After over thirty years in Secondary schools in Greater London and beyond, and with twenty years in Senior Leadership Teams, I retired with grey hair, bruises and tales to tell. But now I’m back. In the classroom for a few days a week, and doing a spot of educational consultancy, with a bit of writing here and there. And it’s wonderful. And I still have tales to tell. So here goes…………….
The following text is part of the #FoldingPaperProject. The project, set up by Molly (www.mimmerr.co.uk) aims to spread productivity, creativity and fun amongst the world’s current bleak state.
It works like the folding paper game we played at school, where one person draws the head of a character, the next person the body and so on. Whereas, we’ll be continuing a story.
You don’t need to be an accomplished writer. You don’t even need to be any good! You just need to be able to continue the story in four- five hundred words and post it on your site. If you don’t have a site, I’ll put it on mine for you.
If you would like to get involved, contact Molly @mimmerr or at email@example.com If not, read on and share the story via the #FoldingPaperProject hashtag. Happy reading and writing!
Oliver slammed his fist down on the desk top, rattling the stained coffee cups, the fruit bowl and the corporate pastries.
“Look, how many times do you need to be told? The whole economy is in free fall. Everywhere. Now is not the time to be thinking of expansion. It’s probably the time to be thinking of cutting our losses and closing.”
There was a pause. Everyone around the table found something to do with their hands, somewhere to direct their gaze, shuffling papers, spreadsheets and projections, while the fan of the projector hummed in the back ground. Anything but look at Felix, his mouth open in disbelief, his brow furrowed.
“Close?” he finally managed to splutter. “You can’t be serious Oliver, we can’t close, not after everything we’ve done. We’re so close to making the breakthrough. If we can just get through this temporary cashflow problem, pay the suppliers and salaries, we can make this thing work. Trust me, I know we can.”
Oliver, smiled as if talking to a difficult but charming child, his tanned face crinkling around the eyes. When he spoke his tone was calmer, a singsong of patient explanation.
“And who is going to pay the suppliers and the salaries, Felix? It’s not going to be you is it?”
“Well, no, but..”
“Exactly. And there is no “but”. That is everything. The bottom line. And as usual, it’s me that has to be the adult in the room and deal with the reality of the situation. The money.”
“But Oliver, there’s always money to be made in a financial crisis. You just have to keep your nerve. If you make the case to the bank, they will lend us the money. The business plan is sound Oliver, you know that. This will be a top end, luxury destination for the A listers and it has the backing of some of the world’s leading conservationists. It’s a winner, Oliver.”
Oliver sighed and shook his head. He turned to the woman sitting on his left, a tall, elegant black woman with braids and a flawless complexion. “Connie, do you mind?”
She leaned forward in her chair, tapped the keyboard and the next slide in her presentation came up. It was a graph with all of the coloured lines heading south.
“We’ve been to the bank, Felix. Several banks, actually. Not to mention some rather more dubious sources of capital. They don’t want to know. I’m sorry” she said.
“But the business plan..”
Connie cut across him. “The business case was strong, before the world economy tanked. Now, cash is king. And we haven’t got any. Look at the graph.”
Felix had heard enough. It was his turn to bang his fist down on to the table.
“Fuck the graph. All you ever want to talk about is graphs. What about the animals? What about the bats?”
Oliver smiled a smooth, thin smile.
“You’re the clever zoologist, Felix. We’re just simple business people. I suggest we move to a vote.”
Fifteen minutes later, after the vote had been taken and lost, by five votes to one, Felix was left alone in the room, surveying the debris still in place across the table, his dreams in tatters. The expression on his face hardened and his knuckles whitened as he clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly. Finally, he came to a decision. Reaching for his mobile, he jabbed in a number and waited.
“Gareth, it’s Felix. We need to talk about Dad. And money.”
Weeks 5 and 6, April 23rd 2020. Cravings and Ravings
In these strange times, full of empty days and an uncertain future, one inevitably turns to musing all things philosophical. Why are we here? What is the meaning of life? Will there be any cricket this summer? Lately these thoughts have turned to man’s greatest achievements, in an attempt to decide whether or not we as a species deserve to survive. After much thought, I’ve got as far as these. In no particular order, I give you:
The Sistine Chapel ceiling
The Flushing Toilet
The Cruyff Turn
Abbey Road side 2
Much Ado about Nothing, Act 4, scene 1, lines 251 – 325
The Waitrose Chocolate Berliner Donut
Perhaps you could choose four more and then we could go to a vote. I’m sensing a Twitter poll coming on
It feels like the tide is beginning to turn in terms of our glorious government and the Blessed Boris. Having been surfing on a tide of brainless good will since he Rose Again, Johnson is, at last, being subjected to some proper scrutiny. And what do you know, when the spotlight of interrogation is on him, the mystery melts away, and just like the Wizard of Oz behind the curtain, a rather silly pathetic, ineffectual little man emerges. His canonisation reached its peak, hilariously, with Alison Pearson’s tear stained, masturbatory eulogy in The Telegraph about how the nation held its breath as he teetered on the edge of death. He was, Pearson declared, the incarnation of the spirit of Albion, the Johnson body (steady Alison, you’ll need to wash those sheets) being one and the same thing as the body politic of the realm. Transubstantiation or Consubstantiation? Thinking about it, with Johnson, it was almost certainly Con.
But even in the breathless, evidence free zone that is the Tory press, eventually reality must break through. Those damn bodies. In the same way that the relentless clips of young Americans being flown back to the US in body bags from Viet Nam did for LBJ in the Sixties, so the daily press briefings giving the inexorable rise in deaths from the disease, has gradually chipped away at the Johnson myth. The briefings have been led by a series of utterly hopeless Tory Ministers (Alok Sharma?!) and have been notable for several things. First, the absolute inadequacy of the journalists questioning. The questions are poor and repetitive, and no one is challenged for not directly answering. Then the “independent” scientific advisors. What a joke. The petrified Minister passes the difficult question to the advisor who plainly fails to answer it before passing it back with a rictus smile, pathetically grateful that a few more minutes have passed and the end of the whole charade of a briefing is a little bit closer. Finally, the latest in a series of desperate promises about the future is delivered, whether that’s the target or 100,000 tests by the end of April, a figure blatantly plucked out of thin air, a delivery of PPE from Turkey, or all homeless people will be given secure accommodation. It does not matter what the promise is, you can guarantee that it’s a lie to placate the simple minded and to take up a few more moments of the briefing.
And so to the Sunday Times story, delicious and horrifying in equal measure, confirming what most of us long suspected: Johnson is a lazy, lying charlatan, whose instinct is to wing it and hope for the best, confident that he will get an easy ride from the media. After all, why on earth change an approach that has got him into number 10, with a proven track record of moral turpitude, entirely ignored by Fleet Street’s finest?
