Misguided Tries to Argue - Round Two

Went on the telly again today. I’ve done pretty much all the BBC shows now; the camera loves me! Did a great one today. The presenter praised my ‘common sense’ and said I was ‘clearly erudite’. A kindly old Labour peer and a kindly old Tory peer both listened to me very politely and talked about what a great job teachers like me do!

When I got back to school I ran into Misguided who was green with envy and a bit put out at having had to cover my lesson.

He asked me, ‘Why do you keep going on TV and claiming we need to reintroduce end of year exams and benchmarking when we do have end of year exams for every year group and always have? Exams that are graded, with grades sent home to parents and passed out to children who then compare results with their peers – is that not what you mean by benchmarking?’

‘Firstly, you shouldn’t always believe what you see me saying on television. They use lighting in the studios and there’s a big crew of people… it’s quite technical and complex, you know, in the media. Secondly, yuh-huh? Next question.’

I had him on the back foot.

‘I don’t understand what you just said,’ he said. He was obviously feeling insecure so I decided to go easy on him and tone it down a bit. I sometimes forget how easily these long-haired secondary modern liberals can become bamboozled by my Oxford debating skills.

‘Throw me another one,’ I offered. ‘Challenge me. I’m ready for it. I can explain my position clearly without resorting to the same vague and mostly invented anecdotal evidence, time after time.’

‘Okay,’ he took the bait, ‘how about this dumbing down of exams claim that you keep making, based on that one O Level maths paper we looked at a couple of years ago in the staffroom. If we make exams harder, how will that help improve the situation for the kids who are currently failing the ‘easy’ exams? Many of whom, as you point out, are the poor and disadvantaged kids who most need our help.’

‘Kids need to fail!’

‘But they’re already failing.’

‘They need to fail more!’

‘But I thought they needed to do better?’

‘Shouldn’t you be preparing your next lesson or something? I’ve got a meeting with the governors,’ I said, letting him down gently and allowing him to save face.

Two, nil.

Stop Playing with our Kids’ Futures

The idea of benchmarking children and letting them know how they compare to their peers is considered so poisonous by us teachers that we don’t ever do it and we let children live in darkness without any idea of how they compare to those around them (apart from giving them progress grades on a very regular basis). And the worst thing is, these pernicious tendencies are introduced from a worryingly early age.

I was at the birthday party of a four-year-old white girl on Saturday. There was an Indian boy, a Pakistani girl, three Hispanic boys and girls, a small gang of Black children, a Chinese of indeterminate sex, a Polish boy, a working-class girl, and twins born on the Welsh border who claim dual heritage.

Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and childless friends whose single relationship status was not a political statement for the duration of the birthday celebrations, stood around beaming at the happy throng as they gathered in a circle to play pass the parcel. One parent expressed a concern that youngsters ought to learn not to open suspicious packages, even at play, and another withdrew her child because of a suspected Sellotape allergy – but most adults were geed up for some cutesy fun, justly proud at this happy embodiment of MLK’s dream in the living room of a suburban home in Kent.

As the game commenced, the birthday girl’s mother sidled up to a group of us grown-ups. She was dripping with smugness, though of course no-one begrudged her this, in the circumstances. The music stopped, and the parcel with it, upon the lap of the Indian boy.

Imagine my horror when he unwrapped the first layer of paper and a small gift fell upon the floor before him; a gift that was his to keep for having done nothing more than turn up!

I was aghast, but I said nothing. I am not the sort of person to stick my neck out with a controversial and potentially hurtful opinion when people have clearly been working hard and with good intentions. I let the music play on, and the game continued.

Moments later, one of the Anglo-Cymraeg infants ripped off a second layer of paper, and to my amazement, was also rewarded with a prize! So it went on: each layer contained a gift, and each child unwrapped a layer. The final gift was ‘won’ by the birthday girl herself. I looked over towards the hi-fi, conscious that there was something very strange going on here and it was only then that my suspicions were confirmed and I was confronted with the shocking truth: daddy was in control of the volume knob.

I could contain myself no longer. ‘Fix!’ I screamed, ‘Fix! This is the most corrupt birthday party I have ever been to!’

The girl’s mother took me to one side.

