AOB

Tags

Albion, AOB, archaic language, Baptism rite, Birinus, Captain Mainwaring, Coatbridge, Dad's Army, David Cameron, Eastenders, exophoric reference, Hercules, league tables, Nick Clegg, Pegasus, Pike, Scaevola, second person pronoun, Sisyphus, Spotted Dick, teachers' planner, tuning fork

Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster of St Birinus Middle School, indicated that

he wanted to speak by waving a rolled up cone of music manuscript

paper. There had not been enough time for his pressing item in the

previous Staff Meeting.

Permission to speak, sir?  He addressed The Acting Head, Mr Augustus

Snodbury, who wondered if the music master detected any irony in his

exophoric reference to Dad’s Army.

It was in the hiatus between a discussion on educational theories and

their implementation, or otherwise, and an expression of subject-specific

discontent with timetabling difficulties connected to The Music

Department and its long term practice of throwing a tuning fork into

the well-oiled, or reasonably well-oiled, machinery of the school day.

Yes, Poskett. Out with it.  We haven’t all day.

The School Song, sir…I think it is a little outmoded.

There was a collective gasp of shock and disapproval.  This had

nothing to do with the view being expressed, but had more to do

with the perceived threat of lunch being delayed for the second time

in a week.

Well, sir, even the C.of E. is changing the lexis of its baptismal rite, to

attract the kind of congregation, or customer, who usually views

Eastenders and suchlike.

Snod looked as if he would explode, but Poskett carried on obliviously.

You see, children and parents today cannot relate to such phrases as

‘soaring Pegasus’; ‘the Herculean task before us’; Scaevola’s flaming

hand of courage and ‘Sisyphean persistence’.

And with what do you propose to replace these time-honoured phrases,

Poskett?   Snod looked at him as if he was a First Year who had

forgotten his pencil case.

Geoffrey unrolled the paper and cleared his throat.  I have taken the

liberty of re-writing our battle-cry and, if you care to listen, it will only

take two minutes to appraise you all of my new draft.

Taking a liberty just about sums it up, whispered a Sports master,

who, having been outside all morning in a howling gale, was naturally

fairly ravenous and just wanted the discourse to be concluded asap.

He couldn’t have cared less about vocabulary, unless it was an

unparliamentary variety on the pitch and then, unless it had been his

personal utterance, he noticed it very much and usually inflicted penalties

of runs around the circumference of the field, the number of circuits directly

relating to the grade of linguistic objectionality.

Spotted Dick! Snod agonised.  The blasted boys will descend on it like

locusts in the First Sitting.  Would locusts eat sponge puddings?  This

thought troubled him, so that he barely heard Poskett begin his big sell.

It’s to the tune Old Suttonford, the  choirmaster enthused.  He held his

tuning fork to his ear and began to sing:

Our loving saint we’ve come to venerate

once reached the parts of Albion’s coast none else

would ever care to circumnavigate

and of our links to him we proudly boast.

Should our awards go into the minus,

we can always call on dear Birinus.

He blesses our results and should we slip

down league tables, he saves our sinking ship.

All laud and honour be to thee our saint

and may our praise to thee be never faint…

The lunch bell rang and woke several masters.

Nigel Milford-Haven automatically lifted his Teachers’

Planner and register from the floor.

Snod thundered:  The bell is for me; not you lot.  I will

determine when this lesson- er-meeting is over.

Nigel blushed.

The thing is, Snod spoke decisively.  Apart from the fact that

the scansion leaves a lot to be desired, may I say that I happen

to like archaic language.  This wasn’t a question.  It gives us a sense

of tradition.  Poskett, the whole ditty is riddled with ancient second

person pronoun forms and Latinate polysyllabic verbs, to boot.  It

would be even more challenging for those parents whose education-if

we could term their studies such- took place post-Seventies. Who

nowadays has a concept of veneration?

