My favourite school was the comprehensive one in Stoke. It had its fair share of weirdos - like the kid later caught on CCTV…nicking CCTV cameras from a lorry.
The teachers were on the odd side too. There was the very camp art teacher who asked me, after the first class, whether I normally wore spectacles. I knew I couldn't draw, but that was a bit much. He tested my eyesight and then suggested that 'art wasn't really for' me and excused me for the rest of my time there. Though I enjoyed textiles - I've still got the kite and shorts I made, and the scars from sewing the kite to my leg while I was putting the final touches to it. Shame he didn't let me off bloody technical drawing, woodwork and metalwork too.
Another rather wittily told my parents that my exam result 'didn't reflect the standard of [Vole's] work' - turned out I'd come 3rd rather than bottom, after handing in precisely no homework and using class time as an opportunity to hone my punning skills.
Best of all was the metalwork teacher. Always a bit handy with sharp or heavy objects and possessing the breath of Satan's goats, he eventually got a bit desperate. Disappearing from class one day, it turned out that he'd sent a note to Tesco demanding money or he'd put glass in the yogurts. The way I heard it, the court decided he was mad rather than bad, as he'd put his home address on the note, though this may be an urban myth. Still, he taught me to make a passable screwdriver, shiv and other weapons which came in very useful on the school bus (in self-defence, obviously). That scene was bad, man.
Thursday, 19 August 2010
New Sounds from North Wales
I'm currently listening to Brigyn's Brigyn 3 - a bunch of kids from North Wales who've released quite a lot in Welsh and are starting to sing in English too. They're pretty good: lots of folk, tinges of decent jazz, judicious use of electronics and a pretty clear line from Scott Walker and Tindersticks too. They're not experimental like SFA, Gorky's or Ectogram, but excellent nonetheless - think a Welsh Kings of Convenience. Not sure why they're called 'Twig' though…
Here's a couple of fairly straightforward acoustic bits.
Here's a couple of fairly straightforward acoustic bits.
The floodgates open
It's A-levels results day - and so for us at The Hegemon, it's Clearing day, when we scoop up all those unfortunate enough to have missed their predicted grades. This year, Zoot Horn is slaving over a hot phone - though it may be a quieter year than most as our numbers have been cut despite a massive upsurge of applicants.
The results show another rise in pass rates - up to 97.6, with more achieving higher grades, not that they'll be coming here. The newspapers, as predicted, will spend today and tomorrow printing pictures of posh teenage girls, while the comment pages will be filled with 'it's so dumbed-down, A-levels meant something in my day' pieces by upper-middle class privately educated people.
Frankly, I've no idea whether A-levels are easier or harder. I do know that they aren't very good preparation for university though - because teachers are having to produe statistical marvels, schools are teaching to the test, and so produce students utterly dependent on skeleton essays, model answers and the like: independent thinking and in many cases learning for pleasure are marginalised. The result is that quite a lot of people starting university aren't enthusiastic about the subject or equipped for the (theoretically) independent task of educating themselves. Instead, too many are dependent on lectures and reluctant to take risks, which is a shame. The hardest task for teachers of first-year students (sorry, now Level 4 for some reason) is to communicate a sense of the fun and wonder available for those who wander off the beaten track.
Anyway. Time for a flashback to Clearing Day 1993. I'm at home, staring at my A-levels results. I'm not exactly overjoyed, but not too surprised either. The family isn't too shocked, but that's because my headmaster and I agreed on just one thing: that I was rubbish and wouldn't do very well. I found this out when I was interviewed by a very kind man at Derby University. After a long chat about books lubricated by the gin and tonic my aunt had fed me at lunch beforehand, he said to me 'Well, we'll definitely offer you a place but I'm sure you'll get better grades than your head claims, and go somewhere else, and you're nothing like he says'. Emboldened, I asked what else the august clergyman had written: he'd basically claimed that I was a troublemaker who didn't deserve a place at any university. He was a notorious bully and I made a point of redoubling my efforts to annoy him for the rest of my time there. He's dead now, so I win.