‘We wanted everyone to have a prize,’ she explained, as if that were the most normal thing in the world, as if that were somehow a decent, generous-spirited attitude! ‘That way, all the children go home with a little souvenir and everything’s fair – everyone has a good time.’

Now, gentle reader, as you well know, I am usually the one to keep her head in a time of crisis, but this crazy Stepford Wife was really testing my patience.

‘Fair?!’ I hissed at her. ‘You call this fair? Tell that to the Black boy whose life you’ve just ruined! Your insipidly well-meaning liberal approach to pass the parcel is all very well for your own spoilt brat, but for these others… It can only condemn these kids to a lifetime of underachievement!’

She oh so casually wiped the spit from her brow and asked me what I meant.

‘Thanks to you and your ‘all must have prizes’, equality-schmollity, oh isn’t the world a lovely place, why don’t we all get on, I’m alright so if I’m nice to the poor maybe they’ll be alright too, nonsense… these Black boys will amount to nothing. Look at that one, you can already see a change has come over him since he arrived. Stop looking so pleased with yourself – it’s not me he’s going to mug!’

‘You’re a little incoherent,’ she suggested, passing me a vegetarian sausage roll, which I crushed in my bare hand, scattering flaky pastry on her Habitat carpet.

‘Your low expectations of these children mean that they will give up trying,’ I continued, breathless. ‘Without the incentive of competition, without the fear of feeling inferior, they will amount to nothing. If they set out into the world believing that Life is about sharing and that all people should be valued, regardless of where they went to university, they simply don’t stand a chance! They must learn to struggle, to fight! They must learn that they are alone.’

I was no longer angry. Pity for this woman’s tragic ignorance had quelled my rage. I put out my arms and held her close to me; an embrace that communicated something of the abyss that lay between us, but that nevertheless ensured that she might not ask me to pay for the cleaning of her carpet and curtains which had become stained with Ribena during the excesses of my speech.

Before I left, I glanced back at the children. A game of Musical Statues had just begun. As the music stopped, a fat child who had been gleefully twirling lost his balance and fell.

‘You’re out!’ chorused the children, as indeed he was. One pointed at him, trying her best to make it clear to him that he was A Loser, that he was, for that moment, the Most Useless Child In The Room. The boy skulked off and stood in the corner, sobbing quietly. A bittersweet moment for me. Here was this child, learning a most necessary and wholesome lesson of inadequacy and failure, who in a few months’ time would be misled by Leftie teachers into believing that despite his deficiencies – so obvious to his peers – his pitiful efforts were still valued in a gingerbread world of sugar-coated tolerance. Let us just hope that this fat child carries this memory with him, so that he is prepared for Reality when the revolution is overthrown and it finally Bites.

Perhaps then we can finally grow beyond this unhealthy obsession with Passing every Parcel, and begin to acknowledge the fact that some Parcels must Fail.

Notes on a Professionally and Sensitively Averted Scandal

or How to avoid copping off with good-looking teenage boys.

Kids cry out for structure and discipline. I remember once, a child begging to be in my class and when I said no, he said, ‘But miss, I want to be in your class because I hear you’re really mean.’ It was all I could do to resist whipping out the gimp mask there and then and teaching him a thing or two about how mean I can be!

When they do try to seduce you, it is important to step back and draw their attention to your age and even better some physical imperfection or infirmity. I know it hurts to do this and sometimes, as in my case, it can be quite difficult to come up with anything convincing.

Another way of putting them off is to sing a cappella The Police’s classic hit on this very subject, ‘Don’t Stand So Close To Me’, whilst wearing a Sting mask and gyrating. Most youth nowadays won’t go for this kind of thing (though ironically, in the 80’s these very same antics secured me three snogs).

Senior Team Portrait

So some bright spark has come up with a brilliant way of getting some much-needed attention from the local (and perhaps national?) press – thereby attracting more middle class parents to send their children to Ordinary Comprehensive. A school middle leaders focus group (led by Mr Keen but overseen by myself to ensure that procedure is followed) has come up with an exciting idea for the front cover of the new school prospectus.

