Bonkers

I have acknowledged that it is December and I am willing to embrace the Christmas spirit.

My mind obviously goes back to the days of work. It’s not that long ago. Only five years since my last Christmas with a class. There are certain signposts for the teacher which demonstrate the intensity of the whole affair. I speak as a year six teacher:

There will be insane laughter for no reason. The class becomes awash with rumours about who is going out with who. (I blame the ubiquitous upper junior disco.)

Things will be thrown; pencils, chairs, wobblies and anything else that’s throwable.

Someone will tread on somebody else’s model of the manger.

The ruftiest tuftiest boy will burst into tears for the smallest misdemeanour. Some of these characteristic traits may also apply to the staff.

Yet it started out so calmly:

Staff meeting minutes, Monday 31st October.

The Christmas production will be “Rudolf’s Return to Santa.” Ms O will be directing and auditions take place on  Tuesday 7th November lunchtime. Each class will have a CD of the songs. The allocation of year group scenes and rehearsal timetable will be done after the auditions.

Of course, further along in the minutes is a note about testing:

All junior children will sit their levelling APP tests by the week ending of December 12th. Science, maths (2 papers), punctuation, comprehension, spelling, English usage and creative writing should be marked and entered into the data system by Monday 19th December.

Did you notice anything? A bit of a clash between the ever so important testing and the school play.

“Oh but I expect it to be part of your planning and assessment strategy. Surely you are used to planning?” comments the pale faced deputy head, trying not to sound exasperated by “manageable” demands, already becoming clear at the start of term two. That’s the second half of the Autumn term in old money.

Some of the issues can be explained in extracts from the teachers’ weekly evaluations:

Mrs G wants a note explaining why Nathan did not get the main part in the production. Mr R sent in two notes asking the same thing about Edmundo. He then promised to send the head a note complaining about me not writing a reply for the end of the day. Have you received a note from him?

We haven’t had time to go through the songs this week because Conner’s big brother told all the children in the class that they all had “exams” to do to wipe the smile off their faces at the end of term. I’ve had sixteen letters from parents wanting to know why we’re doing a play when there are important exams to do. Mrs McD said the production was “always crap anyway because it was such a mad rush and teachers couldn’t organise a trip across the road.”

A letter arrives at the school office.

Wouldn’t it be nice if all the children learnt the carols by heart for the carol service? Do we have a date by the way? Rev D.P.

Week beginning 21st November:

The class have learnt the chorus from one of the songs. They’re finding the words difficult.

In wet play, Charlotte decided to dye her hair some festive colours with ready mixed paint. Then she went outside and ran about in the rain. Mrs E, the dinner lady tried desperately to catch her. It was hopeless. The extra burden of middle-age proved too much. Ms Y had to take her to first aid. I sent a note home with Charlotte to explain the state of her hair and clothes. The cleaner refused to clean it up. I finished it at about six-thirty. It looks reasonable apart from the multi-coloured speckles on the newly painted ceiling.

An internal memo goes around each class:

Please give me a final date for the children’s class party and games.

Another note reveals the timetable for testing.

Ms O is showing signs of bursting. Saffron, the main actor has brought in a note to say that she will not be available for the evening performance due to the brownies’ Christmas party.

Another memo:

The hall will be out of action on Thursday and Friday of this week to enable the PTA to set up stalls for the Christmas Fayre.

Mrs D gets a note of her own:

The PTA will be using your class in the Christmas Fayre. Please ensure nothing is left out or it may be sold. As your back wall is currently blank could you please fill it with appropriate topic-based children’s work.

Mrs D considers booking an immediate flight to Dar es Salam to do volunteer work in Tanzania. Mr S remembers the calmness of that staff meeting;

“It’s up to you to ensure that there are no last minute rushes this year,” whispered the head.

Ms O calls for a lunchtime meeting in her room to discuss the annual production crisis. The headteacher declines to attend as she is already booked for a festive lunch with the local mayor and representatives from their French twin town. In the meeting an emergency timetable is thrashed out. Mrs G’s concerns about the preparations for the testing was politely but firmly dismissed. Mr G was heard to say that the consequences of the testing will come in the new term.

“We’ll all be feeling crap anyway so it won’t matter. No-one’s going to sack us.” Mrs G’s protestations were drowned by the sound of a mass exit. There would be a queue for the microwave.

In one year four class, three children sneaked in during the very same lunchtime to see how far they could slide along the corridor on wet paper towels. Jake, a boy who had never been in trouble before went the furthest. Unfortunately he slipped over and was awaiting first aid in the photocopy room.

