Good Old February

I steadily collect material for 'Is the Whole World Going Mad or is it Me'. (See blog dated 13th February.) You might think it is difficult to find items. Don't you believe it. Take February for instance, what caught the eye, bringing moments of merriment and occasionally horror to these gloomy, doom laden times.

You can always rely on the older generation to make the news. I thought the pensioner who hit a teenager with rolled up papers after the miscreant damaged flowerbeds deserved a medal rather than a conviction for battery. (Newton Abbot Magistrates Court.) She, the pensioner was on her way from a church meeting. She was definitely in good company. Take seventy one year old Geoffrey Dornan for instance. Mr Dornan was fined heavily for being a danger to pedestrians in Southport town centre. How, he was roller skating of course. Don't all pensioners roller skate! The magistrates said he was a danger to pedestrians, Mr Dornan said he always gives way to pedestrians hence his appeal against a very heavy fine. (£300 plus £1792 costs.)

Some of us might be old but there's life in us yet. There certainly is in seventy two year old milkman Robert Holding. To do the job at all says much for his stamina. Plus Mr Holding is also very community minded. As well as supplying milk he supplied a little extra for his elderly regulars in the form of cannabis, conveniently split into small packs and stored in an egg crate on the back of his milk float. Evidently his prices were very reasonable, as no doubt his oldest customer, aged ninety two would testify.

We oldies might have had our day but at times I actually feel sorry for the young. Evidently a GCSE science paper awarded Grade C's to pupils correctly scoring 20%. (ten right from fifty five.) Surely that does no-one, the young included any favours. The boards defence was breathtaking gobbledygook in the extreme. With pompous fools at the top the young have no chance. Not that academia has cornered the market where stupidity is concerned. Swiss doctors reported a new condition 'idiopathic palmar eccrine hidradenitis'. (Idiopathic means arising from an unknown cause.) Condition solved almost by chance. Evidently the condition cleared up when the twelve year old patient desisted from vigorously using Playstation joysticks for a few days. I would like to think the whole thing was a joke, alas I doubt it.

February, just another unexceptional month. A month in which the only surviving Mumbai gunman is to be charged with, amongst other things, being on a railway platform without a ticket. Oh for the law and lawyers fees. A month in which Npower says Westminster Council mustn't call its electric car refueling stations 'juice points' as Npower consider they have the copyright of the word juice. ('Npower juice'.) I ask you! The Dalai Lama joined Twitterati, Downing Street flew the Union Jack upside down and a barman in the Jolly Farmers, in Ormestry, Norfolk put the pubs taking in an oven, not realising it was lit.

Finally a ray of hope in a dark, snowy month. (Did you notice even the penguins in London Zoo, Humboldts excepted, refused to go out in the snow.)

A team at the University of Essex have identified a variant of a gene known as a serotonin transporter. People who inherit this varient gene tend to avoid negative thinking.

Are you one of those who 'always looks on the bright side of life'. If so, lucky you, but spare a thought for those who are not so lucky. You can't buy serotonin transporters, you can only inherit them!

Here Endeth the Lesson

I personally thought the Royle Family were the stars of TV Christmas but then I must admit I'm somewhat biased.

My youngest daughter teaches in a reasonably sedate infant and junior school with no male staff. The other teachers maintained there are no families remotely like the Royle Family, my daughter Alison put them right. "You haven't met my dad" she announced in a staffroom discussion and I must admit, reluctantly I can see what she means. For, like Jim Royale, I too am bearded, not over involved with domesticity and 'carried' to a large extent by my long suffering, though usually willing wife. But it was Jim's wife Barbara who particularly caught my eye, and ear this Christmas. Definitely aspiring to better things, her appreciation of Denise's 'fire retarded settee' was a brilliant observation of the limitations of so many of the working class in Britain today. (No accusations of snobbery etc, please, I too consider myself working class and speak with a northern accent, but try not to speak in grunts or lace every other sentence with f*** this or f*** that.)

I spent many years trying to teach secondary school pupils many skills, including a grasp of basic English. Make no mistake, for some education and a reasonable vocabulary were the means of escape from a hum-drum, low paid, monotonous existence. Surely an admirable goal and we had many successes I am pleased to say. But boy, was it hard work.

For mastering the English language figured low on the list priorities of many Noel Baker Comprehensive pupils.

Try teaching the delights of English Literature on a Monday morning when fifteen year olds Marge and Belinda are more interested in their sexual adventures in step-mum's caravan at Mablethorpe or step-dad's blue movies over the weekend. So much of life in school was not designed to widen a pupils grasp and appreciation of the English language in all its glory.

I suppose letters from home telling us that Adam was off school because 'Mum has been under the doctor again' was at least understandable. (It was difficult to talk to mum on Parents Evening when you have this image in mind.) At least she attended the meeting. Likewise the mother who wrote 'I think Mary's had the flu, even her dad was hot last night.' Though I never did meet the lady who wrote me an indignant letter after I suggested Brenda was apathetic. "How dare you suggest there is madness in our family" she lamented. This from a generation that could sometimes be excused as many missed out on a decent education.

Many of the children I taught were not particulary privileged. Monosyllables at home were often the order of the day plus a fair bit of cussing. I managed to raise the tone a little by banning swearing in the classroom, myself included. Which I suspect increased the swearing in the yard at break fourfold.

We looked at Shakespeare, John Donne and Roger McGough. We cried at Of Mice and Men and laughed at the Reverend Spooner. 'Let us glase our asses and toast the queer dean.'

I tried not to patronise the pupils and we had weekly sessions where words we had come across had to be deciphered as homeworks. Not all had access to dictionaries at home therefore the results varied. Alice suggested a pessimist was something her mother bought from the chemist whilst Thomas decided that an enigma was something you put up your bottom. (Were they both told answers by adults.)

If it was difficult then, I feel for modern teachers. There was no texting in my day, surely a large part of the problem. Who needs a vocabulary; why bother with spelling 'wen U don't nede 2.' Alas, I fear the problem will get worse. A general fall in standards is at best a shame, at worst a crime. Barbara, sail on in blissful ignorance. I'm off to practice 'Yer what' and 'Yer know' in case I ever meet any of my footballing heroes. Hundred thousand a week and not a GCSE in sight. Who's the mug, lads. Spare a quid or two for your old teacher.

( Some of you might like blog dated 25th April, Happy Days but not for Everyone. The material for Early Retirement was based on seventeen years teaching at Noel Baker.)