They have proposed commissioning the sixth-form life drawing class to paint a full length nude portrait of the senior team. Keen insisted it would be tasteful, with the London Schools Cross Country Shield (of which the school is unduly proud) and large print versions of the school’s Code of Conduct deployed judiciously to preserve everyone’s modesty. Certainly, I conceded, it would demonstrate that we were in touch with the needs and concerns of students and their families. Then I outlined my concerns.

Firstly, I explained, although the idea is sound in principle (if a little eccentric), I suspect there are likely to be Health and Safety implications. Secondly, I imagine most of my wishy-washy liberal senior team colleagues will be too cowardly or too vain to donate a few hours of their time to such a worthy cause. And finally, I suggested, there might not be sufficient space upon the page to fit everyone in, on account of our top-heavy management structure.

I had not intended the innuendo and was rather dismayed by the exuberant titters of Miss Giggles and Mr Filth in response to my little boob. Even Miss Drab smiled, which probably did her some good.

When they had regained their composure, I said that the plan would have my support if they made some minor alterations. All joking aside, I began, there really is insufficient space on the front cover for a group portrait. Much better, from a design perspective, to have a single key figure, ideally someone rather more ‘easy on the eye’ than our Head; someone, moreover, who represents a combination of dynamic reforming zeal with traditional common-sense values. That someone really ought to be Oxbridge educated – ideally Oxford – and if that someone already had a positive relationship with the media and perhaps some unofficial links to a major political party… well, that would really set the ‘icing upon the cake’. I struck a disarmingly alluring yet authoritative pose then left them to brainstorm a suitable candidate for this important role as I sashayed out of the meeting room.

Something very funny must have happened immediately after I left the room for once again my junior colleagues in the focus group burst into noisy fits of laughter. I was glad not to have become caught up in whatever puerile frivolity was distracting them this time and marched down the corridor to my next challenge.

Misguided Tries to Argue – Round One

You probably recall Misguided – he’s the teacher with the hair and the opinions and the ability to empathise.

Got caught in a bit of a debate with him at lunchtime. Naturally, having been educated at Oxford, I trounced him. It went something like this.

Misguided asked: ‘Are you not contradicting yourself when you attack an alleged culture of anti-competitiveness? You lament that “All must have prizes, all must have GCSEs, all must have a place at university…” then go on to claim that the system has failed students who do not win prizes, GCSEs and places at university.’

I responded: ‘Racism is a complex thing. It is not a blunt instrument.’

One, nil.

We Must Open Our Eyes To The Truth

Squinty is a year 8 mixed race boy who sometimes has trouble concentrating in the classroom. He is a lively and inquisitive character but he is also sensitive. More than once, he has confided in me that though he appreciates her help, he doesn’t like the attention that is drawn to him by the presence of the Learning Support Teacher who accompanies him in lessons.

‘But why does Squinty have an assistant?’ you ask. ‘What is so special about him?’

Squinty is ‘blind’.

The case of Squinty raises an important question. Is he ‘blind’ because his optic nerve was destroyed at birth or because of what the well-meaning liberal does to him? Labelling students in this way only encourages their dependency on an overburdened state, and fosters an unwillingness to engage with real, meaningful challenges, such as competing to earn a higher salary than one’s peers. Unless we can shake him out of it – and more importantly, persuade the Leftie beaurocrats who dream up these notions to shape up and get real – Squinty is likely to continue hiding behind this lazy excuse of ‘blindness’.

On the whole, his peers are sympathetic and considerate; they help him in the classroom and stand up for him in the playground. More fool them. Of course, they aren’t to know the extent to which a child like Squinty is putting it on. Not that I blame Squinty – the broken education system’s low expectations of such boys makes it tragically inevitable that he will persist in hiding behind this label of ‘blindness’, stumbling through life, directionless .

And tragically, this culture of indolence is so deeply entrenched within British society that even his parents, despite being polite and educated, have persuaded themselves that their child cannot see.

Earlier today, Squinty’s best friends, Limpy and Hunchback, leapt to his defence as I led him off to detention. ‘Miss, it isn’t Squinty’s fault – he was born blind,’ they bleated. And of course, these words reveal a deeper culture of excuses, of low standards, and expecting the very least from our poorest and most disadvantaged. When I have Squinty repeat after me, ‘I’m responsible for myself, Miss, yes, I’m responsible for myself,’ I am fighting a generation of thinking that has left our education system in pieces – decimated by distorted, confused, jargon-ridden thinking whose worst excesses I have not only supported but encouraged for ten years, until my publisher’s recommendation that I change tack in order to promote my book.