Every teacher, every teaching assistant and every other form of helper wonder how they are going to get through the next two weeks.

Fast forward to the last newsletter of term. The governing body would like to thank all the staff and children for another stunning Christmas production. Special thanks goes to the school choir for their performances in two local carol services and the switching on of the Christmas lights on the first Sunday in December.

At three-thirty on the last day of term, the teachers and assistants drift into the staff room. They had intended to grab a quick cuppa before going back to the classroom to take down the decorations. But they stay and chat.

A grateful pupil gave one of the teachers a bottle of wine; she opens it. It’s one of those precious collective moments when you realise that you don’t really want to strangle the year three team because they overran their rehearsal time. It has been another triumph of teamwork. More so, the children have proved to be absolute stars and that is why we teach them.

This happens every year without fail. As I write, I know what will be going on. I can see the faces and feel the tension. I can hear the noise among the pile of mini cocktail sausages that Jeremy accidentally knocked over in one of the party games. He cried. Then Will decides to take up the challenge of eating them all off the floor like a cat. The children burst into their customary pre-Christmas hysterics as he howls his satisfied miaows.

Thank-you for reading.

December

How many Decembers have you seen? I’ve seen sixty-one. December is the time our streets and houses begin to shine with the spirit of Christmas. Thoughts of festive celebrations begin to gather momentum and we start to form lists for presents and provisions.

Our televisions sparkle with glittering images of perfect people smiling broadly at their massive oak furniture tables tables heaving with the spoils of the season.

We are dazzled by the sparkling lights of fantasy as they skip in and out of our world of reality.

We may take a sly look at our bank accounts. We may take a fearful peek at our credit card balance. We could even make a nervous trawl of the internet for quick loan companies. At some point we will stop and sigh wondering how mad the whole business is going to get.

Yes, it does seem mad. The pressure to provide and give. The pressure to pass on our greetings. The pressure to stuff ourselves with the fruits of the season until we no longer find chocolate attractive.

And those TV chefs? They ponce about with their perfect trouble-free recipes giving us time to spend with our relatives for opening gifts and that special little tipple.

They all have their own “take” on sprouts, passing on their worldly wisdom that will have the most reluctant sproutie diving into a vat of the little green flavour bombs. And do they not realise that if the chef over-tipples the chances of producing anything stunning from the kitchen will diminish significantly, leaving them crawling on the floor trying to light one of Uncle Eric’s cigars from the toaster which is now hanging from the work surface by its cable.

Well the chefs don’t care. They recorded their programme in July before consulting with the publishers and ghost-writers about the new book: “Festive Kitchen Wonders. Dishes to impress.”

The dish may well impress. Or at least the cast iron casserole bought especially from John Lewis leaves a ruddy great dent on the floor as it plunges down from the eye-level oven when the intrepid chef, teeming with the bravado that only two glasses of breakfast prosecco,  a sly glass of pale sherry with the mother-in-law (with Guinness chaser) and most of a nice fruity Rioja can bring, realises he is not wearing his Lakeland jolly reindeer oven gloves.

And the rest of the family are staring from the kitchen door wondering why Dad is still on the floor beating his hands into the ham gravy making delightful mud brown ripples down you unit doors. Somewhere in the gravy, Mum spots the cigar sitting as proud as a turd next to the crimson meat. Grandma walks in. She has over-tippled too.

Poor Auntie Grace who spent Cristmas Eve helping out at the local Salvation Army shelter, begins to sob quietly. She doesn’t know what’s worse. The site of the fallen hero gurgling on the floor or the sound of Grandma’s relentless cackle.

Nine year old Joshua shouts: “Is Daddy pissed?” Mum looks cross. “But you said Dad always gets pissed at Christmas.” Joshua’s big sister Victoria starts taking pictures before looking across to Aunt Grace.

Grace nods and they begin to tidy up around the father, who by now is leaning upright against the units. Grandma is still cackling.

Uncle Tom is no use. He’s still in the living room saving the world on one of Joshua’s Christmas presents. “You’ll have to help them,” demanded his sister, now the colour of the cranberry sauce.

“Uh?” says Tom. Tom tuts as he pauses his game and instructs Joshua to leave it alone until he’s finished. “But it’s mine,” he pleads. “I don’t know how to save it,” Tom snapped. Josh gave a knowing smile. “I’ll save it for you dear uncle. Then I’ll whup your ass later.” Joshua,” calls Mum crossly.