The simulation of the pandemic scenario in 2016 nails it completely. The conclusions of this exercise were as stark as The Tory party’s blithely continuing to ignore them as they accelerated their run down of the basic structures and provisions of a modern state, motivated purely by ideology. The lack of intensive care beds and ventilators is truly shocking given what they knew. Then came the head in the sand approach to clear warnings from Wuhan and Europe. Johnson allows Cheltenham, goes to the rugby, tells everyone proudly, bloke of the people style, that he shakes hands with everyone and why shouldn’t we all go to the pub? Then he disappears for ten days, finishing his book apparently at Chequers, all loved up with Carrie Symonds and does not bother to attend never mind chair the first five meetings of Cobra. The veritable cherry on the icing is the news that the failure to participate in an EU wide supply of ventilators was, indeed, a policy decision not the laughable “we didn’t get the email” excuse ( surely this ranks alongside “the dog ate my homework” in the all time lamest excuses list.)
Yes, that’s right. Don’t just move on to the next paragraph. Government spokespeople repeatedly lied to us about this. Once more with feeling: Government spokespeople repeatedly lied to us about this. What on earth has happened to us and our expectations that this is, apparently, unremarkable? Time was, there would have been a media feeding frenzy, with news organisations scenting blood, nagging away at every opportunity until there was a resignation or two. Now, it’s no big deal. Move along please, nothing to see here.
Beyond this, what else has weeks 5 and 6 of Armageddon brought us?
The figures started to sort of come down, accompanied by discussion amongst the experts and wide eyed news readers abut relaxing the lock down. The main focus of this relaxation is, of course, schools. Most teachers would have been horrified to read plans for schools to go back as early as May 11th, on the basis that statistically, kids are pretty poor at passing the virus on and that teachers, a lazy bunch at the best of times, are just sitting around at home doing the garden in anticipation of a scorching summer drinking G&T with the occasional bit of light weeding thrown in. This would be a great theory but for one strangely overlooked fact. Schools generally, in order to function well, tend to have adults in them as well. But as the ghastly Spectator journo Alison Williams opined sagely in The Telegraph, its time for teachers to show a bit of bravery and open up classrooms again. “What we need, Blackadder, is a supremely futile gesture of self-sacrifice, in the grand tradition of gullible foot soldiers through History.”
Bollocks to that, as Winston Churchill once said.
Even just the mention of it, though, with the suggestion that we are past the peak and the whole thing is going to dribble away, has had a strange effect on me. When I went for my latest visit to the supermarket there was no queue at all and I began to think that even the most basic of social distancing and handwashing was a little bit OTT and for wusses. It’s easy to see how relaxation could easily lead to non-compliance and a huge tsunami of new infections down the line. This feeling is compounded by the latest reports of people drifting back to work and normality and a friends reports of Croydon being packed once again, with little attempt at social distancing. Now, everyone wears some form of mask or bandana and just carries on as normal. In the same way that cycle helmets turn people into less sensible cyclists, face masks do the same for people in the public domain.
The Populist insanity in America has started to take centre stage with swivel eyed Libertarian crazies taking to the streets with banners and assault rifles (essential shopping in the US remember) swearing their inviolable right to do what the fuck they want in the name of Liberty. I predict, Nostradamus like, that there will be a mass shooting before all this is done. This is the latest in a series of events that make the dystopian world of The Handmaid’s Tale, less an enjoyable, thought provoking fantasy and more a foreseeable reality. The surprise is that there hasn’t been more resistance here from the far right Brexit crazies. The only consolation from the sight of them massing to demonstrate is that they will have infected each other. No, sorry, that’s a horrible thing to say. Lockdown is clearly getting to me. The job of socialists, liberals and other proper human beings is to protect the nasty red necks from themselves. Forgive them, they know not what they do.
I am beginning to fantasise about life before the lockdown. The other day we re-watched Fleabag and all of our conversation afterwards was about how wonderful it would be to be in a Restaurant, or in a black cab crossing the Thames late at night. Similarly, my son and I, having got through The Lord of the Rings films, now watch Youtube classic football reruns obsessively. Oh, for some top-class sport on the telly. I am really missing the way that progress from Spring into Summer is harder to keep hold of without the usual markers of the The Season: Boat Race, Grand National, Football season climax, Cricket, Wimbledon, International Football tournament etc. We have even, in a vain attempt to hold on to the joys of Summer, been watching Rick Stein’s journey through France, vicariously enjoying all of the scenes of Rick sitting at an outside table eating lovely food and sipping an expresso, a cold beer or a glass of fruity red. Having lost several holidays already, there is some pleasure to be had in planning future trips, whilst watching the appalling Rick ballsing up in the most boring delivery known to personkind in the most exquisite locations in Europe.
By the time we are released back into the community, if I have survived my perennial manflu, I will need a wheelchair, such is the extent of my muscle wastage. I know I could be more innovative with my exercise regime without going to the gym, but its just not the same. One of the great pleasures of semi-retirement was going to the gym for an hour of treadmill, exercise bike and rowing machine, followed up by a trip to Waitrose for a free coffee, a free newspaper and, joy of joys, a Waitrose Chocolate Berliner donut. Even writing it down is bringing tears to my eyes. You can keep Proust and his Madeleines. All I want is a Berliner. Just one.
Symptom alert: Still got headache, aching limbs, crippling tiredness. It’s clearly only a matter of time now. And then my wife reminds me that I have had these symptoms every week for the past thirty years
The Covid-19 Lockdown means that reading is now, more than ever, a life saver. And books that once seemed intimidating, mighty tomes such as this are now just appetisers. Just think what we’ll know by the end of all of this..
After about 1900 pages of Wolf Hall, Bringing up the Bodies and now The Mirror and the Light, I imagined that turning the last page of Mantell’s latest novel, was similar to breasting the finishing tape of a marathon. Pride, satisfaction, disbelief, and memories of pain, struggle and pleasure. I’m still not quite sure in what proportions those last three are mixed.
The analogy breaks down almost immediately however, because, after a sticky opening hundred pages or so, I raced through the bulk of it, savouring every page. And, more to the point, the Marathon is all about the runner’s experience, the course itself just exists. But the reader’s experience, regardless of their personal response to it, is of a magnificent, towering achievement. There are passages of sublime beauty and power, and it drags you along, careering towards the inevitable end. It is a mighty work and will almost certainly pick up the Booker hattrick. The Booker, though, like all cultural awards, has never been an indicator of quality. Other factors cloud that judgement: The Zeitgeist. Timing. Events. Political correctness. Length. Subject matter. And on all of those counts, Mantell is a shoo in, not least because she has become the literary equivalent of Dame Maggie Smith or Judy Dench, a National Treasure.