And this raises another, even bigger, bigger question. Who’s really blind: the boy who ‘can’t see’ because his optic nerve was destroyed at birth by an excess of oxygen he received in the incubator? Or those well-meaning liberals who ‘can’t see’ the damage they’re doing to Britain’s future by mollycoddling boys like Squinty, Limpy and Hunchback?

Hands Up If

Fellow teachers, you may have come across this idea that sometimes kids should not put their hands up to answer questions in class because then it’s always the same kids who do – you know, some of them need thinking time, are less confident etc, blah blah blah. And we all know that hands-up can be a great buzz for Sir or Miss for that magical penny-dropping moment when the kid gets it. That is why I have always used hands-up with my students along with a range of other traditional and modern techniques. Of course that didn’t stop me from leading an initiative when preparing for Ordinary Comprehensive’s Ofsted visit last year in which teachers were penalised for using hands-up and for not using the hands-down technique.

 

In aggressively imposing this and other patently absurd and short-lived policies, I was not, as some have suggested, motivated solely by self-interest. I was not slavishly toeing a perceived line for the sake of my own career prospects. No. I was being loyal; I was slavishly toeing the line simply because it was, I believed, the line. It is how armies operate. And it is a good way to be - for most people.

Obviously I’m not like that any longer. This summer I became a maverick and a whistleblower in order to promote my book. Nowadays I am full of original ideas. It’s going very well!

Battle for Britain

Sorry for not posting for ages but it has been difficult finding the time, what with my new role as government advisor. (Super-Teacher, Sex Blog Queen and now Apparatchik-Chick – I am unstoppable!)

Speaking to the Select Committee last week, I feigned humility and awe – actually, the awe wasn’t entirely feigned, for who doesn’t get a little turned on by power and influence? – whilst at the same time being bold and outspoken. Indeed, I was forthright and uncompromising as I agreed with everything Michael and his team are proposing.

Where education policy is concerned, we simply cannot afford to underestimate the importance of supporting each successive government’s claim to be radically shaking up the system by introducing the 3 R’s and discipline back into schools. For years, like so many others, I have been campaigning for English and Maths to be reinstated at the heart of the curriculum. Long have we cried for some kind of strategy for dealing with the lamentable state of children’s Literacy and Numeracy. For far too long, kids in Britain have been doing pretty much nothing but P.E., Media Studies and smoking – and only one strand of this axis of nonsense is officially wrong!

I must applaud Michael for bravely bringing the battle to the complacent, well-meaning liberals. I remain astounded by this lot’s self-righteous indignation against the social segregation being tirelessly and selflessly fought for by well-heeled parents demanding that Free Schools be built for their children and their children’s friends.

Furthermore, making youngsters sit exams from the age of six is a wonderful idea. We already know, after years of positive feedback from teachers, how valuable endless formal testing is.

Fundamentally, however, it is a question of winning hearts and minds.

It may sound paradoxical, but in order to move forwards we need British schools to resemble those in the third world. It does not so much matter that they are under-resourced, over-crowded and miles away from the families they serve; schools in the developing world, where they have them, are full of eager, smiling faces, driven to gratitude by the desperate, hungry hope of escape. Yes, my friends, by hope. Hope and fear. Healthy, natural fear. Both the immediate, irksome fear of violence and the more powerful, pervasive fear of being left behind. Here, in lazy, cosy Britain, we can but dream.

Let us just pray that we do not end up like Sweden.

(Apart from in the matter of Free Schools being allowed to make a profit, which I think I must be in favour of. I must remember to check… Better text him now while I’m thinking about it…)

The Deputy who Punched Children in the Face

Some have criticised me for not going to the press several years ago with the truly newsworthy revelations of systematic, institutionalised cheating in exams and my firsthand experience of senior teachers using violence against students at a Catholic school in which I worked. I can only stress again that I would not have been believed; teachers were paid hush money and silenced by a culture of fear. Not only that, I was still partially enslaved by pusillanimous Left-wing thinking. Also, I didn’t have a book to promote at the time.