So, it was back to school, where my teachers (a brilliant trio fo eccentrics) wrote to all the places to which I'd applied with an alternative reference. Then it was all down to me. Which is where the plan hit a slight snag, because basically I was a dumb-ass at this point, and a dumb-ass doing the wrong A-levels. English was fine - all I ever wanted to do was read books and talk about them, so that wasn't a problem.
French would be OK too. I'd taken it because at GCSE level, I was predicted a fail, so as a joke, I said 'If I get an A, I'll do it for A-level'. As intended, my teacher and the rest of the class fell about laughing. They weren't laughing when the A duly arrived. A-level French was brilliant - odd books, great films, good food and talk from my 60s survivor teacher. Unfortunately, I have a talent for self-destruction, and misunderstood the exam paper and dropped an entire grade by answering two questions from the same section rather than one from each. Like I say, dumb-ass.
The real problem was Latin. I'd transferred to this school fairly late, and parental interfering meant that I took Latin without any enthusiasm or knowledge. The teacher was a nice man, but didn't actually bother doing any, well, teaching. So I learned literally nothing: revision consisted of me trying to memorise the English translation and the first and last words of each paragraph in Latin in the hope that I could churn it out. Needless to say, it didn't work. Nor did my repeated attempts to tell people that I didn't know any Latin and really needed help.
So along came results day, and the scores were as I'd expected. A in English, no A in French thanks to my own stupidity, and an embarrassing Latin grade, upgraded on appeal to a merely 'awful'. There was a silver lining, however. The school and parents had insisted that I apply to a lot of places I didn't want to attend: Cambridge, Durham, St. Andrews: the first two had already thankfully told me to piss off, and I'd missed the grades for St. Andrews, which was and is a finishing school for the Conservative Party's young fogey golf-playing children.
I had one ace up my sleeve: I'd scraped through an audition for Trinity College Dublin's Drama and Theatre course, but for various complicated reasons that didn't come off either. So Clearing Day saw me sitting by the phone wondering what grades were needed for turf-cutting or postal worker. Then a softly spoken Scotsman called, from Bangor University. We discussed why I'd arsed things up so badly, chatted about books for a few minutes and the call ended with me assured of a place and full of affection for the Kindest Man In The World. Now all I had to do was work out where Bangor was.
Bangor suited me perfectly: the best of friends, a great quality of education, mountains, sea, a thriving students union, the best record shop ever, plenty of trouble to get involved in and everything worked out brilliantly, unless you blame them for my present location…
Clearing might be the making of you - a new path, unplanned and unexpected, leading to wonderful things.
The results show another rise in pass rates - up to 97.6, with more achieving higher grades, not that they'll be coming here. The newspapers, as predicted, will spend today and tomorrow printing pictures of posh teenage girls, while the comment pages will be filled with 'it's so dumbed-down, A-levels meant something in my day' pieces by upper-middle class privately educated people.
Frankly, I've no idea whether A-levels are easier or harder. I do know that they aren't very good preparation for university though - because teachers are having to produe statistical marvels, schools are teaching to the test, and so produce students utterly dependent on skeleton essays, model answers and the like: independent thinking and in many cases learning for pleasure are marginalised. The result is that quite a lot of people starting university aren't enthusiastic about the subject or equipped for the (theoretically) independent task of educating themselves. Instead, too many are dependent on lectures and reluctant to take risks, which is a shame. The hardest task for teachers of first-year students (sorry, now Level 4 for some reason) is to communicate a sense of the fun and wonder available for those who wander off the beaten track.
Anyway. Time for a flashback to Clearing Day 1993. I'm at home, staring at my A-levels results. I'm not exactly overjoyed, but not too surprised either. The family isn't too shocked, but that's because my headmaster and I agreed on just one thing: that I was rubbish and wouldn't do very well. I found this out when I was interviewed by a very kind man at Derby University. After a long chat about books lubricated by the gin and tonic my aunt had fed me at lunch beforehand, he said to me 'Well, we'll definitely offer you a place but I'm sure you'll get better grades than your head claims, and go somewhere else, and you're nothing like he says'. Emboldened, I asked what else the august clergyman had written: he'd basically claimed that I was a troublemaker who didn't deserve a place at any university. He was a notorious bully and I made a point of redoubling my efforts to annoy him for the rest of my time there. He's dead now, so I win.
