Jon Elkon

Author: Jon Elkon

  • Part 8.5: Sex! Lies, Toads, Fate…

    Part 8.5: Sex! Lies, Toads, Fate…

    Warning: this episode is written as a sex blog. If you are likely to be offended, please read on. This work of so-called fiction includes a satirical portrait of the writer, so if you have been offended by previous episodes you will imagine you have had your revenge. Well it’s worth a try. Please don’t sue me while I’m alive. Or I’ll haunt your ass.

    ALERT: Webmaster: this blog has just overstepped the bounds of Taste and Decency. Moderate the language or I’ll close you down.

    Ok ok! Whatever you say. ((Psst: Dear reader: From now on in this piece, always replace the word ‘work’ with the word ‘wank’, in your mind and this will help you to put the life of the teacher into a context. And prevent me getting into Big Trouble with Big Brother.))

    Reboot: Reducing the Workload. A non-pornographic story which, based on facts, will illumine your life…

    Introducing the hero of this tale: Jonas Egghorn (which is the name he insists Starbucks write on his cup of tall dry cappuccino without chocolate).  A teacher on the good ship FaitchEss for many years, he survived somehow by pretending to teach Business Studies, aka Not Brain Surgery. Or Not Rocket Science. What he was actually doing was using the pupils to make shitloads of money via a variety of convoluted scams including the Great Financial Crash of 2008, which netted him and his pupils around 20bn Rupees. He referred to this as “Enterprise” and funded several awards for himself, as he has a stonking great ego.

    One of the awards necessitated a visit to Downing Street to meet the Cameron himself, a former ruler of the realm, quite forgotten now of course. And the Toad Gove. Of whom more anon. This grand bash at No 10 cost his Young Enterprise company an arm and a leg, both of which were necessary for a transplant so that the Coalition, as it was then called, would have a Leg to Stand on.

    (Incidentally, Jonas’ sexuality has long been a subject of gossip in the tiny cupboards scattered over the school, referred to as “the Staffroom”. He calls himself an “Ex-sexual” and when asked what brand he replies “No idea. So long ago I have quite forgotten.” It is probable that he is lying as several mongrel dogs may attest if they could speak or walk straight.)

    Jonas was also a bit of a Martial Artist, or Nerd. His Nerdism, which is a serious illness which infects many of those people who have had a broken childhood, expressed itself regularly in miming dealing out extreme violence to others. Nobody thought to close down his school club because those pupils who attended were much safer off the streets. And the blood could be cleared up by professionals. And several Bad Boys were in fact repaired of their badness by their development of the ability to murder each other, and went on to brilliant careers as hitmen.

    Hrrrrrragh! Was what he called his “keai” which is what he would yell whenever miming an especially lethal move, or was emotionally engaged, or had a particularly good -uh- work.

    On with the story.

    But before that happens, a bit more sex. Here we have to (for our Straight readers, ie those who are not teachers) give just a little more background, and describe the Effect of the Little Fucker, and how Govination brought the whole of education to the brink of extinction.

    ‘Twas brillig, and the Slimy Gove/ Did gyre and gimble in the wabe’, as Lewis Carroll would have said if he was born a hundred years later.

    The appointment of the Little Fucker as Ed Sec was the most dire of days for pupils and teachers ever since the birth of Lewis Carroll in 1832. (Ok pedant YOU Google him.) This priapic toad, equipped with a large scythe, was empowered by PM Cameron to Deal With the Education Question  in whatsoever way he thought appropriate to increase the Tory Majority in the next election.

    If you want to know how this barrage of bullshit (working)  happens, read and study Part 3 – Dix’s Last Stand, in which I explain the dreadful DofE, the Toad Gove and his minions, the Inspectocrats of OFSTED and HMI and the whole panoply of the Evil Empire of Amateur “Educationalists” who run the teaching and learning from the Government – without, of course, the foggiest idea as to what happens in classrooms, as they last saw the interior of a school (Eton) in 1977. Mind you a few of the Inspectors themselves are humans. I know some personally who have a genuine mission to improve schools, to remove inequality, to help teachers to do their job better. They do a great job. A pity the government doesn’t make more use of their small human contingent. Or ask them. Or listen to them.

    Teachers are the victims of politics. It’s simple: parents need someone to blame for their children being out of control, or not performing academically, or having spots, or having sex – anyone but themselves. So they love to blame schools and teachers. Politicians therefore only have to promise to change schools or education in some way in order to garner shitloads of votes. All change please! At last! Parents cry, At last! Something is being done to take the blame off us for our kids being out of control. And teachers make great victims! Listen: many politicians and parents have an image of the teacher as Someone Who Made Me Do Things I Didn’t Want to do when I was a kid, i.e purveyors of misery. Older people remember being beaten by some sadistic pedant with a cane or, in my case, a knuckleduster. So making changes in school or in curriculums or in funding or bureaucracy is hugely popular.  So as soon as any political party sees it’s slipping in the polls it smacks the teachers.

    After all those bastards have those loooong holidays! Easy lives! They’re always going on strike! They have short days long nights and are always moaning! Give them more to do! More! 

    One day Jonas realised that there was just far too much – uh – work. He saw that as a Lead Teacher (they used to call the role Head of Department. This was changed by the Gove in order to irritate and annoy.)  he could just no longer manage the pile of paper the volume of emails (work!) the clatter of crap onto his desk the deadlines the lifelines the demands the (work) requests the appeals the PLANNING  the producing the displaying the presenting the (work!)  pastoraling the rescuing the wiping of tears of himself and others the spelling the grammar the punctuation and worst of all, the POLICIES the parents the (work!)  four p’s which are now seven, the MARKING the motivating the REPORTING the statisticing the grovelling the lying the BTEC ing the Blasted BTEC the horrible BTEC the MARKING (again and again) the DISCIPLINING the mentoring  the INSPECTION the hours the days the nights the minutes the stomach the stress the stress the stress the stress the work work work all the working all the people…(keeping up?) –

    Hrrrrrragh!