The only Albion the masses- he did not say ‘plebs’-recognise

is a football team from Coatbridge.

And ‘Sinking ship’ I find a cliched metaphor unworthy of this school.

Poskett’s head seemed to disappear into the ghastly non-sartorial

collar space where a tie should have been.

(Snod blamed this fashion faux pas entirely on David Cameron and Nick

Clegg.)

And, since society was making inroads into the basic standards for which

St Birinus stood, the Acting Head showed a little mercy, not entirely

blaming the choirmaster for all of Britain’s ills.

Let’s put it to the vote, he declared.  Who prefers this version?

Nigel felt obliged to raise his hand feebly, out of misplaced loyalty, since

he had discussed the re-write with Geoffrey on their holiday in early

December.  He looked around furtively.  No one else had voted.

Snod looked at him in the same way that Captain Mainwaring regarded

Pike.  Only he did not say, Stupid boy!  At least not aloud.

While most of the others gently stampeded out of the staffroom, all

Poskett could do was to direct his crumpled manuscript toward the bin

in the corner.  And, at least his face was minimally saved, as the scrunched

missile met its target in one smooth and accurate trajectory.

The Sports Master, who had been impeded in his exit by a scrum, observed

this impressive hand eye co-ordination and invited him to take part in a

staff/ pupil basketball game in aid of Anacondas in Adversity.

But Geoffrey was too drained to make a commitment.

Copper-Bottomed Coffee Pot!

Tags

Birinus, copper-bottomed coffee pot, Delia, diaphragm support, low self-esteem, Martin Luther, Mary Berry, parable of wedding guests, St Jude, St Nicolas

Half-term was supposed to be relaxing, but it wasn’t for Nigel-Milford-Haven,

Junior Master at St Birinus Middle School.  He was firmly under the iron rod of

his mother, who had compelled him to complete his decoration of her Cornish

bungalow’s bathroom, with the force of the estate manager in the parable

who issued the wedding invitations that couldn’t be refused, on pain of

damnation.   Even then, those invited could and did make excuses, but this

was not a viable option for Nigel, as Judgement would have begun there and

then and the mouth of Hell would have opened on the telephone.

Nigel felt like adopting as his patron St Jude, he who supports Lost Causes,

but he could not serve two masters: he was a committed devotee of a

different saint at the moment and he could only serve one master and one

mistress at this particular time.  He had prayed to be excused, but Jude had

only confirmed that he should bend to the will of She Who Must Be Obeyed. 

Even St Birinus had been a bit of a dead loss in his experience over the term.

Nigel supposed that he ought to have been grateful to the aforementioned

one for, at least, granting him a job, but sometimes he considered it a

poisoned chalice.

As he rollered the ceiling he practised his rapid-fire delivery of consonants, to

gain fluency for his Christmas concert eponymous role in Britten’s St Nicolas.

Copper-bottomed coffee pot, he pronounced over and over again.

Copper-fottomed botty-pot!  No..

Nigel!  What are you blethering on about?

Nothing, mum.  Copper-pottomed boffy-cot!

There’s your tea.  I thought you’d have been finished by now.

Damned with no praise.  Not even the faint variety.  Nothing changed

over the years.  No wonder he had a tendency to low self-esteem, which

the boys picked up on all too easily.

He supposed it had left him with a legacy akin to humility which might help

him in the convincing portrayal of a saint.  But he bet that Nicolas had never

been so sorely tried and that he had never been cajoled into painting his

mother’s ceiling, to her exacting standard, in his well-earned school holidays.

Frankly, he thought that it had been nothing short of miraculous that he had

not tipped the paint pot over her head.  He could have explained the action

away with a reference to Martin Luther’s casting of an ink pot at a demon’s

head. Perhaps.  As it was , he was practically served up a diet of worms,

the maternal cuisine not being up to the divine Delia or the meretricious

Mary Berry.  Oh, for the canteen of St Birinus!