So, it was back to school, where my teachers (a brilliant trio fo eccentrics) wrote to all the places to which I'd applied with an alternative reference. Then it was all down to me. Which is where the plan hit a slight snag, because basically I was a dumb-ass at this point, and a dumb-ass doing the wrong A-levels. English was fine - all I ever wanted to do was read books and talk about them, so that wasn't a problem.
French would be OK too. I'd taken it because at GCSE level, I was predicted a fail, so as a joke, I said 'If I get an A, I'll do it for A-level'. As intended, my teacher and the rest of the class fell about laughing. They weren't laughing when the A duly arrived. A-level French was brilliant - odd books, great films, good food and talk from my 60s survivor teacher. Unfortunately, I have a talent for self-destruction, and misunderstood the exam paper and dropped an entire grade by answering two questions from the same section rather than one from each. Like I say, dumb-ass.
The real problem was Latin. I'd transferred to this school fairly late, and parental interfering meant that I took Latin without any enthusiasm or knowledge. The teacher was a nice man, but didn't actually bother doing any, well, teaching. So I learned literally nothing: revision consisted of me trying to memorise the English translation and the first and last words of each paragraph in Latin in the hope that I could churn it out. Needless to say, it didn't work. Nor did my repeated attempts to tell people that I didn't know any Latin and really needed help.
So along came results day, and the scores were as I'd expected. A in English, no A in French thanks to my own stupidity, and an embarrassing Latin grade, upgraded on appeal to a merely 'awful'. There was a silver lining, however. The school and parents had insisted that I apply to a lot of places I didn't want to attend: Cambridge, Durham, St. Andrews: the first two had already thankfully told me to piss off, and I'd missed the grades for St. Andrews, which was and is a finishing school for the Conservative Party's young fogey golf-playing children.
I had one ace up my sleeve: I'd scraped through an audition for Trinity College Dublin's Drama and Theatre course, but for various complicated reasons that didn't come off either. So Clearing Day saw me sitting by the phone wondering what grades were needed for turf-cutting or postal worker. Then a softly spoken Scotsman called, from Bangor University. We discussed why I'd arsed things up so badly, chatted about books for a few minutes and the call ended with me assured of a place and full of affection for the Kindest Man In The World. Now all I had to do was work out where Bangor was.
Bangor suited me perfectly: the best of friends, a great quality of education, mountains, sea, a thriving students union, the best record shop ever, plenty of trouble to get involved in and everything worked out brilliantly, unless you blame them for my present location…
Clearing might be the making of you - a new path, unplanned and unexpected, leading to wonderful things.
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
RIP Frank Kermode
It's difficult to get much work done, what with England wickets falling every twelve seconds. I do want to note Frank Kermode's passing though.
He was, until yesterday when he died at 90 years old, one of the most prominent and interesting British literary critics of the twentieth century. Never the most innovative personally, he was one of the very first to take continental literary criticism and theory seriously, introducing English speakers to deconstruction, psychoanalysis and post-structuralism at a time when British criticism seemed to be based on rudely rejecting any new ideas by Johnny Foreigner. His work was always thoughtful and he was a beautiful prose stylist.
He was also one of the last big generalists - while Shakespeare was his primary focus, he wrote on every period and genre of literature.
If a student asked me for a good starting point in literary criticism - which hasn't happened yet - I'd point them in Kermode's direction.
He was, until yesterday when he died at 90 years old, one of the most prominent and interesting British literary critics of the twentieth century. Never the most innovative personally, he was one of the very first to take continental literary criticism and theory seriously, introducing English speakers to deconstruction, psychoanalysis and post-structuralism at a time when British criticism seemed to be based on rudely rejecting any new ideas by Johnny Foreigner. His work was always thoughtful and he was a beautiful prose stylist.
He was also one of the last big generalists - while Shakespeare was his primary focus, he wrote on every period and genre of literature.
If a student asked me for a good starting point in literary criticism - which hasn't happened yet - I'd point them in Kermode's direction.
Massacre at the crease
It's the third 'England'-Pakistan Test match today. England destroyed the Pakistanis in the first two, but it's the other way round today: after 16 overs, England are 47-4, thanks to the efforts of their tricky bowlers.
Follow it live here.