    When you have 181% required of you in 100% of the time, you have to choose precisely what to do. So you skip those things you think you can get away with skipping. Which is fine, until Management decides not to like you and starts looking at what you haven’t done. Jonas had decided to put pupils first. A dangerous idea. To test this, he put random swearwords in the Department Development Plan, speckled and sprinkled throughout as if written by a Tourette’s sufferer. No reaction. Patently, his Line Manager regarded reading the damn thing as beyond his 100%, so it was safe just to fill the document up with short stories copied and pasted from the net.

    Hrrrrrragh!!!!!!

    In other words, Workload. (Are you pronouncing it correctly?)

    So he resigned as Lead Teacher. No longer a TLR 2b, it was as if the entire weight of the world had fallen on the IRA!

    Clarification: the poor innocent landed with the job was not, nor has ever been a member of the Irish Republican Army, Real or illusory, even though he was a Catholic from Belfast. Landed by his parents with the name Ian Reginald Adams, the poor lad was extremely fluffy-tailed but because his ancestors had made their living hiding from the British, he had circumspection in his genes. Continuously in terror at being found out, he always wore a balaclava and when one wasn’t available, a full niqab. Thus attired, he proceeded to work his ass off building the department into a Beautiful Thing.

    Jonas was not the only one to notice that job was no longer possible, desirable, manageable or fun. 

    Saturation! Totally fed up with having to do all this working teachers began leaving the profession in droves, in swarms, in cohorts, in carriages cars busses on horseback, in a huff. The collective noun for teachers is a Frustration of Teachers. No more no more! They cried. The sound of educators cracking up echoed across the land.

    Even the bright young things entering the job all dewy eyed and embroiled in their cute little desire to “give something back”, or “do something for the community” or “help those less fortunate than myself” managed at best three years and then, crack! Exit! A job at Tesco’s. Or sectioned under the Mental Health Act. Or booked into the Priory to be disabused of extreme substances. Or all twelve.

    The Old Stagers were heading for the earliest retirement their pensions allowed.

    And then finally on a sunny morning, we woke up to Gove Gone! Gove was a Was Gove! A Had it Gove! A hand-in Gove! Fired!!! Dave the Rave Cameron had finally realised how hated the Toad was, how he had finally irrevocably and utterly fucked the education system…

    (Where’s the sex, I hear you ask. This was sold as a sex blog! There isn’t time for sex. Which is why most teachers are exsexuals. Ok I admit there’s a bit of groping in the Head’s office but that’s just the SLT meetings. Actually I’ve drawn you in on false premises. But now you’ve read this far you may as well continue)

    And then, behold: with Gove gone (Nov 2014) the new edsec was and is Nicky Fata Mogana who, being a new broom, contemplated the shattered remains of the ruin of education the Toad had wrought and was instructed to sweep up. “The voters are beginning to notice,” Dick Cameron said, “for heavens sake Nicky, appear to do something! An erection approaches. A Pubic Erection, no less. Make nice with the teachers. The smell of the corpses is putting voters off “

    It was at this point Jonas decided that despair was not enough, only action would satisfy – and he wrote his famous email to the Secretary of State, explaining, summarising, and baring his soul. And basically, (the worm) begging for help and understanding.(the fooll).

    And she replied. Click here for the correspondence. If you are too lazy, I sum it up

    ((DARN! No-one has taught me how to hyperlink to a word doc. I uploaded it to the website but can’t find how to link it. Tuff. Sorry. Will find out and do it for you NEXT TIME. It’s bloody good, promise.))

    Jonas: now da little fucker is gone, fix this broken thing and here’s how

    Nicky Fata Morgana: I’m on it!

    …and thus was born the ‘Workload Challenge’! Well, Jonas can’t actually claim the credit for initiating this devastatingly wonderful idea. They have Civil Servants for that. But maybe…a little seed planted grows into a Work Tree.

     

    NEXT EXCITING EPISODE: More sex! Really!…and maybe finally we get to GOING NUTS.

  • Part 7.5 – The Ship in a State

    Note: for people who may be of a classical turn of mind, this chapter is written as Baroque Opera.

    The set: think Pirates of the Caribbean; think Johnny Depp…a large and sea-stained galleon, hawsers securing this hulk awkwardly to a filthy quay, riddled with rats and orphans. There can be no doubt the SS Feather is a sorry sight. Shot full of holes from her many battles (both internal and external) she would, were she ever to attempt to set sail, sink in even the calmest of seas. Her sails are mere threads clinging to worm-eaten masts. Everywhere there is evidence of neglect, and the “Outstanding” banner nailed to the remains of the mizzen mast as a pennant does nothing to enhance the general air of eccentric dishabille.

    On the quay hawkers sell decapitated salmon and perch, singing their traditional songs “Rotting Fish Full of Pish/ a Fiver gets you your Death Wish”. (The fish are not doing the singing. The hawkers are.) Prostitutes of all genders hawk their wares singing their traditional songs, “Fresh syphilis! Special price, this week only. Herpes free with every me!”

    In the last act the previous Captain, in a heartrending finale, was forced to walk the plank. The crew – a mutinous bunch on the whole, but also containing several of the sleeping and the dead, knew that the new Captain (bass) would bring Changes in the key of C.

    Act 2: Scene 1

    The Captain calls the crew to a meeting in the waist of the ship. “Behold!” He sings (many Baroque operas start with some god or goddess or shepherd jumping into centre stage and singing “behold!”  A great example being Handel’s Semele. The High Priest sings, “Behold! Auspicious Flames arise!” He is, I think, sacrificing the heroine on a burning pyre.) “Behold!” Sings the Captain, “Auspicious flames arise!” Pointing to the pyre on the poopdeck upon which the previous captain, Terror Dix, burned merrily. Yes I know I said she was forced to walk the plank. What the hell. You decide.

    “Too long, too long!” He trilled, (recitative) “there will be changes made!

    By Dix betrayed/ Trust me – /This ship will hit/ The Sea!

    ….the buggers at the Borough have dictated our captainship policies for ages and it’s now time to escape this so-called safe harbour, and set out!”

