the legacy of the feminist movement: Drunken Mums.

And we talked of the golden days of yore. But thinking that we were fabricating a history that never was, I could not help but Google the original text: How To Please Your Husband, 1950. You will not believe the following. If you're a better man than me, you'll print this and pin it to the fridge.

Excerpt from a 1950s Home Economics Textbook
Compiled by Ms. Leslie Blankship (Thanks, Leslie)

Have dinner ready: Plan ahead even the night before to have a delicious meal on time. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospects of a good meal are part of the warm welcome needed.

Prepare yourself: Take 15 minutes to rest so you will be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift.

Clear away the clutter: Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives, gathering up school books, toys, paper, etc. Then run a dust cloth over the tables. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift, too.

Prepare the children: Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.

Minimize all noise: At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of washer, dryer, dishwasher, or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and be glad to see him. Some don'ts: Don't greet him with problems or complaints. Don't complain if he's late for dinner. Count this as minor compared with what he might have gone through that day.

Make him comfortable: Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest he lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soft soothing and pleasant voice. Allow him to relax-unwind.

Listen to him: You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first.

Make the evening his: Never complain if he does not take you out to dinner or to other places of entertainment. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure, his need to be home and relax.

The goal: Try to make your home a place of peace and order where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.

Editor's note:

Warning: do NOT try this at home.

Ageing, Part 2

Having written, and then removed, a compairson between Blighty and Buenos Aires, because it was morbid and rather dull, I thought I would put this in its place.

This is essentially what I meant to write, but thought I had already written an entry exactly like it, called Ageing.

Turns out that was nearly 2 years ago. Which brings me nicely to the subject.

This is Ageing, Part 2. or Latest signs of my proximity to the maker.

1. Ageing or Aging.

The Oxford English Dictionary stated that it is grammatically correct to spell ageing as so, or aging. To me, the sound that would rhyme with 'gagging' puts me off, so I choose the word that would score higher in Scrabble. So that will be number one. I look things up in dictionaries, and Scrabble is as zeitgeist a reference point as I can muster. It seems a long two years. I guess that's aging for you.

2. Anecdotes

I have a growing sense of athazagoraphobia, the fear of that you have forgotten something, a chilling moment of hesitation at the start of every anecdote, as the voice in my head says, You've told him this already. What's more, you've told him this today.

3. These anecdotes often start with the year

Do you remember, in '94...

4. Star Wars to me is the Matrix to them

In a survey with my Film students, I asked them what I could do to improve the course. Several responded with something like: 'We could watch more up to date films.' I focused a lesson or two on Fight Club and The Matrix. I was informed, gently, that these were exactly the sort of 'old films' they were talking about.

5. Everyone Loves Raymond

Hilarious. I get every joke.

6. Coffee Culture

The 'Last Coffee Of The Day Deadline' is slipping back so far that at this rate I'm going to have to get up early for it to be early enough for me to have a coffee that doesn't keep me awake at night.

7. I am Post Ironic

Things I think of as being popular in my teenage years are once again cool. They are post-ironic. Take That, Beverley Hills 90210. I am flares. In a similar vein, bands that I think of as being fresh out of school, like Busted, are being covered by bands that are actually fresh out of school, like The Jonas Brothers (left -absurdly young 'people')

8. Sleep is the new sex

Lads conversations on the phone now sound exactly like they did back in the day, with one simple substitute. "Oh my God, I had the best (sleep) at the weekend. I (slept) for 6 hours straight. I've got that next day good mood feeling after that awesome (sleep). If I could bottle that (sleep) I'd (sleep) like that for the rest of my life."

9. Not understanding TV

There are adverts on television for things I find utterly bewildering. There was one on last week involving what appeared to be flying Gerbils, that were sort of superheroes, or possibly cleaning products. There was a time when I would have thought it was simply badly edited, but now I suspect that the frames of reference are so alien to me, that it's me.

10. Competitive Ageing

I was visibly delighted last weekend when I found out from Katie that friends of ours, who I thought were our age, were actually a bit older. Evil miser laugh and hand rubbing glee.

11. Grans

Grans used to be a bit dull. Now they're good company. Amiable, really. Well, we've got more in common now.

12. Running

I no longer run because I want to, or feel like it, or need to burn excess energy, or like it. I run to turn back time.

Right, TV and slippers time. Catch you again.