Just to be clear about this, I loved Wolf Hall and thought Bringing up the Bodies was even better. I’m just not sure whether, in the end, all of those words were necessary. The main schtick of the trilogy seems to be, from Mantell’s many interviews, the idea that Thomas Cromwell was a working-class arriviste who needed to be rescued from the heavy hand of mainstream establishment condemnation. This was to be achieved by drilling directly into his imagined psyche and portraying him as a three dimensional, living breathing man of his time. This is achieved, but frankly that had been achieved by the end of Book 2 and I’m really not sure what this new one has added. Or at least, what it has added that could not have been accomplished in 500 pages. So example after example is piled on, accreting more and more detail. It’s almost Knaufsgaardian in its use of domestic detail. Many incidents seemed to be included simply so that Cromwell’s half of the conversations can be repeated later as evidence against him.
To this end, Mantell takes no prisoners in terms of the expectations she has of the reader. Hundreds of characters, many of whom have multiple names, come and go in scenes and conversations with little explanation. It is particularly tiresome when the previous book was published several years before. The list of characters at the beginning of the book is a warning of what’s in store. They will be, in most readers’ copies, the most well-thumbed pages in the book as the reader goes back and forth desperately trying to ascertain who exactly is Southampton, or Surrey or Wyatt.
To put Cromwell firmly centre-stage, he is always referred to as “He”, ostentatiously at times when he is sharing the stage with Henry VIII. Sometimes Mantell ties herself in knots maintaining this stylistic tic, while realising that she has to make it clear who “He” actually is. Hilary, love, its OK, we get it. We know you think that Cromwell is more important, more interesting than that King geezer. You really don’t have to keep going on about it.
The other stylistic quirk is the by now ubiquitous, terribly modern use of the present tense to make things more immediate, more dramatic. Generally, in the hands of lesser writers who have been advised by Boutique literary consultants, it’s terribly cliched, boring, inflexible and predictable. Mantell, in contrast, does it brilliantly. It does add immediacy and it does create tension when really none should exist because, let’s face it readers, we all know he’s going to die and how.
In the end, I just don’t think it’s worth it. More than a study of the man, it becomes a study of the religion and politics of the time. It’s a brutal, cruel, savage, amoral world, fuelled by ridiculous primitive disagreements over religion. Of course Cromwell is going to have his head chopped off because he is serving a childish psychopath who wanted to live the fairy story of Kingship and was going to scream and scream until he got what he wanted. And what he wanted was plentiful sex with a young sex nymph who idolised him and didn’t make him feel inadequate. He wanted to feel forever young and to show the world he was a thrusting macho proper man who could get a woman pregnant with a boy (because they were the only pregnancies that counted). This was a world where Cromwell, in his many internal musings, could think that cutting off someone’s head with an axe was proof of the gentle mercy of Henry and the superior civilization of England. The more gruesome details of the vile tortures and methods of execution of Spain, France and The Holy Roman Emperor almost convince one to agree with him. Until you catch yourself, shamefacedly, in the thought. In the end, I was left thinking that too much time has been spent fetishising this dreadful period of English history, agonising over the political and personal nuances and rivalries at play. Brutal dictators deserve less of our attention
The real interest is how things are still exactly the same, give or take the rack, being hung, drawn and quartered, or being burned alive. Boris Johnson is similarly childlike, petulant and wanting to be loved and for the true religion versus heretics, just substitute Brexiteers and Remainers. Dominic Cummings as Thomas Cromwell anyone?
This is a book that is definitely worth reading. It’s beautifully written by a writer at the height of her powers. There is much to enjoy and admire. It’s just not as good as the critics will tell you it is (probably without reading it, some of them), and the subject is not as important as Mantell has convinced herself it is. Why not read it and disagree with me? Let’s face it, you’ve got plenty of time in lockdown to do that. If things go badly, you’ve probably got enough time to read all three, starting at the beginning. Good luck
1) Did the people of Albion hold ceremonies to reverence the opening of buds?
2) Did they honour the written word or tell stories when darkness fell?
3) Did they shake hands and kiss in greeting?
4) Were they inclined to quiet welcome and fellowship?
5) Were their temples made of stone?
6) Did they cherish all, equally, or did rank hold sway?
7) Did they use paper to carry their dreams?
8) Did they have the use of the wheel?
9) Were they people of the land, with dirt on boot or hand?
1) Long ago they exchanged sweetmeats and feasted to excess. Now they cultivate
their gardens and remember and are healed.
2) In darkened rooms, illuminated by blue tinged light, they drifted in stories
of pictures and words. The stories helped them to forget, help them to remember.
3) Once, yes. Now, they do not touch, except in vibration carried on the wind. They
kiss only the mask they wear.
4) They were an exuberant race, of bluster and boastfulness, long ago. Now they take
refuge in quiet connectivity and contemplation.
5) The temples were of brick and glass and plastic to pacify powerful gods. Worship
was done two metres apart. Chevrons pointed to the altars. Why? We no longer know.
6) Madam, it is not known. A fragment discovered suggests they were lost in a dream of
trust. Their Leaders fell prey to greed and vanity. Many died alone, of all ranks.
7) Paper was venerated and coveted in equal measure. Even those without it survived.
Frantic accumulation could not save all.
8) When the fall came, they travelled but once a day and returned to walking, as a
memorial. Who can say? The car parks are empty now.
The Old Grey Owl
(with apologies to Denise Levertov)
And so we come to the most protracted, forgotten, now almost irrelevant election in the history of democracy, The Labour Party leadership election. What, you mean that still hasn’t happened yet? Even when it started, in an entirely different epoch a couple of months ago, it was dull and infuriating in equal measure. Now it doesn’t even have the traction in popular consciousness to make it to dull. It epitomises many things that are wrong about the Labour Party. An impeccable exercise in Democracy, it engages and excites only die-hard activists and passes by everyone else. Yes, The People. Us. The ones the whole thing is meant to serve.
In reality, as the bodies are beginning to pile up, it has become more important, not less. Because the Tory response to Coronovirus has been lethally poor. It has had, at the very least, the beneficial aspect of exposing what happens when you systematically run down every area of public provision. You leave a husk of a State, that can be blown over by a gentle breeze, never mind the raging hurricane that is COVID 19. Some extraordinary facts have been exposed by this whole terrible tragic affair, but none more shocking than the fact that at the beginning of the crisis Italy had twice the number of intensive care beds and provision than did the UK. TWICE. A shameful dereliction of duty by the governments of the Coalition and the Tories, which has caused barely a ripple of comment in the media.