    From his kennel on the main deck, the Quartermaster (soprano) piped (recitative) “do you mean Brexit my capitain? / To set our sail for the Spanish Main?” The quartermaster, it must be said, also known as the Thin Controller, was responsible for Infrastructure, extrastructure, superstructure  and Curry Planning. Under the Dix his job had been to say to every request (and there were many! Sometimes the long line of sailors waiting to see him sparked rumours, but I assure you, most of them left his company intact) and it became his catchphrase,  “but will it generate cover”. No-one knew what that question meant but everyone realised that if you said Yes, whatever you had come to ask him would be responded to with No. And vice-versa.

    “And will it, my lover/” he added, “generate cover?”

    “Never Again,” the captain sang, and this Aria will become one of the staples of the repertoire for years to come.

    “Avast dear men and women too

    This old port is full of poo

    Too long have we, or rather Dix,

    Followed all those lunatix

    Lefty loons they try to make

    Us the reason for their mistake!

    Always telling us what to do

    It’s time to cast off, toodleoo!”

    “You’re off your head!” The Union Trio sing,

    “Once we sail into the drink

    – We’ll sink!

    Our hull is gone

    Our crew is sick

    Our sails are torn

    You’re the lunatic!”

    The Union Trio: Fletcher Kristalson (castrato) is the biggest Union Rep, one of the trio known as Hearnoevil, Seenoevil and Speaknoevil. These names had been given to them as commands by the Dix, who had of course removed all their testicles and eaten them. (An historical note: in the Baroque period young boys were castrated by the thousand in the hope that they would become superstars of the Opera business, with their peculiar high voices. If you don’t believe me, Google Farinelli.) (I do not know if their testicles were eaten). (Had Dix been around they would have been).

    The other members of the Trio are Pandy Monium, (tenor) the official train spotter which is amusing, because in the Baroque Period the train has not yet been invented. As a result, Pandy dashes about ship and shore in a confused frenzy, looking for them and is often described as Off the Rails. I forget the third member (baritone) though he is perfectly lovely.

    Harpsichord solo.

    Chorus of Guvs:

    “Dearest boy you’re the new man here

    What right have you to shake and stir

    What so long has been a place of fear!

    With trembling men and women too

    A sail-less ship without a loo!

    Our Captain told us what to do

    And all along we did her will

    But now she’s gone, don’t do us ill!”

    Up stands the Chair of Guvs, our old friend Prendergast-Huffington (mezzo). She is costumed as Britannia, carries a trident and has both her breasts exposed.

    ” Why complain, oh might and main

    We’ve never been too happy here

    The smell of fish, the rotting brain,

    It’s just no good to moan complain!

    The cargo rots below this deck

    We always get it in the neck

    I’ll tell you what, it’ll never last

    Our only skill

    Is getting nowhere, fast!”

    (First satirical reference to the Pupils, dear reader. Note! The purpose of a ship is transport! It exists to take people from A to Z and all the letters in between. Now referring to the pupils as “cargo” is terribly disrespectful, but think about it: ok, the metaphor makes them passive, which they ain’t. It doesn’t take into account how we the crew do all that value-added stuff. So as a metaphor it’s shit. Well you don’t want me to reveal the SS Feather was a Slave Ship, do you? So I won’t mention it.)

    All: Poor crew, oh what to do, sing or swim? He had them by the throat – nothing left to do, but vote!

    Curtain.

    Scene 2

    The Captain’s Cabin, night.

    The Captain sits at his desk, deeply depressed, his head on his hands. He sings.

    “Behold!

    A loan, a loan, my headship for a loan

    My vessel is quite broke, I have no other home

    To fix this ship would take take all the gold

    I could never get, for what’s in the hold!

    So whatever the crew and the governors too

    Vote, this sinking ship will never float…”

    Twinkling flute with harp, then a cymbal clashes. Suddenly a cherub appears, all in a golden glow. With a deeply traumatic shock, we realise this naked cherub is none other than Michael Gove, counter-tenor (castrato) waving a glowing wand and wearing a halo.

    “Do not despair Mr Whatwhat and Where

    The golden glowing Goveman is here!

    I feel your despair -”

    “Oh Gove the nude, oh fortune’s hood

    Could you make our shitship good?”

    “Fear not oh Whatwhat, oh Whatwhat Where,

    The Dee Eff Ee despite what they say,

    The Dee Eff Ee is here to stay!

    We’re here to help so Whatwhat you want

    I’ll give you cash -”

    “Oh no, you can’t!”

    “Sure I can, but listen here, there’s a price.

    I can get you out of this hole.

    For cash I want – ”

    “Yes?”

    “Your Soul!

    Kettledrum, cadenza.

    “It’s a heavy price…”

    “Be nice, be nice! And one more thing you must give me

    You’ll call yourselves……Academy!”

    “Academy?”

    “It’s just a word. So – how do you feel?

    Do we have…..a deal?”

    At this point I have to drop the Safety Curtain. In the next scene, the new Capitain announces that he has fistfuls of money and of course, with the glorious prospect of repairs to the hull, re-sewn sails, new cannon, a partial replacement of the crew and the enlistment of the Cargo to row – yes I know galleons didn’t have oars you pedant! This is Opera, for godsake. Well, there was a vote for Brexit. Sorry, I mean Academisation.  In the final glorious scene of Act 3, the renovated ship rows off into the sunset to a riveting triumphal chorus of drums and trumpets. And so another gorgeous Baroque Opera ends with curtain calls and bouquets, to the sound of whips and groans from the Cargo.

    If you enjoyed this opera, why not try Handel’s Semele? Or Acis and Galatea? You may also find at least the first act of Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo to your taste, or try anything by Purcell. Baroque rocks!

  • Tube Surf: No Exit

    When you are in the darkness you forget the light. You don’t see the exit.  You don’t believe there is one and if there were, you wouldn’t want it.