Tom gets up and disappears to the kitchen. A minute later, he bursts back in to grab an unopened bottle of Cote Du Rhone. “You’ll be as bad as him,” said Mum turning to the comfort of her gin. Two hours later everyone is sitting down at the dining table as dinner is served.

The dinner is marvellous. Grace and Tom have played hosts in Tom’s sister’s house. Grace smiles. She thinks about next Christmas and wonders if the same thing could happen three years on the run.

Victoria makes herself known. She wants to be in Mum’s good books. In her school bag is a letter about the trip to Austria. She’s going to choose her moment with that one.

At the final presentation of the flaming Christmas pudding, flashing blue tinsel flames across the darkened room, Mum studies the bodies in the darkness. “Where’s Joshua?” she asks. Dad stops snoring and looks around at the shadowy faces.

Now I’m not saying this is a typical Christmas Day scene but I can’t help myself. It’s late at night and my mind is wandering.

All I can say is that my mum has shown endless tolerance and nerves of steel when she has presented her gorgeous dinner to the four men in her life who sometimes may have seemed a little worse for the demon drink.

As a family we have mostly coped well with Christmas. And I know why. Even after the increasing commercialism and financial pressures, we have always embodied the spirit of Christmas. Despite a few drunken indiscretions, the day itself has been spent in peace and harmony. We have always got on well anyway. So a lot of the family Christmases were really special. In fact a lot of the Decembers were special times too. We would discuss and make plans, always aiming to come together on the day itself. And sometimes at least one of us would be miles way. I’m still miles away but I will be going up for a while.

It’s not just because we all know how to party.

It’s because we all know about the reason and nature of Christmas. Whether you believe in the story or not, we are celebrating the act of peace and goodwill. If that is the legacy of what some claim may is fiction, then bring it on.

Thank-you for reading.

Rites of passage

“A rite of passage is a celebration of the passage which occurs when an individual leaves one group to enter another. It involves a significant change of  status in society. The term is now fully adopted into anthropology as well as into the literature and popular cultures of many modern languages.”

Sometimes we don’t even notice. Your first school uniform, your first kiss or your first proper drink. Perhaps your first mobile phone.

These are the milestones of life. Societies and religions around the world are built around seminal moments. The Barmittzpha, the first communion and any other culture you can think of has a “coming of age”.

 “Apache boys and girls, when they come of age undergo a four-day ritual to achieve their adulthood. This process is called “naive’s”. For the women, it’s a gruelling task involving multiple hours of dancing, prayer, and lessons, of self-esteem, sexuality, and healing.”

That definition didn’t mention the boys’ tasks. I’m sure it would have been something to do with hunting and swearing family or tribal allegiance. I think for British young lads it would be hunting girls and just swearing.

Other types of teenager are available.

I remember my first away game. I hadn’t missed a home game for two years. But now I’d booked a coach to go to Leeds United. At the time Leeds were a top team. Under the leadership of Don Revie, they had won the Football League and FA Cup. They had a team of stars. Alan Clarke, Billy Bremner, Norman Hunter, Johnny Giles etc etc. We had no chance.

Within the first four minutes of the game their right back, Trevor Cherry went studs up into Colin Harvey’s groin. “You dirty get Cherry,” I shouted. At least seventy cross faces turned to see who was the owner of this critical scouse accent.

Now that was a mini rite of passage; taking on the role of the away supporter surrounded by home fans.

At the end of a decent game we lost two-one but I was in no danger. There were wise cracks: “Get back with the other monkeys. Go home and eat a rat. Don’t blaspheme in God’s own country.” There were smiles and handshakes. My disappointment had been tempered by good nature.

It wasn’t always like that at Leeds. On other occasions, I’d had bricks thrown at my head, been spat at and charged at. Another rite of passage I suppose; and I’m not just talking about the impending violence. I believe in the goodness of human nature. Unfortunately the tribal force of football supporters sometimes gets to KKK levels.

Learning to live with disappointment and disillusionment is yet another part of growing up.

We can all look back to key moments in our life. We may associate them with the processes of moving from childhood through puberty into maturity.

Those of us with life-changing conditions experience extra rites of passage. Primary Progressive Multiple Sclerosis gave me some adjustment time however. I am a good communicator and reader of inference. Every professional I dealt with in the diagnosis process tried to give me hope. I appreciated the sentiment but I knew I was going into another field. This was a different field with a host of new challenges.