Anyway, I thought it would be interesting to go back to the piece I wrote about the labour leadership, way back at the beginning of January. Much of it still holds now, even after the field has narrowed. This was my view back in January, the days when one could go to the pub, the cinema, restaurants and theatre, meet friends and family, go to work. When will those days return?
The horror of the General Election is fading. This is partly because of self-preservation on my part. A life time of news addiction should be fairly hard to break you would have thought, but not in this case. I have been physically unable to watch the news, in any form. Obviously, I no longer watch the main BBC news after their disgracefully partial performance in the election, but even Channel 4 news and Newsnight have not tempted me. The prospect of having one’s nose dragged through the crowing and smug self-congratulation of the victors is only marginally more distasteful than the recriminations of the vanquished. Either way, there has been no real incentive to plunge back in as an observer of politics.
But that state of childlike innocence cannot last for ever, at least not for sentient adults, and so I have begun, cautiously to dip a toe in the water again.
Firstly, one has to endure the patently ridiculous analyses of why The Conservatives won. And no, I’m sorry, but no matter how pompously you opine this, it’s just not true that this was a reward for the party that was going to protect the “Will of the People” and that somehow Democracy with a capital D is the real victor. It’s quite the reverse, actually. This was a victory for lies. And I still believe, no matter how naively, that eventually there will be a reckoning. More of that later. For now, it’s time to turn our attention to the next Labour leader.
The stakes are very high. That is because there is one inescapable fact about the Labour Party and it’s this: despite the febrile fantasies of the MSM about a new centrist grouping emerging from this debacle, sweeping to power and destroying the Labour party, it is the Labour Party that is the only force that can challenge the Tory/Brexit party. And what follows from that is that the choice of the new leader becomes the most important decision facing the UK, one that will dictate events in the future: short, medium and long term.
And you can’t choose an effective leader unless you’re clear on what went wrong under Corbyn. Part of the horror story since December 13th has been the profoundly depressing spectacle of Labour party members, supporters and commentators determinedly getting it wrong. There appears to be an uncanny ability to grasp the wrong end of any stick proffered in their general direction. So here goes. This is my attempt to grasp the other end of said stick.
Why did we lose?
Corbyn. Jeremy Corbyn as leader was far and away the main element in our lack of popular appeal. You can squeal all you like about the mainstream media (and obviously it is grotesque) but I think that it’s reasonable to expect professional politicians and media analysts in the party to anticipate that and to counteract it. That is why they are there. And they failed miserably. But Corbyn’s failure went further and deeper than this. He seemed incapable of clearly making the case for the socialist alternative, both in general terms of principle and specific terms of policy. He and his advisors didn’t seem to have “gamed” any potentially tricky questions that might come up in interviews or debates and actually prepared an answer for them. This reached its most embarrassing zenith when he first unveiled the form of words “Neutral” on any campaign in a second Brexit referendum, weeks after it was blindingly obvious that the party’s position on the crucial issue of the election was the object of ridicule.
Their position on Brexit and the second referendum made perfect sense logically, but only for people who can listen to an argument for more than one sentence. Those people don’t vote labour. If that is the position you decide on, you have to take time to explain and make that case, over and over and over again, weeks before the campaign starts.
The other great failure of Corbyn was intimately tied up with one of his unique selling points, a quality that generated a lot of his appeal in 2017 and which gave him a refreshing sense of authenticity. His refusal to play dirty. His stubborn clinging on to the moral high ground might have enabled him to sleep soundly at night, but there was too much at stake for that. And against an opponent like Boris Johnson, what juicy material he had to work with. There should have been an incessant daily barrage of attack. Johnson the Liar was such a fertile source of material to work with, it truly was an open goal. And Corbyn missed it.
In a straight fight between the blunt simplicity of Get Brexit Done and a nod towards reality that Labour tried to embrace, there was only going to be one winner. I remain baffled why nobody from the Labour Party effectively made the case for a second referendum. This was not a case of defying the will of the people, quite the reverse in fact. Nobody in any TV studio, on any Vox Pop, in any poll or husting knew how many of the fabled seventeen million voted for a hard Brexit. Holding a second referendum was a way of finding out and genuinely healing the country. If you have a specific deal on the table and a majority had voted for it, then that would have been it done, and there could have been no arguments, no matter how stupid leaving is. How can a second referendum be portrayed as antidemocratic? It’s not as if the seventeen million were going to be barred from voting in the second one, but that’s what it appeared at times in the debate. The Right and the Leave alliance were petrified of a second referendum because they knew it was quite likely that a majority existed to remain. Just as in the case of Scotland, the Right wrap themselves in the Democracy argument, except when they don’t like the probable result. Self-determination is the inalienable right of oppressed peoples everywhere in the world against brutal dictatorships (apart from the ones we sell arms to, obviously), except when we are the dictators and the oppressed are the Scots.
In this sense, the whole business of the New Deal (worse than the Old Deal, a fact that seemed to escape the Daily Mail) that Johnson fell into was simply an elaborate set-up with the election in mind. Everything was calibrated so that Johnson could fight a People versus the Crooked Politicians campaign, with Johnson, bizarrely, being a “Person” and not a “Politician”
The success of painting The Labour Party, the most overtly anti-racist party in the history of political groupings was breathtakingly brilliant. The voices against Corbyn and Antisemitism from within the party were clearly opposed to his socialist programme. John Mann, Ian Austen, John Woodcock were the worst kind of chancers, without a principled bone in their body. There was clearly a problem that was more than just presentational. A certain breed of naïve Trot lets their belief in global capitalist conspiracy spill over into ludicrous antisemitic views. A tiny minority from what I can see. The Party will be better off without them. But it’s done now and it won’t go away, so any leadership contender will have to talk tough on this and take immediate action on anyone who falls short. At least it might lead to a situation where the spotlight can be turned back on the appalling racism and homophobia in the Tory Party (much more widespread, running much deeper and with more impact). The next leader, whoever it is, must also be brave enough to be absolutely unequivocal in their condemnation of the current government of Israel, which is racist and corrupt, while getting rid of the last traces of antisemitism within their own organisation.
Language and message discipline
The Tories have always been better at talking a language that approximates to that used by human beings. Their professionals have added to that by coming up with series of slogans that are easy to understand and which tap into an emotional message about country, belonging and empowerment, just as UKIP did. The Labour party must find a good communicator and hone down their ideas into some pithy slogans, that connect with people. The appeal to rationalism just isn’t enough any more. People do not want to be persuaded, they want to feel that their instincts are right. It takes a long time and a lot of hard work for that to happen. Blair’s greatest strength was his oratory, in big set piece speeches, in interviews, in talking to the public. In all of these settings he was convincing as a human being and someone who was trying to answer the question directly.