Pale Face

Pale Face has been teaching here at Ordinary Comprehensive for three years. Today she came to my office in tears, declaring that she wanted to leave the profession. She was so choked up with emotion that the 5’6” mousy-haired 26 year old English teacher and amateur ballroom dancing runner-up from Streatham Vale, in blue blouse from H & M and sensible shoes from Clarks in a sort of taupe, slightly scuffed - whose identity shall remain a secret - was having trouble communicating. My heart filled with pity, so I tried to understand.

‘Can I get you a drink, Pale Face?’ I asked. She managed to shake her head between sobs and gasps. I let her have my comfy seat with the nice cushion and perched on the desk before her – a pose of confident authority with a hint of compassion.

‘I think I know what the problem is, Pale Face. You don’t like black boys. Is that it? I’m right, yes? You don’t mind teaching the white children, but you can’t bring yourself to help out the black boys.’

‘No!’ she spluttered, a little snot dribbling from her pink nose, ‘that’s an awful suggestion!’

‘Okay, okay, Pale Face. Calm down. So it’s not teaching the black boys that bothers you, it’s telling them off. You’re afraid to discipline them. Is that it?’

‘I’m not racist!’ she exclaimed, rather melodramatically.

‘Whoa there, Pale Face! No one’s calling you racist! Not that it’s the racists I have a problem with. It’s the wishy-washy Lefties with their political correctness and equality and their fear of appearing racist. I’m not blaming you, Pale Face. You can’t help yourself – it’s your Liberal upbringing. You’ve been brainwashed –’

She interrupted me, which I thought was a bit much, considering she’d invited herself into my office.

‘It’s got nothing to do with black boys…’ she insisted. I began to understand her predicament a little more clearly.

‘Ah! It’s the Chinese you’re not keen on,’ I suggested.

‘No, it’s not…’

‘Indians? South Americans? Wait – I’ve got it! You can’t stand the working class kids! Of course! Well, let me tell you something, Pale Face, and I think this might help you – but this stays between these four walls. When I started teaching, I couldn’t stand the so-called ‘working’ class kids with their idleness and their excuses. But then, over the years, I grew to understand something very important. Working with paupers makes you look good. It’s good for your CV, it’s good for dinner parties – it’s good for dating. It’s especially good if you imagine you may one day have to knock out a lot of column inches in defence of some hastily-conceived rant that was only ever cobbled together in the first place in order to promote your book…’

She interrupted me again.

‘I don’t have any prejudices against the kids, Miss G. I’m just finding the workload too much. I need a rest. I don’t think I’m cut out –’

I sensed the floodgates may have opened, so I showed her the door and advised her with as much sympathy as I could muster that leaving was probably her best option. A little later I heard that she had, mercifully, handed in her notice. Another one bites the dust!

Old Friends

When you’re as good at teaching as I am, it can be quite awkward sitting in the pub with colleagues trying to empathise with the problems they face. This is one of the reasons I usually avoid the pub on a Friday evening. The other reasons are that I do not understand the appeal of alcohol and socialising and that gathering material for my sex blog (link removed) is a fairly exhausting process. Friday night is prime hunting time.

Then there’s the awkward fact that some of my friends don’t like me these days. They’re all Lefties, you see. Apparently, there are lots of people out there who share my views - they just aren’t in my world. Mercifully, the blessed Internet (that wondrous tool so despised by queasy Liberals!) allows me to continuously gratify my new friends’ appetites for sensationalised tales of urban violence and misery. Oh, how they love to hear about the annihilation of the state school system by compassionate Lefty teachers tip-toeing around the place being respectful, tolerant and optimistic!

Plus, of course, many of my fellow-workers are still cross at me for showing them up in my book (released next April). It’s all rather petty.

New Friends

The advantage of having a face like Michael’s is that the press don’t speculate too much about his sex life. Which I would suggest in his case is just as well, judging from what he seemed to be hinting towards in his last text message.

A Close Shave

Sorry I haven’t posted for a while but it’s been half-term and I like to use the school holidays to gather material for my sex blog (link removed).

Had a bit of a run-in with the Head just before we broke up.