I now openly define myself as disabled. It is sad but it’s a fact. I have had to cross a myriad of Rubicons to take in the nature of my condition. We often see rite of passage as a positive experience. A step into greater knowledge and maturity. But there is also realisation and understanding. I realised and understood that I was becoming disabled.

What are the distinctive mile posts for this growing curse? I think telling people is one of them; or at least choosing who you will tell and how you will break such a fundamental thread of information.

“I’ve got MS,” is a very blunt statement. I can only compare it with telling someone that they need to attend to a stray piece of nose matter. You wouldn’t go up to a stranger in the street and go “Oi, greeny nose,” whilst pointing straight at the offending detritus. Well I wouldn’t.

I’ve always been fascinated by the way people pass on their news.

Whether it’s understated or shouted from the highest hill, news brings out the thespian in so many people. As an actor, if you are any good you have a level of power over your audience. They are watching you and awaiting your next utterance.

Imagine the scene:

Stephen opened the door. He was confronted with the usual family members. They looked to his as he delicately closed the heavy oaken door. he took centre stage.

“I have something very important to tell you.” Granny stopped her knitting and turned her ear trumpet towards him. “I’ve been to the doctor’s”

“Oh not one of those tired excuses again,” scoffed Uncle Tosh. He paused to tap his pipe on the mantelpiece. “I told you to stop this nonsense and join the army. That’ll make a man out of….” Stephen raised hand to stop Tosh in mid-sentence. Stephen whispered a response.

“It’s serious.” Everyone leaned forward. There was expectant silence. Mother rattled her teaspoon against the side of her china teacup. She always did this as a way of letting everyone know she was still in the room. Stephen felt agitated by her futile gesture. “It’s Multiple Sclerosis,” he mumbled.

“Multiple your whatsits?” shouted Father. Stephen looked straight into his eye. “MS,” he reiterated before throwing down a leaflet onto the table and storming out of the room.

“Why does he want to multiply his groceries?” asked Granny before resuming her knitting.

I can even see it as a scene from an opera. Then again, would it be the eloquent detailed style of Purcell or the mighty hooting of Schoenberg?

Enough. I felt that to be loaded with such news was an ominous responsibility. Suffice to say, it was done over time. I had to explain it in several different ways. The hardest was the admission firstly to my pupils’ parents followed by the pupils themselves.

Two more obvious rites of passage in this rather ignoble branch of life are the use of walking stick and wheelchair. These are two distinct signs of undergoing some sort of physical struggle.

The walking stick was the most earth moving of the two.

It was the first public admission of my disabled guilt. And guilt is what I felt. It was helpful for getting around but somehow I felt that I was opting out. I could have manned up and gone on without it being stoic to the point of crawling.

Another scene from a Schoenberg opera.

But I knew the future. Progressive-this illness is progressive. Like the passing of the news, I chose my time when using the stick; especially at work.

“Is this pure affectation?” asked Gerald the vicar from the church next to the school. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the whole truth. He is a kind caring man. I didn’t want to see the disappointment in his face. He would learn eventually.

Unlike the delicate matter of revealing my walking-stick habit, the wheelchair arrived with the sound of gushing. It was the gush of relief. And the gush of my emptying bank account. There was no guilt or embarrassment. I bloody needed it. If I was going to get out and about, I needed wheels. I have them and I get out and about when I want to.

One final rite of passage I have passed through of late is not for everyone. Three weeks ago I had a tattoo. “Mid-life crisis” I hear you shout. With MS brain fog it’s more like mud life crisis.

Thank-you for reading.

 

A mark of dedication.

I am an Evertonian, I come from Gladys Street. I like to sing I like to fight, I get kicked out every week. It’s an old football song. It is nothing but fantasy. One, I don’t come from Gladys Street. Two, I do not fight and I’ve never been kick out of a football ground.

I once had a fancy for living around Goodison Park. I could have mates round on match days for a few drinks before the game. It was a fantastic idea; focus on the word fantastic. But I’ve been dedicated to Everton Football Club for my whole life.

I religiously went to every home game and went all over the country to see them. In the mid-eighties I would start up the Old Queen and we’d set off on a quest to some far flung away ground.

I loved driving. Most of all, I loved driving to new places: Barnsley, Nottingham, Oxford, Ipswich, Sheffield, Oldham, Leeds, Stoke, Blackburn, Derby, Plymouth, Norwich and Leicester.

The day after Boxing day in 1986, we returned from Newcastle after beating them four nil.

The great Trevor Steven grabbed two that day.

After dropping my friends off I consequently drove on down to Tunbridge Wells. Such dedication is admirable. Isn’t it?