This applies particularly to the manifesto, which has become the target of most Right wing Labour commentators. Let’s be quite clear about this- the manifesto was very popular. The policies make sense. They are moderate rather than extreme. The level of spending they entailed, for example would have taken the UK to the average spend of OECD countries and behind France and Germany. People should have been constantly banging on about that way before the election and all the way through it. This is moderate mainstream European social democracy.
The problem was that there was too much and the impression was created that new things were being added as they went along in desperation. Hence credibility was lost. Streamline the offer, create a coherent narrative, make the case and repeat constantly.
The drive to disown Corbyn and Corbynism has its dangers. His greatest achievement has been to drag the party to the left in terms of policy, so now all candidates have to espouse some version of greater public spending and renationalisation. It would be a catastrophic error, in my view, to junk all of that and go back to Blairism.
Except in one respect. And this is where I go a little controversial, Labour Party chums.
I don’t think the political instincts of the next leader are at all important. I’d love another Tony Blair figure, as long as the manifesto remains broadly the same. The Leader must be someone who can connect, who has already connected, with the public. And the public are important here. It’s irrelevant if the membership don’t like them. In many ways the mass membership, which is often cited as Corbyn’s greatest achievement, is actually a mill stone around our neck. It’s not a private club. The membership are clearly out of step with the attitudes and ideas and aspirations of the general public (yes, alright, there’s no such thing as the general public, I know, but you get what I mean) so we have to step outside of our own values and ideas about policy sacred cows, and think laterally about what is most important, what will make a difference that people will embrace in ordinary people’s lives.
There is one final element to raise before I pin my colours to specific candidates. Yes, it’s our old friend, Electoral Reform.
Proportional Representation was Blair’s biggest mistake, bigger even than the Iraq war. Our FPTP system condemns us to years of Tory governments. And even worse, Tory governments that are getting more and more extreme. The current lot make Thatcher look like Beatrice Webb. There has been a majority in this country for my entire life for left of centre government, yet the existence of the SDP, the Liberals and the Lib Dems, plus FPTP produces massive Tory majorities. It is completely undemocratic and unrepresentative. Just imagine what sort of country we would be now with forty years of soft left social democracy and coalition governments behind us. I could weep with frustration. The new leader must embrace PR and cross party alliances enthusiastically and formally.
Normally, the scale of the Tory victory would guarantee at least ten years of opposition, but these are very specific, strange circumstances. I can absolutely imagine Johnson completely bolloxing this up and, when he does, vengeance will be swift. The Labour party needs to be ready. And so, my vote is going to Keir Starmer, who has intellectual gravity and supports the manifesto. Trouble is, he’s a little dull. That might be enough, but it might not. So, (brace yourselves) I’d support Jess Phillips as Deputy. Yes, I know she’s right wing. Yes, I know she’s said some terrible things. But she is somebody the public warm to instinctively. And that is a much-underestimated quality amongst labour activists and supporters. (With that in mind , I just have to add that, at the end of this contest, I have actually been very impressed with Lisa Nandy, even though I disagree strongly with her about The North, Brexit and Democracy. She is a communicator and could have a very bright future.)
This brings me to the final achilles heel of the party. It’s the tribalism and visceral hatred of members of the same party who are further to the right than some others. The scene in Monty Python’s Life of Brian is still the best representation of this – the spat between the Popular Front of Judea (splitters!) and The Judean Popular Front. We’re on the same side, guys. Accept the broad church, work with other progressive forces, form a government that can make a difference to people whose lives have been diminished by Tory Governments. You know it makes sense.
To me now, it reads like an uncovered manuscript from an ancient civilization, rather than a run of the mill blog. Jess Phillips has come and gone. I’d probably go for Angela Rayner instead. Starmer and Rayner. Not exactly Morecambe and Wise (ask your parents), but better than The Chuckle Brothers. It’s a return to John Smith as leader of the Labour Party. A little dull, perhaps, but now more than ever, it’s time for the adults to be in charge.
A tale of panic buying from nearly forty years ago. My attempt to lift the spirits as we all contemplate lock down
On Saturday morning I battled through a local Sainsburys the size of an aircraft hangar to do the weekly shop, expecting to find acres of empty space as the fear of contagion gripped the good burghers of Bromley, sending them scurrying to their online grocery accounts. No such luck. The shop was rammed with anxious shoppers doing a remake of supermarket sweep. For the second week in a row, the toilet paper aisle was stripped bare by the pillaging hordes, followed closely by the dried pasta aisle and the sanitiser and paracetamol sections. No-one seems remotely bothered about their cats or dogs, however, and the unspoken fear remains that eventually this crisis will end with everyone making spag bol from Pedigree Chum. Without the spag.
As I prepare for an extended period of self-isolation (previously known as “getting old”) my mind has wandered back in time to an earlier period in my life, when I encountered the full range of panic buying experiences, and learned something invaluable about the standard human response to moments lived in extremis. The year, gentle reader, was 1981, and I found myself living Spain in an early version of the gap year. Back then, this was simply a way for wasters to put off clambering onto the mortgage treadmill. Having greatly enjoyed three years at York University, an educative holiday generously funded at the taxpayer’s expense, I was searching for an innovative means of extending this period of investigative scholarship. I had dipped my toe into the waters of full-time paid work and, to be honest, it was not to my taste. It was certainly not what my years of training had prepared me for.
Thankfully, existential crisis was averted when an old school friend, who had spent the previous year doing TEFL in Madrid, contacted me and suggested I go out to Spain to play. And so it was that in the late summer of 1980 we found ourselves in Valencia looking for English teaching jobs. I had no experience, no training and not much idea. My friend had at least done it before, but that was the extent of his advantage. What we did have on our side, however, was luck and good timing, historically speaking. We were both English graduates in Spain at a time when the TEFL industry was, to put it mildly, a bit of a cowboy operation. We were, to our surprise, snapped up and began life as teachers at the Global School of Languages, under the guidance of proprietor Senor Petit, a huge French Algerian man of prodigious appetites and precarious finances.
He was a true eccentric who constantly surprised. (not least in his approach to the regular payment of salary owed) He would at intervals arrive at the office dressed in full, traditional Arab robes and head dress, complete with mirror shades and would wander in and out of lessons, much to the delight of the little old well-to-do Spanish ladies who made up the bulk of the clientele. At least once a week, during quiet moments he would announce to the group of young English lads that worked there, “Muchachos, vamos a jugar” and he would take us all down to the bar in the street and pay for all the drinks while we did a Space Invaders tournament. We literally never knew what to expect from him, from one day to the next, and forgave him many missed or late payments because he was rather fun. It might have been different of course if we had had families and responsibilities, but we were, to a man (and it was all men) feckless wasters, so it all seemed part of a glorious adventure.