I was striding purposefully across the playground with some exercise books and an air of authority when our illustrious leader (she has a 2:1 from somewhere In The North) started banging on the window of her office in an agitated manner. She appeared to be beckoning me inside. Within moments we were sat either side of her broad oak veneer desk, admiring her new yucca plant and politely discussing our holiday plans. Then she rather sheepishly explained that she might have to sack me for ‘getting into bed with the Tories and selling my sordid little story to the gutter press.’

Unbelievable.

Still, I remained calm and spoke in my defence. I reminded her how much I love these kids. I reminded her that I am over-qualified to teach in a state school and that most of my friends believe I ought to be earning a lot more money. Finally, I reminded her of all the good times we’d spent together.

She started to back-pedal (slimy, unprincipled Blairite that she is), claiming that it was not her idea to sack me, it was only that some of the governors had expressed their concern…

I gave her a look, and she shut up.

Minutes later, she admitted that she hadn’t been sleeping well lately because she was worried that some of the staff had been saying things about her new haircut. I rose slowly from the comfort-sprung leather chair and made my way round to her side of the desk. As I placed my hands firmly upon her shoulders, I felt her pulse quicken and I breathed deeply, inhaling a tangy aroma of sweat and supermarket own brand hairspray. Easing my thumbs into the tense knotted muscle beneath the flab at the base of her neck, I massaged her like her ex-husband never would. Amidst her soft moans, I too had begun to drift away, transported upon the wings of her euphoria, when suddenly we were both brought crashing down to earth by the excited squeals of a teenage mob in the corridor.

The door burst open and a gaggle of year 8’s and year 9’s flooded in chanting, ‘Miss G’s the G!’ (‘G’ signifies ‘Gangsta’ in the vernacular of the working class urban youth. It is a complimentary epithet.)

Their gawky spokesman stepped forth and explained to a rather bewildered and semi-aroused Head that she must not on any account sack me, Miss G, because I am the best teacher in the school and probably the world and all time. This all seemed a bit much, but he did go on to justify these rather wild assertions.

‘Firstly, she is the only one in this place who can keep order.’

A fair point.

‘Secondly, she obviously cares about us because she tells us she does all the time.’

Can’t argue with that.

‘Finally, she is the only teacher wise enough and brave enough to embrace Right-wing thinking and break free of the shackles of Marxist ideology that poisons the education system…’

The Head’s spluttering objections were soon drowned amongst the cheers of my young disciples as they raised me onto their shoulders and paraded me out across the car park to a specially constructed podium where a number of other students awaited me with their own personal stories of how I had affected their lives in ways that most teachers could not begin to imagine.

So in the end, a rather lovely start to the half-term break that got me right in the mood for some no-holds-barred, bare-knuckle ‘research’. Nine days later, I am exhausted but gagging for some serious teaching first thing in the morning.

Bring on les enfants!

Beware Cheap Imitations

I do worry that someone out there with too much time on his or her hands may be blogging under an absurd variation of my own name! Readers, be wary. There may be those within the blogosphere who wish to do us harm – or worse, to do harm to our book’s sales figures! There are certainly plenty of Left-wing conspirators out there, as my fellow bloggers are so frequently reminding me.

Who is Miss G?

On my sex and relationships blog (link removed), I once described myself as a black Bridget Jones for the noughties but this is a bit out of date now. Also, I’m not a fictional character. I’m the real thing, with a genuine feigned interest in politics. In fact, I’m perhaps more like the conspicuously absent fifth one from Sex and the City.

                                                                                                       

At Oxford, in the early 90s, I flirted briefly with Marxism and humility. But ever since my publisher suggested the Tory conference would be a great opportunity for some publicity, I have embraced right-wing thinking and it has liberated me.

Certain assumptions have been made about my personal life and circumstances, such as the speculation that I am unmarried and childless. (cf my sex blog – not linked here for obvious reasons, but get in touch and I’ll sort you out. It’s already been published as a book actually, under a clever pseudonym.) A number of well-wishing and not at all creepy old Tories have expressed surprise at my singleton status, and even articulated their concern that I really ought to breed for the good of mankind. Others have just commented gleefully upon the happy circumstances of my being quite a looker!