All this time, I had an Everton sticker on the rear windscreen and a delicate sliver of blue tinsel streaming from the aerial.

For a lot of that decade, I was considering the possibility of moving away. I wanted to be a teacher. Being a teacher is a mobile facility. But after getting my degree in 1985, it was not looking good. I’d had rejections for a PGCE from a few colleges. Instead I contented myself with a high workload and a dedication to the blues. And I had the Old Queen.

Ever since my mate George bought his nearly new Mark 4 Cortina in 1983, I’d coveted this bronzed beauty. It was fast and quiet. I’d put a storming stereo in it and we rocked. Once, we were flying down the M6 to Villa park when we spotted a car full of Man U supporters. Manchester United were not doing very well. We were going to win the league. My mate Pete spotted them. From the front passenger seat he wound the window down, (seventies technology) stretched his six foot two frame out and began to give them total abuse. He had no care for the fact that we were doing ninety.

When he sat back down, his head looked like an explosion in a spaghetti factory.

That was the nature of our football adventures. Nothing was too much trouble. We (or I) drove everywhere. We were free spirits. Once at Barnsley for the fourth round of the FA cup, the crowd after the game looked a bit threatening. Now I hate violence. In all our football travels, we’d had great banter with opposing fans but to start hurting each other is low.

Some of the sub-species started to kick out at random. Now I say thank-you to Ros. Ros was one of my piano pupils. When I told her I was going to Barnsley she asked “Can you get me a Barnsley hat?” I duly obliged. (I have no idea why she wanted a Barnsley hat-probably because she was fourteen).

Anyway in the midst of the carnage, I slipped on this hat and started saying “EE by gum.” I got back to the car safely.

There are so many away day stories. One perfect day was in late November in 1986. We were away at Manchester City. It was my thirty first birthday. Outside the old ground we met Pete’s mate Brendan. He lived close by. So we piled into his house at twelve thirty to discover that he had a copious supply of home brew.

I think we won three one. Then it was back home to do my birthday Seacombe pub crawl.

There was something beautiful about the Dale….

As luck would have it, one of our party was always willing to drive back so I was often free to let loose. That night, I did not cover myself in glory. But I covered the bedroom floor in re-cycled kebab.(Too much information.) Football was not the only dedication.

There was music. I started going to piano lessons in February of 1969 when I was thirteen. Because I’d learned the recorder and cello at school, I had a good knowledge of the bass and treble clef. Once at my mate Rob’s house I sat at his piano and began to realise that I could actually locate the notes on the song in front of me; D’ye ken John Peel. I began playing it (slowly), Rob’s mum came in to see what was going on:

“Oh Stephen are you having piano lessons?” she asked. “Do you practise?” She gave her son a glance which said “why don’t you practise like that?” “No,” I replied. I’ve never sat at a piano before. The one in our house is locked.” Then I drank my orange juice.

The following Sunday, while my dad was having his usual much deserved lunchtime pint, I broke into the piano at home and played the same tune from memory.

Mum knew I had some musical skill and her reaction was the usual matter of fact “Oh you can play, I knew you could.” She greeted the news of my success at gaining an LTCL some sixteen years later in the same manner. My mum was an expert at hiding her feelings but I knew she was just bursting.

Needless to say, the whole road knew within a week. But she never gloated; that was her outlet for the pride. I had a wonderful time with music. It was like having free access to mind altering drugs. Unlimited legal highs.

In the Autumn of 1969 my mum agreed to take me to a local series of concerts in Liverpool. These were “Industrial Concerts” at the Liverpool Philharmonic Hall.

To hear a live orchestra was mind blowing. As a member of Wallasey Youth Orchestra, to play in a live orchestra was mind-blowing on steroids.

Sooner or later I will document my musical journey. Suffice to say, it was better than anything I’d experienced. Oh hang on. What about May bank hoiday in 1985 when I stood in the Gladys Street end to watch Everton clinch the league title? Hmmmm. No, these are two different highs. I cannot compare my two fields of dedication. I was sitting in the living room of an old musical friend Jules. We taught the piano in the same private outlet. We were very good friends. On the stereo (yes, vinyl) was Pollini playing Beethoven’s final piano sonata. In the second movement variations, there is a fabulous ragtime bit. When Beethoven wrote this he was stone deaf.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2HiyWXGZURk

Personally, I think he had a window to the future, life and beyond. Jules and I stood up to perform some flapper style dance. “This is better than sex,” she exclaimed. Do you know what? I agreed.

Thank-you for reading.

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