Only three days left and he still hadn’t conquered that tendency to go flat on a

downward phrase.  Geoffrey Poskett had kept raising his finger at him in

rehearsal, which Nigel had, at first, thought was a crude signal that something

was amiss, but which was later explained to him was the time-honoured gesture

to indicate that more diaphragm support was needed.

If only he had retained Snod’s old Panama to keep the spatters off his face,

but he despaired of ever keeping his mother out of his hair!

Transfiguration

Tags

Balaam, Birinus, Bradford on Avon, compassion, Damascene, David Cameron, epiphany, Feast of the Transfiguration, Financial Times, Fleury Abbey, lax, Loiret, Paul Gilbert, Snodbury, St Paul, Sully sur Loire, The Carpenters, The Longs Arms, The Shrink and The Sage, Weekend Magazine

Diana Fotheringay-Syylk, prematurely retired ‘Lax‘ Mistress from St Vitus’ School

For The Academically-Gifted Girl, had been trying to read The Weekend

Magazine from The Financial Times while she was being transported around the

Loiret by her local coach firm from Bradford-on-Avon.  She was staying in a 2*

hotel near Sully-sur-Loire, along with other members of her town’s Twinning

Association.

She had been allowed to bring along a ‘friend‘ and her daughter, since two

people had dropped out at the last minute and there had been seats left

vacant.

Behind Diana was her erstwhile lover, Augustus Snodbury, who was still in

educational harness, so to speak, at St Birinus Middle School.  Their daughter

Drusilla had closed her eyes, but this did not shut out the low, burring sound

which emanated from her father’s rather hairy nostrils.

And what exactly is a Lax Mistress? I hear you question, Dear Reader.

It was a trainer for a particularly vicious outdoor team game played by

innocent-looking maidens, armed with strong lobster nets on poles.

Innocent-looking, in general, but the goalies were of a different, scary

order.

Diana was trying to concentrate on her favourite The Shrink and the

Sage article.

This guide to modern dilemmas by a psychotherapist and philosopher

duo fascinated her.  Diana was looking forward to being a member of the

congregation at The Feast of the Transfiguration in Fleury Abbey and the

rhetorical question which headed the columns struck her with a force as

convincing as the Damascene beam of light which had struck St Paul and

floored him.

It read: Are we compassionate enough?

Diana had been seeking a spiritually significant experience by venturing

on this trip.  Nothing less than an epiphany would satisfy her.  She had

opened her mind and heart to receive any messages that might be

forthcoming.  But could the divine voice speak through The Financial

Times?  She then remembered Balaam’s ass and thought that all things

might be possible.

A psychologist called Paul Gilbert was being quoted as having stressed that

one must be kind to oneself, as well as to others.  He warned against two

evolution-shaped drives-firstly, the detection and subsequent escape from

danger and, secondly, the drive to acquire things we want, such as food

and sexual partners.

The article recommended a David Cameron-like state of sensing that we are

all..on this journey together.

Here Snod’s snoring seemed to rise in volume and objection.  Already she

was in danger of lapsing into compassion fatigue.

When we are irritated by others, Gilbert said, we should remember that

they are mere humans, like ourselves, who cannot help getting things

wrong sometimes.

But she didn’t snore, did she?  She would check with Drusilla later on,

since they were sharing a room.  Come to think of it, she remembered Dru

buying some ear plugs in Boots, before they set off.

Gilbert mentioned something called compassion under the duvet, which

fortunately was only a practice of reminding ourselves to be kind to others

before we climbed out of bed in the morning.

Suddenly, the scales fell from Diana’s eyes and she realised that she could

now forgive Gus for his appalling ineptitude, if not for his snoring.

He had been clumsy at their attempted reunion at The Longs Arms, but maybe

it had been down to nerves and possibly they could travel hopefully together

and arrive at the same destination one day- so long as it did not involve any

sharing of duvets, other than of the moral variety.