And then, one afternoon of a pretty slow day “teaching” a group of IBM business men (how he had secured this extremely prestigious contract with IBM was baffling to us all and was never satisfactorily explained) the door swung violently open and Senor Petit burst into the room.
“Everyone out! There’s been a coup d’etat. Go home. There’s an announcement due. The army are out on the streets!”
We all, teacher and students, looked at each other and after a pause, burst out laughing. That Senor Petit, eh? What a card! Always the joker.
He looked baffled at our reaction. “No, no, I’m serious. There’s been a coup in Parliament. Everywhere is closing. You’ve all got to go. Now.”
Eventually the penny dropped and we all realised he meant it. Spain was in the first flush of democracy after surviving under the jackboot of the fascism of General Franco (or General Francissimo, as our Spanish chums rather disrespectfully called him) and a few disgruntled members of the old Guard, under the leadership of a ridiculous character, Lieutenant Tejero, had marched into Parliament , fired a few shots and declared a military coup. For a local point of comparison, imagine Mark Francois doing the same thing in Westminster to “save” Brexit. Francois is actually more likely to shoot himself in the foot, but you get my point. It was serious and there was mass panic, with no-one knowing what side the King of Spain, Juan Carlos, would come down on: Democracy or Military rule.
I did my usual walk home, several hours earlier than normal, through the centre of Valencia. The streets were absolutely packed and you could feel the atmosphere – a strange mixture of fear, excitement and shock. Just about everyone was scurrying through the streets with small transistor radios jammed up against their ears, desperate for the latest news. The local newspaper was published every two hours and the whole thing felt like being in a film. You know the sort of thing: brave, principled British journalist in a far-flung former colony, caught up in a military coup carried out by brutal extremists. Said journo risks life to get the truth out, while getting involved in a liberal, caring way with local little-person campaigners, with a bit of love interest thrown in. Local colour is dispensable as far as the plot is concerned and a couple of those characters die, including, tragically, the love interest, despite the heroic best efforts of plucky liberal journalist. Brit journalist returns to Blighty at the end of the film a sadder and a wiser man. That, of course, was the scenario I was running through my head on my fevered walk back to my flat. It was tremendously exciting, not least because at the back of my mind I was pretty certain that, as a Brit, I was safe because there were certain rules about this sort of thing. As I was to discover later, it was an entirely different scenario for most of my Spanish friends, all card-carrying members of the Spanish Socialist party. More of that later.
I noticed, as I dodged the crowds and weaved in and out of the traffic that was choking the city streets, that lots of people were struggling with heavy bags of shopping, and that at several shops I passed, queues had formed which snaked out of the doorway and down the street. I did a double take, a bit baffled that now of all times, people would choose to do their shopping, but then I realised what was going on. They were panic buying. The news on the radio was sufficiently apocalyptic to ensure that everyone feared the worst. Good news was in short supply and the best response to this unprecedented situation was to assume that we would be holed up at home for days and that food was likely to run out.
By the time I had worked this out I was nearly back at my flat, away from the main drag, in the splendidly seedy streets of Barrio Carmen, a neighbourhood of prostitutes, drug takers, revolutionaries, artists and ne’er-do-wells. Blindfold, one could always tell when one had arrived back in those familiar alleys because of the smell: a heady cocktail of sewers, garlic and marijuana, a smell redolent of adventure and contagion. Of Risk.
My flat was in a crumbling four story tenement block arranged with several others around a tiny plaza in the middle of Carmen. It was litter strewn and daubed with graffiti, but the shabbiness was brilliantly illuminated by a neon purple Bougainvillea that clung to the wall of the block opposite. I use the word “plaza” loosely. It was in fact the tiny bit of space created when, to steal from Charles Dickens, the surrounding blocks leaped apart out their conspiratorial huddle when disturbed by members of the Guardia Civil. One block went off to help the police with their enquiries and the others hung back a little smoking a Ducados and looking a bit shifty. That was the Plaza where my flat was situated.
But there was one notable oasis in this desert – a tiny shop in the next block from us. It was the human equivalent of the Bougainvillea. Milagritos it was known as. “Little Miracles”, so called because its cramped interior was crammed with every conceivable item of Spanish food and wine known to man. Just before going up to my flat I popped in there expecting to have to wait patently in a queue, but the inhabitants of Plaza Lowlife were a little more laidback than their mainstream contemporaries. It would take more than a military coup to get them to lengthen their stride. The shop was empty and I was able to casually select some choice delicacies: Several plump chorizos, beans, tuna, fruit salad, bread, coffee, two cartons of UHT milk and a ridiculously cheap bottle of Rioja.
The toothless owner grinned and cackled at me, “Eh, Chico, has ganada el Gordo, no?”, the sentence delivered with her Ducados precariously balanced in the corner of her mouth, its familiar, pungent black-tobacco smoke contributing to the curing of the Serrano hams that hung from the yellowing ceiling. “El Gordo”, or “The Fat One” was the big Spanish lottery rollover. She was clearly surprised to see me buying anything more substantial than a baguette and a hunk of cheese. I smiled, and staggered out of the shop with my bags cradled in both arms, struggling with the door while trying to keep everything balanced and secure.
I crashed into the flat, the door swinging on its hinges as I made it to the kitchen table, lunging the last couple of steps so that the bags spilled their contents out onto the bleached and scarred wooden surface. Just as I did so, there came a voice from behind me.
“Hey, you beat me to it. You been shopping as well? What did you get?”
It was Alan, my flatmate and general partner in crime. He was equally laden as I had been, two bulging brown paper bags in his arms. I proudly itemised my purchases one by one as I laid them out on the table. It was an impressive haul. We could survive a siege with the supplies arrayed on the table.
“Not bad,“ conceded Alan, grudgingly, “Not bad at all. Well done that man. We’ll not starve at any rate.”
“Yeah, it’ll do for a bit of panic buying, “ I replied, feeling rather pleased with myself. “What did you get?”
Alan smiled, knowingly, and placed his bags on the table.
“No panic buying for me, old boy. Mine are carefully considered essential supplies” And with that he emptied the bags.
Four hundred cigarettes, premium Ducados of course, three bottles of Scotch and three bottles of Larios Gin.
“Man cannot live by bread alone,” he explained, catching my wide-eyed reception of his shopping expedition, “Especially when one is living through the eye of the storm of History.”