    When I saw the tube train approaching I had to decide which journey it was going to take me on. To confront her, or not. Not was attractive. It took will power to stand behind the yellow line. I wanted her to cry. I wanted her to hate him and have me in her mind her whole life. But then, I would never have her again. 99.9% I will never have her again.

    With a heavy sigh I stepped on board.

    I will stick to the original plan. She won’t be expecting me. I will let myself in. I will find them together.

    A man in black is sitting opposite me, his trouser turnups elegantly secured with three paper clips carefully positioned, with perfect symmetry, on each. Suddenly I’m suffused with delight. He looks so extremely organised: his light brown thinning hair swept closely forward in a curve not designed to deceive by hiding the bald patch behind, just cheerfully oiled, well-cut efficiency. About 32. He has the look of an Alexander Technique physical therapist. Slim, fox-like. All in black –  t-shirt, tight trousers, black sandals like mine, no socks. His toenails are groomed, perfectly cut. His face wears the cynical grin of a man who despairs patronisingly at the bumbling weakness of humans, as he reads his Metro. With a sigh, he folds the paper carefully so that the crosswords are ready, open for invasion. Earls Court.

    A thin girl gets on with a wheelie-case. She is exhausted, pale, looks sick. The man sighs at human frailty, stands to give her his seat.

    Aha……. A Tube surfer. He is refusing all handholds and casually working at his crossword. Show off. Then, a lurch at Gloucester Road – he almost grabs for the handrail! Would have lost a point. A quick recovery and back to the crossword. Very nice.  Possibly a Meister.

    He’s lucky I’m seated. I am the self-declared TubeSurf Meister of the Circle Line, haven’t lost a point for ages. Even that notorious Sloane Square to South Ken stretch has been a clear surf for me, while so many rivals have been sent tumbling or frenetically reaching for support at some point in that three minute journey.

    For those not in the know the rules are simple: stand unsupported, touch nothing and no-one throughout the journey or lose a point. You get three points per station successfully passed.

    Tube surfers recognise each-other immediately – and it only takes a minute before it’s Game On. Words are seldom exchanged. Eye contact varies from the arch to the triumphant. It is a lonely game. The search is for the Worthy Opponent. He or she who can surf without surrender.

    I cannot resist. As the carriage partly fills at South Ken, I stand.  Hurrah. Game on! …On reflection I’m staying for the Journey. For this journey anyway.

    He’s recognised me. I can see the grim decision crossing his mind – I Will Win This. We exchange a glance of acceptance, of engagement in the game. Of challenge. He shrugs, folds the newspaper into a carrier bag which he deposits on the floor. This surf is not for displays of machismo or virtuoso posturing. This is about Meistership. Which is life and death.

    I go into Fudo dachi. Dachi means stance –  a Karate stance I find works for me. The feet are twice shoulder width apart. The angle of the stance is at 30 degrees facing front in the direction of travel.

    I sense his nod of respect – he recognises that I am not an amateur. He too takes on Fudo, but changes to Zenkutsu dachi with the sway and swing of the carriage. Beautiful.

    Fudodachi – is one of the staple surfing dachis. Place your legs in horse-riding stance, slightly bent, shoulder width apart. Now shift slightly so that the weight is more on the front leg. A good rooted stance this. But as the carriage swings sways jerks and stops too many adjustments are necessary. Often a favourite of mine.

    Good technique and good spirit. The motto of the Surfer.

    The driver is in a hurry. Good! This is the challenge I enjoy. A frenetic driver on speed, behind schedule. A well-practised and professional Worhy Opponent. Lots of jerks and sways and lurches and swings and long curves and short curves and…damn! He’s  right. Fudo dachi is so often essential with this driver!

    Victoria, and neither of us have lost a point. We’re so evenly matched, it’s crazy.

    Passengers flow in and flow out. Careful positioning is necessary to ensure we can see each other, and we both manoeuvre to a space which gives us a circle of operation. The Circle: so important! Otherwise referred to as Tube Space – obviously if humans intrude too much the surf becomes impossible and has to be abandoned. If you find yourself crushed up against somebody, well the Art cannot be employed. Once I was in a massively crowded carriage and determined not to lose a point – my rival, a woman with spiky hair and thunderous thighs, had been with me for four stations and both of us were having a Clear Run. And then this yummy mummy with a four year old clutched in a sweaty hand said to me, “For heaven’s sake! Hold on!” Her tone was angry, defensive. I wanted to say, Lady, I am NOT going to fall and crush your pretty daughter. I am Surfmeister. But I didn’t. Instead a gave my rival a defiant look and deliberately, slowly and unnecessarily, took hold of a rail. I preferred to lose a point than lose my head.

    That is not going to happen this time!

    We lurch off from Victoria. Both give a sway, and change stances. I go from Zen stance – or the classic Front stance, sixty percent of weight on the front foot to Fudo to Kokutsu.

    Kokutsudachi is an interesting stance. Preferred by some of the younger surfers, it’s the typical back stance and very useful for sudden stops. 70% of the weight on the back leg, feet about one and a half shoulder widths apart, feet at a right angle to each other. Essential with sudden acceleration or deceleration.

    When the carriage is crowded, the surfer may resort to cat stance, especially if no-one can see, because he looks like an ass. Neko, in the parlance.

    These are the main stances. The Meister knows how to shift instantly from one to another, depending on angle, velocity, stop-start, number and proximity of other passengers…the trick is to anticipate. The surfer taken unawares is the flying surfer.

    This is crazy! Liverpool Street approaches and both of us have had a Clear Run. I was going to alight at Liverpool Street, where she has her swish Shoreditch pad. But there’s no hurry. I’ll just wait until he loses a point. Then, easy to get a train back. No hurry.

    He’s just consulted his watch. Ok, if he gets off it’s a draw. That’s fine.

    The station arrives. The station leaves, with a massive jerk. Both of us sway and wobble and hands go out to grab support, and then as swiftly back as we readjust stances.

    We exchange a look. There is no comradely friendliness or respect in his face. For a moment there is the pure challenge of combat, nothing like what boxers exchange for the cameras. This is real.

    There will be No Surrender.