The Sage explained the etymology of the abstract noun, compassion.  It came

from com and pati, meaning to suffer together.

Having both taught for a number of years, they could empathise with each

others’ pain.  She determined to avail herself of any lessons that she might

be offered during the service, but she could sense that her transformation

had only just begun.  Pity that it sounded like a song from The Carpenters.

End of Term Reports

Tags

Beach Boys, Birinus, Calypso Carol, Castor and Pollux, flugelhorn, George Formby, Harriet Harman, marimba, Orwell, PHSE, ukelele

It’s that time of year again, when anxious Suttonford parents await brown

envelopes with the Xmas Letter from the Head, next year’s Calendar of School

Events AND the booklet of reports which, they hope, will validate the great

expense that they have poured into their children’s education and which will

somehow prove that a silk purse can be made out of a sow’s ear, if sufficient

funds have been cast in the right direction.  Bread has been cast on waters

which MIGHT return after many days.

It all depends, of course, on whether the precocious pupil remembers to

deliver the parentally-addressed missive from their backpack, so that an

inspection can be made regarding progress, or the lack thereof.

St Birinus Middle School                    December 2012

William Brewer-Mead (Bill)

Another hyperactive, but productive term for Bill.  His Attention Deficit

Disorder could be seen to influence his pick n’ mix engagement with

the broader curriculum.

His Geography project on sustainability lacked focus, but evidenced

the predilections of a polymath.  (Renaissance man was ever thus!)

If he could persuade himself of the value of physical stillness, he would

perform more consistently and with less impact on his peers.

Nevertheless, what was I saying?  Oh dear, I seem to forget.  Forgive

me.  It’s been a lengthy term.

A*

N. Milford-Haven.

Ferdinand Brewer-Mead  (Ferdy)

Ferdy’s PHSE essay: Ginger and Proud of It!  gave the class much to consider

regarding the school yard persecution of minorities.  His linguistic points on

gender difference: foxy lady (positive); ginger minger (pejorative) were

insightful and far-reaching. Cross-cultural relevance, an important assessment

objective, was achieved in the apposite integration of the Welsh proverb: os

bydd goch, fe fydd gythreulig.  (We will take his word on the translation.)

Political comment was pertinent regarding Harriet Harman’s cruel comments

regarding rodents.  Are rats our brothers? Orwell would have been proud of

him.

1^st for Science-well done! A*

N. M-H (PHSE Dept.)

 

John Boothroyd-Smythe

John’s George Formby impersonation at the House Evening in November

was an example of ukulele playing at its finest.  Some of the lyrics were

somewhat infused with innuendo which may have been considered

unsuitable for some of the Juniors in the audience, as one or two irate,

though perhaps narrow-minded, parents were prompt to point out.

John shines in solo work, as his 25% extra time allowance can detract

from the musical experience of other members of the school orchestra.

Science: 3^rd.  An admirable effort and a foundation which he can build

on as he contemplates future public examinations.

A*

N. M-H (Form teacher)

Castor and Pollux Willoughby- Dual report                    Dec. 2012

Always adept at blowing his own trumpet, Castor’s flugelhorn fluctuations

added a triumphalist tone to the descant of Hark! the Herald Angels Sing

at the Carols n’ Collection for this term’s chosen charity: Curs In Crisis, outside

B&Q.  He coped remarkably well when an inebriated member of the public

inconsiderately rammed a 2x roll packet of Andrex into his instrument.

Twin, Pollux, practised assiduously his marimba accompaniment to The Calypso

Carol for the Junior School Nativity play and showed that his sense of syncopation

and rhytm- (sic) is increasing.

His sporting of a Hawaiian shirt was interpreted as an attempt at ethnic

authenticity, but we beg to remind you that such garments do not conform

to our policies and regulations regarding school uniform.

PS- May I ask where one could buy one?  I am such a fan of The Beach Boys.

Thank You.

A*

Nigel Milford-Haven B.A. Hons., B.Ed.