He smiled, evidently pleased with his preparations, and then a frown passed across his face, like a cloud. “Oh, nearly forgot.” He fumbled in the pockets of his jacket and extricated two bottles of San Miguel, opened them and passed one over to me.
“Cheers” he said as we clinked bottles, “It’s gonna be a long night.”
And it was. He was right about that and right about his emergency supplies compared to mine. So, please, don’t stockpile toilet paper and paracetamol, stockpile alcohol and books. It was a long, long night full of extraordinary adventures that seem barely credible now, nearly forty years later here in mainstream Europe. Part two will follow, as my contribution to keeping spirits up during this Coronovirus nightmare. I have a terrible feeling that I’m going to have to do parts 3 , 4 and more because this thing is going to get worse. Keep safe everyone and best of luck.
My new novel, “Zero Tolerance”, was published on February 28th and so far the response has been fantastic. The book is a satirical look at the state of secondary schools in the UK in 2020, and casts a critical eye on trends in management, leadership and teaching. Here are a few of the early reactions from readers:
“Loved, loved, loved this book by The Old Grey Owl”
“Barry Pugh is a creation of comic genius”
“I couldn’t put it down”
“Funny, sad and maddening. Satirical, but very close to the bone.”
If you care about schools, children and teaching, please spread the word about the book by passing on the links and retweeting. All feedback welcome! You can buy the book at the links below:
To help little Gavin Williamson, the UK Secretary of State for Education out, I’ve reproduced an extract here from my new novel, “Zero Tolerance”. He’s clearly been badly advised on schools and behaviour policies by that nasty Mr Cummings and needs some alternative advice. Because the book is 400 pages long and has a lot of long words in it, I’ve produced this particular scene that deals with the behaviour policy of silent corridors specifically for Gavin. Gavin, if you ask him nicely, I’m sure Dominic will read it to you when he tucks you up in bed tonight
He strode out into the middle of the corridor, where it widened out to accommodate traffic from four tributaries, and checked his watch, walkie talkie in one hand and a letter in the other. The silence was broken by the shrill tones of the bell, and the doors opposite him and further down the corridor opened, spilling students of all shapes, ages and sizes into the thoroughfare. Soon, it was a raging torrent, a white water surge of kids and he stood in the middle of the corridor where he had a sight of all four corridors that led into this larger space. He was like a huge rock in the middle of spring meltwater. At six foot four, he towered above the rapids careering past him, kids on their way to their next lesson.
“Oi, don’t do that you chief….”
“Where’s English this year?”
“We’re out in the huts, I think.”
“Ah man, it’ll be freezing out there come December….”
“Kelly! Kelly! Wait up…..”
“Eh, did you see Eastenders last night?”
“It’s lame, man…”
“You done your Science homework, Deepak?”
“It’s not for today, is it?
“Oh, nah. I thought he said Friday.”
“Is your Mum alright then?”
“She’s gotta go hospital today, so I dunno. I’m waitin’ for a message.”
“Love those Vans, man. Seriously. Has no-one seen you wearing ’em yet?”
“It’s Messi, obviously bruv.”
“Messi? Don’t be weird. He can’t head the ball, man. Ronaldo is the king…”
“You goin’ rehearsal after school?”
“Nah, forgot my cello, innit.”
“Sir’ll let you lend his, betcha.”
“Borrow. It’s borrow.”
“I jus’ don’t get why Trump was voted in. Pussy grabber.”
“Terrible hair, as well. It’s like a flap or something.”
“I swear it’s like a wig, you know.”
“Have you read it? Its brilliant. Like Harry Potter, but cooler.”
You got it then?”
“Yeah, I’ll lend it you if you like.”
“Will ya? Brilliant. Bring it tomorrow, yeah?”
“Remember, Miss said she was gonna blow something up in the lesson today.”
“Oh, yeah. Come on then..”
“I reckon Miss is havin’ a baby y’ know.”
“Nah, she’s just got a bit fat.”
“I’m tellin’ you. She’s pregnant. I reckon it was Mr Brooks, as well..”
“Come on, Darlene, our group is goin’ first. We gotta get the scripts and everything..”
“Yeah, man, whatever.”
“Darlene, come on, it’s important.”
Far above the tide of humanity that swept past him, he bellowed his usual litany of instructions, exhortations and threats, and took his part in the regular conversations that the children attempted, always returning to the key message: Get to your lesson quickly.
And then, almost as quickly as it had sprung up, the surge died down to a trickle and then eventually the riverbed was dry, with just the odd straggler to chivvy along. At this time of year, it tended to be small, bewildered Year seven kids, bent double under their new school bags that seemed bigger than them, blinking around, desperately trying to locate room B26 without looking like a loser or in any way drawing attention to themselves. Satisfied that the changeover had been successfully managed, he turned to the letter in his hand and it read it again. He had read it so many timed he would have been able to recite it if asked. The message it contained was not improving with repetition
Dear Parent, Carer or Guardian,
I am writing to you to inform you of a change to our behaviour policy that will come into effect from next Monday, September 10th.
Building on the remarkable success of last year, when the new leadership of the school transformed the behaviour of students in lessons, we are now planning to turn our attention to behaviour in the corridors. Last year a lot of learning time was lost by students arriving late for lessons or, when they did arrive, causing disruption by their unruly, noisy and boisterous behaviour. To prevent this lost of focus during lesson changeover, we are introducing a new system where students will be required to walk in single file on the right hand side of the corridor in silence. This will ensure that they arrive at their next lesson on time and in the correct frame of mind to begin learning at once.
To make sure that this new policy works from the beginning, all staff have been instructed to be in the corridors between lessons. Any student who breaks this new rule, either by talking, running or by not being in single file, will be given a same day detention of one hour. Students committing the same offence again will be placed in the internal inclusion room for two days in the first instance. Further infringements will result in Saturday detentions and exclusions.
I am sure I can count on your support as we continue to transform Fairfield High School into the best school in the area, a school of real excellence. In parallel with this development I would also like to announce a change to lunchtime arrangements. Lunch will now be taken in the dining Hall in Form groups, supervised by Form Tutors. Form tutors will lead their form through structured discussion of topical issues taken from the day’s newspapers. This practice, common in many Private schools, will teach Fairfield students how to interact in a calm and quiet manner at mealtimes and will also train them to take part in civilized debate about current issues.
Both of these measures have been implemented in several schools across London, run by the most inspirational and impressive young Headteachers who are prepared to think out of the box and challenge the way things have always been done. These early pioneers have been very successful, and some of the most challenging schools in London have been transformed, attracting the attention of ambitious and forward- thinking educationalists across the world. In following a similar path, Fairfield High is blazing a trail and challenging the sloppy approaches to Education that have held us back for far too long. One day, all schools will be adopting these methods, and they will be trying to catch up with us, not the other way round.