     

    Moorgate

     

    Barbican

     

    Farringdon

     

    Strange how in this rocking rolling swaying jerking world with its  ephemeral population it seems as if these stations come to us, not we to them.

    Whenever his eyes light on mine I see more anger there

     

    Farringdon

     

    A Portuguese family with baggage, seriously annoying 8 and 10 year old boy and girl. The father gestures to the only two free seats and the kids sit, bickering, shouting and giggling in foreign.

     

    Euston

     

    They disembark, a relief. I can see my enemy better now.

    Humans flow in humans flow out. Some stay longer than others

    Ephemera

    He hates me

    They carry their worlds with them so brief their journey a much used John Lewis bag a rucksack containing a Macbook Natural History Museum bags with souvenir tat

    Wheelie cases clutched to knees, handbags white-knuckled to laps, most are on their mobiles. What? Signal off and on. Why? Ok in my case, using Notes to write this, any time I feel sufficiently in balance – what are they doing? Games, certainly. Some staring at downloaded movies or clips. A few writing poems, surely. Reviewing texts or whatsapp  messages. Or mooning at photos. Anything is better than engaging with their fellow humans. Anything to make time slip.

    He is shifting awkwardly now, very uncomfortable. From the way he looks at his watch, I know he has missed his stop too. Where was he going? He snatches his phone from his pocket, stares in fury at the No Signal message, replaces it.

    Lucky me, no-one to phone. Lucky….she will be in bed now, with the Shit.

     

    Great Portland Street

     

    The carriage is about 70% full, only he and I standing. There are empty seats. Other passengers glance. A 15 year-old boy with freckles stares openly. Then he stands between us parodying our stances and giggling. Tube jerks, he flies, his mother yells in Polish. I laugh. Blackie glowers, anger and discomfort mounting.

    Baker Street. The carriage fills. Blackie has begun to stare at me, I don’t know how to react. I feel his hatred. There are a few people between him and me, and I resolve that whatever he feels, I will maintain my equilibrium both physically and emotionally.

     

    We approach Edgware Road where according to the announcement “This train terminates”. Surprised. I thought these trains  on the Circle line went round and round and round for ever. I thought this journey would last forever and Enemy and me would be stuck in an eternal circle of hell

    I can just see him through and between the people. I maneuver to see better. How will he react to this being the end of the line.

     

    Finally I get a good look. One hand grasps a yellow pole. I look down at his trousered legs, and his paper clips, and his sandals,…!.. .and there is a dark rivulet over toes and the floor. He has taken a piss.

     

    The doors swoosh open, passengers between us

     

    He has lost.

     

    He has lost.

     

    I elbow my way out through the people. I don’t want to see him again. I don’t even want to give him the look of total triumph which suffuses my brain. It’s a sour victory. It’s a Pyrrhic victory. A victory gained at the expense of the humiliation of the vanquished. I almost run.

    Must find the toilet, I am busting for a pee. There it is by the platform. Bloody 50p entrance. I leap over the barrier and run to the urinal. I unzip myself. My piss plashes out

     

    I look behind.

     

    My Enemy, with a knife.

     

     

  • Bitten by the Apple

    Appled!

    They produce hardware and software to a design template which is the envy of techworld. Other tech companies emulate as best they can, often outperform but no Apple lover notices. So addicted to that logo,  metallic loveliness that concatenation with eye and hand, that often successful mind-meld which second-guesses one’s dreams and fulfils them with irritating alacrity and efficiency.

    And while the Applephiliac is engaged in the dream, the beloved reaches invisible hands into the pocket and lovingly strokes the plastic therein until it ejaculates money all the way to Cupertino. And I’m not just talking about Apple Pay, which effectively cuts out the pocket completely…

    Examples: Apple Music, say. A mere £10 per month. It won’t be for long, wait and see. And so music on the Apple Store immediately increased in price. So for me, who merely buys the occasional album, I have to carefully calculate which is more expensive. But Apple Music plays off the Internet! So when I have no internet connection, say in the tube, no music unless previously downloaded. It’s never mine! If I stop paying my monthly rental, it’s gone back to Mother Cupertino. And when I do have connection but no wi fi, the music would take up my data allowance. So I would rather have my music within the capacious memory of my phone. That’s why I paid extra for 128gb. Extra.

    So Apple came up with another way to stroke money out of me. The Cloud!

    All of a sudden I discover all the (purchased!) music on my phone is on the Cloud and I start to get urgent messages that I need to upgrade my Cloud allowance, more money! I call Support for a quick method to download all my music back to my phone. There isn’t one.

    And then there are the Glitches, the eternal fucking Glitches.

    Today I bought an album on my iPad from the Apple Store. £7.99, formerly £4.99. A bargain! Enter Password! How many times am I asked for my password and told it is wrong! I reset it. Wrong! Or ok on one device but not on another! Reset! Wrong! Reset! Wrong! Eventually I have the album downloaded on the iPad.

    But not on the iPhone!   Which is asking me for a fucking password!

    AGAIN.

    So here I am seated in the Apple Store in Covent Garden waiting for my appointment to see a “Genius”. He/she won’t have answers. I know this because I’ve tried it before.

    …2 hours pass….

    Post Coital Depression

    I feel fucked. Frazzled. Foiled. Fandangoed. Two hours with a perfectly nice Daniel, one of the better members of the Daniel clan although to be honest I haven’t yet found a Daniel I didn’t like. This one,  ginger as he is, perfectly cuddly, as harmless as a neutered ginger tom, singularly failed to sort a single one of my issues. Most of the time spent with this pussycat consisted of inputting my password into a vast variety of software scenarios until every possible variant of iTunes and iCloud and iPhone restore and reboot and reimage with its blasted password had been tried and retried and then again…and AGAIN AND AGAIN and….considering one if the main reasons I was there was the sheer fury suffered as a result of having to enter my password AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN this felt like a version of a ghastly punishment for some evil committed in my life – the Apple Store is obviously Tartarus, which is that place in Hades in mythology where the punishment fits the crime.