 

His Master’s Voice

Tags

1812 Overture, Bang& Olufsen, Birinus, Christmas, chronos, David Cameron, Downton Abbey, epiphany, Gary, Hyde Park Corner, Jack Russell, kairos, Lord Soper, O Little Town of Bethlehem, Silent Night, Tony Benn

At primary school Gary had been overlooked by all and was never picked by his year group for sports teams.

His parents once forgot that he was strapped into a high chair in a pub and were half way home, in Cameron style, before they realised that he was not in their car.

It’s a problem, Janet, his father had said.  It’s not that we mean to ignore him, but he’s just so boring.

Gary’s mum and dad used to play vinyls on their teak Bang& Olufsen radiogram in the Seventies.  Gary was fascinated by the record labels and hinted that he would like a Jack Russell dog.  They indulged him as they felt guilty that he had a deeply soporific effect on them.

Then, one evening, he asked, What is that thing beside the dog?

His father looked down, having thought that the pup had committed a misdemeanour on their new swirly carpet, but it was the illustration of the hypnotic gramophone on the record label to which Gary was referring. (Note that I did not end my sentence with a preposition.  Atta-girl!)

Well, Gary had, at least been successful in acquiring half of the logo and he called the perky little pup Nipper, after the original, but his parents did not give him a gramophone. They had forgotten his stupid, boring requests and ignored them.  He started trumpet lessons instead, so that he could blow his own.  His parents gave him a mute that Christmas.

When he was in the upper school, he took History and Politics and used to go up to Hyde Park corner, stand on an upended orange box and pretend to be Tony Benn or Lord Soper.  No one took the slightest notice of him until he vented his rhetoric via a megaphone.  Oh, the power!

Highclere Castle (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

He was passed over for promotion at work and his wife told me that she preferred watching Downton Abbey to having any interface with him at the weekend.  There is nothing unusual about that, I hear you say, dear reader.  But she didn’t know what she would do when the series ended- maybe buy the boxed set?

However, as the clocks changed in the Autumn, Gary’s time arrived.  You see, Gary became the Man with the Megaphone at all municipal events, whether it be firework displays or Pre-Christmas celebrations of Santa coming to town with late night shopping in the pedestrianised streets.  No one knew who had appointed him to stage-manage and control crowds, but he was in his element, as no one in Suttonford could fail to notice him.

He gave a running commentary, stating the proverbial obvious and self-evident, all at top pitch.  He scared toddlers sleeping in their buggies and banished all avian wildlife from the local rivulets.

In good voice then, Gary? joked one of his more charitable peers.

Yes, I like to control everyone, Gary confided, but forgot that his megaphone was on maximum volume and so his wife had to shout at him to turn it down a notch.  It then emitted an ear-splitting screech like a teacher’s nail being drawn down a blackboard in the old days.

Looks like you’ve married a control freak, so that makes two of you, quipped a man standing half a mile away, but Gary’s voice was practically drowned out by the eruption of some sparkly, whizzy things that screeched like banshees. Obviously leftovers from November 5th. Then The 1812 Overture started up in a tinny sort of way and Gary was moved to exclaim:  Isn’t it exciting, kids? at a million decibels.  However, he was obliterated vocally by the cannon.

Then Santa’s reindeer arrived, wearing ear muffs and Gary took amplification revenge on the choristers from St Birinus who angelically sang Silent Night and the verse from O little Town of Bethlehem : How Silently the Wondrous Gift is Given, by bellowing for everyone to join in.

Everyone had had enough.  All the mothers shushed him in a huge stream of : Schhhhh!

And, in that magical moment when chronos time stood still and kairos time encapsulated the moment into an eternal present, Gary had an epiphany. He heard, from a distance the delicate sound of sleigh bells and he laid down his megaphone, which was immediately crushed under a reindeer hoof, and he announced, quietly and with reverence: Santa’s here!