Remember, the next stage of our transformation starts on Monday September 10th.
He looked around the empty echoing corridor and thought of the energy and vitality and community of just a few moments before. All human life had been there, good and bad, and now it was to be crushed. Stamped on. Excised. He shook his head and, screwing up the letter in his hand into a tight ball, set off for his office. With every step, he recalled the incandescent fury he had unleashed at the Senior Leadership meeting the day before. His policy of withdrawing from comment, of keeping his head down and just getting on with the job had disappeared the minute he had sat through the first of the assemblies that Camilla had called to introduce the new policy.
By the time Rick had walked into the Senior Leadership meeting at the end of the afternoon, he was a coiled spring of outrage. He had spent the day stoking the fires of his opposition, heaping fuel on the fire by seeking out like -minded people to chew it over with. If only Avril had still been there. There was no way she would have taken this lying down.
He took his seat and a second later Camilla arrived.
“Well, good afternoon everyone, if we can get straight down to business. I’ve got another meeting to go to after this, so we need to be quick. Item one on the agenda is..”
She wasn’t able to tell everyone what exactly item one was. Rick interrupted her. There were horrified glances around the table and the sound of hell freezing over.
“No, Camilla, we can’t get straight down to business actually.”
She stared at him, an eyebrow raised.
“What on earth do you mean Rick?” she said, a tone of menace in her voice.
“You can’t seriously expect us to just sit here and discuss paperclips when you’ve just announced an utterly monstrous change to our behaviour policy without any consultation whatsoever.”
“I can and, what’s more, I do, actually,” she replied. “What you describe as a monstrous change is seen by the silent majority as common sense. What’s wrong with being the adults in the room and imposing silence on unruly kids? What’s so marvellous about allowing pupils to run amok in the corridors, so that they burst into lessons late, loud and disruptive?”
“Run amok? My God Camilla, what’s wrong with you? Why on earth did you become teacher in the first place if you hate children so much? You can’t stand them being human beings and talking to each other, can you? Or the staff either, come to think of it. Yes, it’s messy and a bit ragged at the edges, and you are not in complete control of it, but that’s life. You can’t control everything.”
“Oh, you’re such a cliché Rick. A bleeding heart Guardian reading liberal. ‘The poor children, how can we be so mean to them?’ Get a grip, for goodness sake, it’s embarrassing listening to you. This will deliver better results for the children because they’ll learn more. That’s what they need, tough love. It’s a hard world out there, and they need to be ready for it. We have to prepare them.”
“Prepare them?! What sort of world do you think this is preparing them for, exactly? Which profession or employer wants its workers to move around the building in silence? Not the prison service. Not the Army. Are we training everyone to take Holy orders with the Trappist monks? Have you heard of the Human Rights Act? Or is that being a big wuss as well? Did you read George Orwell at school? Did you ever stop to …”
“Enough!” Camilla screamed at him, her face contorted in reddening fury, “That’s enough. How dare you question my decisions in such an offensive manner.”
She banged the table with such force that their cups rattled. All the other members of the team looked down with set faces at their paperwork, and fiddled nervously with their pens.
Camilla, liberated by her unusual loss of control, carried on.
“When I took over this school, it was a madhouse. The children were rude, ill-disciplined and scruffy. The staff weren’t much better. And now, after a lot of hard work, in the teeth of opposition from dinosaurs like yourself, someone who’s more like a union rep than a Deputy Head, the school is a place of order and calm.”
“The school is a place of fear, and repression and bullying. And all you’ve done is got rid of the kids with the most challenging needs.”
“Be quiet. Nobody has the right to disrupt the learning of others.”
“No-one except you, apparently,“ Rick snapped back
“I make absolutely no apologies for insisting on a scholastic atmosphere in this school.”
She carried on in the same vein but Rick switched off at the ‘no apologies’ line. In his experience, any authority figure , a school leader or a politician, who used the phrase, “I make no apologies for..” were inevitably going to justify some appallingly draconian change. He imagined that petty dictators throughout history had done the same. “I make no apologies for………” (insert the example of historic abuse of human rights of your choice) Hitler, Pol Pot, Stalin – any of them would have appealed to common sense of their victims and the commentariat in the same way.
To read more, why not buy the book. “Zero Tolerance” is available from the links below
Please note: Readers outside the UK should use the Amazon link and save themselves some money on postage.Overseas Readers
My first published novel, “Zero Tolerance” is out now and available from Matador books. I have no idea how good it is, I’m far too close to it for that. Previous experience teaches me that I’m an unreliable witness as far as that kind of judgement is concerned. One thing I am certain of, though, is this. The book deliberately takes a particular view of recent developments in school leadership and management practices, accompanied by changing fashions in pedagogy and curriculum. Readers will either agree enthusiastically or they will be enraged that the new orthodoxy (Zero Tolerance behaviour management approaches, Direct Instruction, Knowledge Rich Curricula, Academies and Free schools) is being called in to question. But being outraged can be very entertaining and it is deliberately intended to provoke debate. Some things in the book, however, are not open to debate and just need to be called out: the corruption, bullying and unethical behaviour that continue to spread through our schools. There is no ideology that can justify that. Much of this behaviour is located in the Academies programme and the Free Schools movement, a monumental waste of resources chasing ideology over evidence to my mind. Having said that, there are good academies, staffed by genuine, talented people, and I don’t mean to offend anyone trying to do the right thing by our pupils.
Goodness, it sounds terribly dull, doesn’t it? But all of that stuff above lurks under the surface of the book. It is, primarily, a good story, I hope. A funny story with engaging characters and situations that anyone who has been in a school in the last ten years will recognise. A story that will make you laugh and cry and think. I’ve spent a long time working on it and a not inconsiderable sum of money to self-publish it, and it would be nice to cover my costs at least.
So, with that in mind, let me make this appeal to you. Please
Buy the book, and, if you like it:
Leave a review
Share the link with friends and colleagues
If you’re in a book club suggest that this is your next read
If you’re a teacher, do a whole staff email in your school with links to the book
Follow my blog and Twitter feed
Retweet your enthusiasm for it, with a link of course
If you don’t like it, just miss out step 2 above!
I would be interested in constructive criticism, as long as you remember this is the first novel I’ve published, so be gentle. I’ve put this out there, not for world domination or ego-massage, but out of a commitment to ethical practices in schools for the benefit of pupils and staff. It’s self-published under my pseudonym, on the advice of my union, because I am currently labouring under a non-disclosure agreement – another piece of malpractice that is spreading insidiously through the Academies programme.
Finally, let me just say, I am more than a little nervous. I really do hope that you enjoy the book.