    What on earth was my crime? Perhaps my passwords offended the Gods. mWhat’s wrong with “Fatefuck12s” or “Forgods32ake”? Or “Odinsucks52” or “Jesusfarted22” ?

    I’m going home. The screen is showing “Some items could not be downloaded from Cloud” and when I click ok, “Enter the password…”

  • For Z

    Z escaped the constraints of culturally-imposed confinement. I wrote this to celebrate.

    How your freedom went to my head!
    Unfurled from your prison,
    Liberate, unled
    You fled from those who would prefer you
    Confined. Or dead.
    And I still enchained defy those
    Whose narrow self-imposed
    Lies lie like whales dead on a beach

    As hard to move;

    As wrong place wrong time wrong turns

    Tried to engulf you.
    And so fragile now you stand defiant
    Proud
    Free
    Ready.
    Grow.
    Your freedom empowers me.

  • Do you have a Life Sentence?

    REFLECTIONS

    My Retirement Picnic was on Sunday…so many faces from near and past, all in the smoke and mirrors of memory. Surrounded by beautiful people, I felt very blessed to have known them and to have played some part in their lives. Many people said I changed their lives. Embarrassing! Incorrect!  I look at the person and see a wonderful, self-confident, funny, intelligent, capable person.  And I don’t know what I did. This really made me think: on reflection, I have to put it down to Life Sentences.

    DEFINITION and EXPLANATION

    A life sentence is usually delivered to a child by a parent, or a teacher, or society as a whole. For example, the negative ones: You are Such a Fool! You are Stupid! (Dyslexics for example carry this blasted sentence and that’s what makes them either determined to disprove it or prove it) You are Ugly. You Can’t Read. You Will Never Understand Maths/English/politics/economics/ whatever. And the worst one: you will Fail! You are a failure! And then there is the panoply of racist, sexist, homophobic life sentences which blight lives, blind eyes…

    The job of the teacher is to find the Life Sentence of the pupil and if it IS a negative one, to grant them a pardon. We do this by finding the Life Secret. And then turning that into the new positive Life Sentence.

    “Wow! You have a real Designer’s Eye!”

    “You write so well. Amazing”

    “Excellent answer! You really get it don’t you?”

    “Well done! Consider a career in Accounts…

    So that’s what we do. Positive reinforcement. It’s no great trick. And people can do it for themselves. Identify your life sentence or sentences. Change the negative ones….

    SUMMARY

    Every student deserves a collection of positive Life Sentences and I have tried so hard to give them out when I have found that person’s Life Secret. It’s not easy but it gives me so much pleasure…As teachers, (or in my case as an ex-teacher,) all our joy comes from the achievements of others. Large or small! In some cases, survival is a huge achievement and I am so proud of some of my ex-students who have survived horrific events. Or have overcome silly addictions, or silly people, or silly situations. Or crime of any sort. Yes I do enjoy students getting in to impressive university courses. I am very proud of the doctors and lawyers, the accountants, the police, the shop assistants, the security guards…but you know what, teachers are merely catalysts. A student often just needs a gentle nudge…or a new life sentence. A positive one.

    DIVERSION

    In Martial Arts, each grading adds up to more self-esteem, self-confidence and success. My dilemma has always been whether to award a grade for excellence or competence compared to the expected standards of the grade OR to award the next level because of the student’s effort and level of improvement against their previous performances. The conclusion I came to was to celebrate effort in the lower grades, say up to Green Belt. And thereafter to apply much stricter standards. My Black Belts really earned their grades. I made the Brown Belt syllabus consist of four levels rather than the three favoured by Karate. After all, Bushido involves so much more in terms of fighting skills, including grappling, weapons and teaching others, as well as an understanding of the ethical and spiritual dimensions….blah blah…I seem to have wandered miles from the original purpose of this ramble. Sorry…. back to funny blogs soon! Promise! Enough introspection.

  • My Real Retirement Speech would include….

     

    PART 1: Incidents and Accidents

    Dear colleagues, thank you for giving me this opportunity to say what I have always wanted to say, and I do of course accept your offer of amnesty. You have all signed the agreement not to resort to Law in any shape or form. In addition please note sub-clause 15(b) stating your commitment not to employ or encourage any person or persons to cause my body or property any harm whatsoever, including kneecapping, egging of front windows or murder by any manner or means. Needless to say this stricture applies to you too.

    Let me start by saying I have worked here for thirteen years, which is lucky for some. In this time you have given me much, and I have given plenty back, including the babies. As well as some of the stationery. I retain several whiteboard markers – the result of that paranoia teachers have about a whiteboard ahead and a bunch of howling kids behind, and no marker anywhere. And no, the electronic whiteboard is not a substitute! I promise to bring them back some day.

    I have met many wonderful people in this organisation, some of whom are undoubtedly heroes. I remember well the time  when we laboured under the iron fist of Big Mama Dix, the headmonstress from Hades-on Stour. With her Stasi Committee, Big Dix’s Reign of Terror almost finished me. I recall with shivers how in her last week of tenure (she was retiring to run an East European dictatorship disguised as Vassily BigDixoffsky, whose moustache, they say, was extensively used as a weapon of war) she called me into her office. Terrified, I attempted to hide under her desk. Unfortunately that space was already occupied by the corpse of a sixth former. But had to finally sit facing her on the famous Seat of Nails.

    “Elkno!” she spat, “You have been conspiring against me….!”

    I could hardly hear her as the sibilant hiss of her voice was almost drowned out by the sound of my knees knocking. “But your Dixness, ” I protested, “I have done nothing, nothing whatsoever to impugn or defer or disprove your Greatness…”

    “Worm!” She said, “What about thisssss!?!?” At this point she unearthed from beneath the stack of severed testicles on her desk a single sheet of printed paper. Headed “E mail from the worm Elkon to Mike Bennett, Piss Artist. Courtesy Wormjinder the I.T. Contents: ‘Dear Bennett. How fortunate we are that our emails are never monitored or it is certain we would both receive the recognition we deserve. EOM.’ ”

    “SO!” she screamed, reaching for the testicle-remover. “HOW DO YOU EXPLAIN THISSSS? How DARE you imply your emails are monitored????!”