Here are just a few of the many recent comments on this matter:

The lady is going places. And it will be no drawback to her new media career that she is fairly easy on the eye too.

While we can now put a delightful face to ‘To Miss with Love’, her loss to the blogosphere is acute.    (Don’t worry – I’m back! Miss G x)

She has amazing hair eh?..;)    

Ooooo I do love an imposing woman of the slender persuasion!  

I have also exchanged emails in the past and if I had any clue that she was so gorgeous then I would have pretended to be a little more conservative. Dam!

Is it just me, or is it 'Side-show Bob'? 

I have not linked to the identity of my drooling fans in case they are shy or embarrassed but a quick search can reveal where they blog.

To those on the Left who suggest that such comments are patronising and sexist, I say only this: you’re just jealous because I’m in the news and sexually attractive (and, by the way, I’m an Oxford graduate as well - can’t remember if I mentioned that).

Thanks ever so, gentlemen!

Return to the Blogosphere

I had to close down my previous blog because it is being published in old-fashioned and inestimably more highbrow printed form. There is nothing quite like the feeling of seeing one’s name upon the cover of a book. It is second only to the joy of receiving a standing ovation at the Tory conference or being invited to write for the Daily Mail.

Indeed, it has been over a week since Michael whispered his gentle praise into my ear as the hall still thronged with the awed gratitude of delegates who had been waiting impatiently for well over an hour for an inspirational and newsworthy speaker like me. Of course, it helps if you tell them exactly what they want to hear.

I sent a letter of apology to my colleagues at Ordinary Comprehensive where I have worked for several years. Some of them occasionally feature in my blog/book (though of course the kids are the stars). I am sure they will be mature enough to forgive me, or at least sufficiently preoccupied with their efforts to manage poor behaviour not to get too worked up. Unfortunately, weak-minded liberals do have a tendency to be rather oversensitive. 

Now, I was very careful before but I shall be even more careful from now on to preserve the identities of students, teachers and parents, and of course, myself. Where before I might have cleverly changed a teacher’s name from Mr Smith to Mr Long Haired Liberal Who Wears a Palestinian Scarf, I would now refer to him more cautiously as Mr Misguided, so that he could not be so easily identified by his peers. Naturally this is a great shame, for the hair and scarf reveal so much about his character; but I am prepared to make sacrifices.

In a way, one might say that I am replacing an occasionally rather literal Dickensian approach to the naming of characters with a more playful Nabokovian one. (Oh yes, I’m pretty well-read – I’ve been to Oxford, you know; more of that later.)

Therefore, I am Ms Bumbleybong or Bubblythong or Blobbyblobbysingalong, whichever you will; to those who matter I am just Miss G. Indeed, I tend to avoid speaking to adults face to face nowadays (unless the conversation is being filmed for television) because they are usually oversensitive and the opinions they express are rarely their own. My precious charges are far less suspicious. In fact, many relish the prospect of having their insignificant little lives given some meaning by the possibility of one day appearing in a book by an Oxford graduate, albeit in such modest roles as Exceptional Black Boy, Disillusioned Low Achieving Black Boy With Bad Role Models 4, Disruptive Autistic Floppy Haired Middle Class White Boy With Left Wing Parents 2, or Girl.

You know the really great thing? People assume that because I am pushy and outspoken and a bit cross, that my version of events must be the true and accurate one! It doesn’t occur to them that my account may have been sensationalized in order to secure a book deal. These are very happy circumstances!

PS – Of course, my version of events is the true and accurate one. Readers, I would never mislead you.

PPS – I have not changed Michael’s name for good reasons. Firstly, he is a brave Tory and does not need protecting. Secondly, he is in the cabinet and therefore gets mentioned in the media literally every day! Imagine! Just before the conference, I joked with him that with a name like his he was surely destined for Gove-ernment! He laughed and tried to do some of his own observational humour along similar lines, using my name – but he faltered and became awkward and embarrassed. I had to reassure him that it’s not racist to laugh at an unusual surname; it’s okay to call a spade a spade. He then became quite stern, insisting that he had certainly not called me a spade and that I ought to know better than to listen to hearsay. After the conference, we laughed again at this little misunderstanding!