    I was all I could do to mop up the contents of my bowel and bladder while attempting a reply.

    “Ifff it wasn’t for the fact ” she whispered “that I am retiring this week, you would be…on a disciplinary!”

    Well I can tell you I grovelled my way out of that office like the lickspittle I was, counting blessings almost sufficient to arouse a nascent belief in a deity. But not quite.

    I came nearer to actual Religion when I met Brunnhilde. This Amazonian, a spectacularly muscled, brilliantly blond Aryan entered my life like the sharp edge of a katana enters a pussycat. Hired by the Big Dix to launch our Sixth Form, she bestrode the corridors like a Valkyrie, her voice cruel as razor blades in soap, lacerating students and teachers alike. A lass and Alec! (That’s Alec Muggy, a mix of Stephen Fry and the Vicar of Dibley) took over the Upper School, leaving me groaning and lamenting the loss of the one role I had ever truly coveted – Head of Sixth.

    Maturity and time has of course revealed that Brunnhilde was merely suffering from intense self-doubt, which made her shout very loudly and often, in case someone inadvertently voiced the truth. Beneath that armour lurks a perfectly lovely person, plunged out of her depth and terrified of drowning. This is the explanation of what psychologists call Narcissism, in my opinion. Education is riddled with Narcissists or people on that spectrum – they have my sympathy. We are all out of our depth. We are all drowning in bullshit produced in Westminster. I wonder where I am on the spectrum. Mind you, most of them are blond. But not all.

    And then there was the Incident of the Homophobe. To my awe, the school decided to do PSHE on homophobia, how to tackle it, how to end it. Well, we had done sex and drugs and alcohol 375 times and as teachers we were beginning to wonder whether it would be a good idea to take up all three on a regular basis (most teachers do this anyway. It’s a fraught profession. I am myself considering Opium as a placebo for curing Retirement, which is a fatal illness)

    So it happened like this: in the Year 12 year team meeting, we were shown the rather clever PowerPoint we were to use for the pupils, basically telling them not to use the word “gay” for something they didn’t like, not to bully people with a different sexual orientation. Laudable, I thought. Proud of you FHS, I thought. Well, some people in the room didn’t agree.

    Including my best mate S. She, blowsy mummy-like Algerian Muslim and I were good buddies. We laughed much together. I gave help and advice with and for her kids. I had visited Algeria with another much-beloved Muslim colleague for the wedding of his brother, which brought us closer together. So naturally, when we were asked to go to computers to look at the PowerPoint in more detail and prepare the lesson, we sat next to each other. After a while, I noticed she was deleting slides, adding, altering, amending. “What are you doing?” I asked. She winked, giggled and said “no way can I tell my students it’s ok to be gay! It’s against my religion!”

    We argued. We argued some more. Then some more. So I told the Amazonian in charge of Year 12. She told the Head. The Head called S into his office and told her off, and that she would not be allowed to do the lesson. (By the way, my other Algerian friend told her off too, called her a stupid woman following not the religion, but her ‘culture’) She hasn’t spoken to me since. So every time we pass in the corridor we keep our eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling, which is awkward when we reach the same door together. My only enemy in the place! It does annoy me that this bigot is allowed to be a form tutor – how will she deal with students unsure or unhappy about their sexuality?

    Incidents, incidents…thirteen years pass so quickly. And you know what? The wonderful dedicated people fighting for the success and happiness of youngsters have my adulation. The idiocy of the DfE and Ed Sec after Ed Sec who has never taught in a classroom, who use education as an instrument of ideology and a way of electioneering does result in a massive number of new teachers jumping for the lifeboats. The cries of older teachers cracking under the strain almost drowns out the groans of pupils treated like indentured workers in the Exam Factory. Yet so many labour on, fixing their hopes and dreams on the success of their students. Working all hours. Going home to a cat with an armload of marking. Or even managing a family. Heroes! I love them all.

    So I decided to become a nut. Or rather, NUT rep. See Part 2! In Defence and Axe Indents! Coming soon…

  • What I Wish I Could Say – but don’t dare!

    Yesterday B M phoned me yet again. For about the thirtieth time. Each time I said, my property is NO LONGER ON THE MARKET SO BUZZ OFF and take me off your goddarned database. Each time they said fine and diarised another call. So yesterday I lost it. As in, “How many times do I HAVE to tell you the property is no longer on the market so buzz off….” and the idiot said, “Well I just wanted to touch base…” at which point I erupted with “and if you EVER call me again I will report you to…” splutter…”somebody or other!” At which point I slammed the phone down.

    But I was still annoyed. So I didn’t give them another chance. I went to http://consumers.ofcom.org.uk/files/2014/05/easy-read-nuisance-calls-guide.pdf and following the guide, I reported the bastards.

    I have since realised what I should do now:

    Me: Hello, is that B M Chiswick?

    Them: Good morning, B M, can I help you?

    Me: May I speak to your Chief Negotiator regarding property?

     

    Him: Good morning, Daniel Dickbody here. How can I help you?

    Me: Well hello Daniel. I’m telephoning regarding a wonderful opportunity for you.

    Him: (slavering) Please go ahead. Do you have a property for sale?

    Me: No, but you do. In fact you have several. And I have a unique offer for you! For this week and this week only….

    Him: Yes…

    Me: Our psychiatry practice is offering a special deal for Narcissists and sufferers from PPD. Our treatment option includes full frontal lobotomy and all drugs thrown in for a one-off price of a mere £100 per week! And for this week only, the first treatment for Barnard Marcus employees is totally free! We include our Easy Guide to Pretending to be Human, as well as a How to Smarm through Every Insult….

    Him: (Pause). Really~? Where do I sign?

    I promise you: if they phone me ONE MORE TIME I will ensure that they reach for the Telephone Preference Service and Ofcom as enthusiastically as I did. Hey, I know MANY Estate Agents are human. Some are quite lovely. Just not the ones who have been phoning me.

     

     

     

  • Awwww…Bless You….Club memberships explained!

    To my utter horror when I am nice to people – or when I ask for something – or when I help someone – I seem to get “awww…bless you…” with a soppy sweet smile so utterly patronising, so dripping with sweetness, I want to take immediately to my heels. Or lash out with a swift kick. This is but a tiny step from those care home carers who call every elderly person ‘dear’ – to which my answer is likely to be, ‘I’m not your dear, dear. I don’t know you. As far as I can remember you are not in my family. Nor have we to the best of my knowledge ever had sex, unless it was a very dark night. This now confirms what I have so long resisted: I am now a member of that exclusive, literally dying club or tribe: the Elders. Yet another membership to yet another Oppressed Minority.

    There are many minority clubs (all oppressed to some extent) that I’m a member of. I’m pretty used to it. For example, I was or am a member of the Secular Jewish club. This is one of my best-kept secrets, or I thought it was until I was ‘spotted’ by another member recently. ‘Gee,’ she said, ‘I bet you’re Jewish!’ as she companionably took me by the arm, assuming no doubt I would lead her either to the kosher restaurant or to the altar. Shocked, I pulled away. ‘No! I am not Jewish!’ I protested. Then added, in mitigation, ‘Well, my parents were…’ ‘Silly!’ she exclaimed, delightedly grabbing more forcefully at my arm, ‘if you’re born Jewish you are Jewish!’

    I did, of course, resort to extreme violence at that point and she is now buried beneath five foot of latkes.

    I used to be a member of a sexuality club, too. But that was so long ago I have quite forgotten what brand it was.

    Then there’s the good old liberal club with a small l. The Kennedy style liberal, committed to the equality of everyone. So passé now, I think I might let my membership lapse. My fellow members trickle off to Elysium or join the Tories. Or the Socialists. Or worse still, the Breckshitters. Leaving me with two or three wall-eyed visionaries or ex hippies lamenting the scarcity of true vegan food in Chiswick. Considering joining the Greens, but having no sandals.

    The Karate club, I’m pleased to say, has given me an excuse for expressing extreme violence in safe places but my membership of that band of bemused bandits is more in doubt every day as my body falls apart.

     

    LIST the CLUBS or TRIBES to which you belong. Here are a few of mine:

     

    1. Little liberal
    2. Secular Jewish
    3. Agonised Atheist
    4. Semi Buddhist
    5. Crumbling Karateka
    6. Wan White
    7. Ok, old.
    8. Weluctant Weaponista
    9. Forgotten Sexuality
    10. Weary writer
    11. Poor Poet
    12. …what else…

     

    So many. I think I need to let

    All

    My subs

    Lapse.

  • Some Thoughts on Psychotherapy

    …an ignoramus’ view – or, why I am not in therapy.

    Some psychotherapy is merely wound stirring. A strategy to generate income. Thus creating dependency and co-dependency between therapist and client.
    As long as the wound is being stirred it cannot heal. An  eternal commitment for the client, guaranteed income for the therapist.

    Of course the therapist may sincerely believe they are doing the client good and this means many therapists are not bogus. Others deliberately stir and keep stirring to ensure they keep the client.

    So in many cases this is a fundamentally dysfunctional relationship which is self perpetuating and can cause deep unhappiness and financial trauma along with the real or imagined mental dis-ease. Sometimes the therapist is a narcissist who needs to have the feeling of control over the dependant client and the therapeutic process is perpetuated in order to feed the self-indulgent needs of both parties. The therapist may resort to deliberately encouraging or enhancing Transference, particularly emotional in order to maintain control. This is completely immoral – any therapist who is subjected to either love or hatred from the client should act before this becomes obsessional, and tackle it face-to face. If this does not succeed the relationship must end.

    Scientologists have a fundamental hatred of psychiatry regarding it as deeply bogus and dangerous. Their stance is based on their hidden agenda to replace psychiatry with their own bogus methods which can result in a delusory liberation which is often denied to the clients of conventional psychiatry. However their criticisms of conventional psychiatry are worth studying, and there is much to be said for placebos in dealing with low-level depression and anxiety. R D Laing had his own stance against traditional psychiatry, and again, while his criticisms are often pertinent and his analysis of the causes of psychosis (predominantly the family!) are often relevant, there is much that seems to me excessive and even barking in his methodology. Skinner, I believe, has the pragmatic approach which can often achieve excellent results but sometimes these are short term and need reinforcement.

    Other writers and thinkers have made real contributions to this debate. The work of Wilhelm Reich deserves at least a wry sidelong glance, but along with rebirthers and the other inheritors of Californian psychedelic – influenced income-generation self-indulgence  scams, they are mostly pants.

    When it comes to serious mental illnesses such as schizophrenia or deep psychotic episodes, serious depression or paranoia and so on, medication is critical and has come some way in the past few years. Yes there is nowadays a massive list of “new” mental “disorders” some of which are certainly real and some simply income-generators. In depth counselling and CBT needs to be incorporated with medication in serious cases.  In a few cases trauma experienced as a child needs to be unpacked, examined and left behind. For mild instances, there is nothing better than a good friend.

    All therapy is certainly not bogus, just as all therapists, psychologists and psychiatrists are not charlatans. The dedicated, sincere members of these professions  need to unite against the many terribly dangerous “practitioners”  who cause a great deal of damage to very vulnerable people.

    There are legions of academics, practitioners, writers hungry to create the next Big Thing – it sells millions. Self-help, therapeutic approaches, education! Package some old or obvious ideas in some new clothes – use some amazing new words to describe the old clothes – suggest another way of wearing them – and the bank account and the ego will swell concurrently.

    Freud created the (albeit flawed) foundation. Jung undermined some of it and rebuilt. The bandwagon began to roll, and the poor patient or client is at the mercy of a comparatively young  industry (the word is carefully chosen) which is inadequately controlled, certainly in the UK, and riddled with charlatans and ignorant people taking advantage of illnesses in order to make a living. Along with the genuine practitioners.

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