Follow it live here.
What happens when the Silly Season and the Electoral Cycle meet?
You get Texas Republicans (yes, elected national politicians) saying very stupid things
I quite like the idea of 'terror babies'. Perhaps they'll be this Christmas's smash hit. Bearded dolls with plastic explosive disguised as pooh in their nappies. Push a button and they say 'Die infidel' and then cry tears… of blood!
The news is getting terribly Chris Morris at the moment.
Texas lawmaker Debbie Riddle is claiming that her former FBI sources say that pregnant immigrants are entering the United States to have babies for an elaborate terror plot.
Republican Debbie Riddle discussed a supposed new terror plot that has created a new term 'terror babies'. According to Rep. Riddle, pregnant women are entering the United States and giving birth to children. They then take this child, now a U.S. citizen, back to their home country and then raise them to become a terrorist. All this work, in the hopes that they will enter the United States and execute a terrorist attack.and then objecting when people ask for detail:
"They did not tell me that you were going to grill me for this specific information that I was not ready to give to you tonight."
-- TX Rep. Debbie Riddle, upset with Anderson Cooper for pressing her on the claim that "terror babies" existDepressingly, it's actually a plot to remove automatic American citizenship for anyone born in the US - particularly Mexicans, hence the frequent references to 'our Southern border'. It's well worth watching the whole thing.
I quite like the idea of 'terror babies'. Perhaps they'll be this Christmas's smash hit. Bearded dolls with plastic explosive disguised as pooh in their nappies. Push a button and they say 'Die infidel' and then cry tears… of blood!
The news is getting terribly Chris Morris at the moment.
Save the world, have a dram
I always knew that strong drink was the answer to all our problems. Some Scottish scientists have come up with a biofuel that's 30% more efficient than existing ones, made solely from the waste products of the whisky industry - meaning that you won't need to grow fuel crops instead of food. And the air will smell wonderful.
Using samples from the Glenkinchie Distillery in East Lothian, researchers at Edinburgh Napier University have developed a method of producing biofuel from two main by-products of the whisky distilling process – "pot ale", the liquid from the copper stills, and "draff", the spent grains.
Copious quantities of both waste products are produced by the £4bn whisky industry each year, and the scientists say there is real potential for the biofuel, to be available at local garage forecourts alongside traditional fuels. It can be used in conventional cars without adapting their engines. The team also said it could be used to fuel planes and as the basis for chemicals such as acetone, an important solvent.
The new method developed by the team produces butanol, which gives 30% more power output than the traditional biofuel ethanol.
Like… just… like… wow
You may or may not be aware of the existence of Justin Bieber. Exploding from Canada (also responsible for Celine Dion and Queensryche, in case you're thinking of a UN tribunal), he's the latest teenaged product of the conveyor belt pop industry and he is massively popular.
He sounds like this, unfortunately,
Unless you slow him down 800 times, in which case you get this rather magnificent Sigur Ros style ambient epic, lasting half an hour in the majestic full version.
He sounds like this, unfortunately,
Unless you slow him down 800 times, in which case you get this rather magnificent Sigur Ros style ambient epic, lasting half an hour in the majestic full version.
Must eat…
They've now painted my floor pink. Like a veal chop. Or human flesh. Between that and the Cadbury's Chocolate colour of the ground floor, I think about food from the moment I get to work, which isn't good for a fat bastard such as myself.
I was effortlessly put down in the pool today. I managed my 60 lengths in a decent enough time, and apologised to the lady with whom I shared the lane for drifting over. As we chatted, she mentioned that she'd 'only' done 160 lengths but was getting bored. I resisted the temptation to hold her head under the water, largely because she could probably hold her breath for longer than it would take me to weaken.
I was effortlessly put down in the pool today. I managed my 60 lengths in a decent enough time, and apologised to the lady with whom I shared the lane for drifting over. As we chatted, she mentioned that she'd 'only' done 160 lengths but was getting bored. I resisted the temptation to hold her head under the water, largely because she could probably hold her breath for longer than it would take me to weaken.
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
A question for you
My friends from The Dark Place claim that there was a TV sitcom set in a Dark Place truckstop. The hilarious comedy stemmed from the two main characters - long distance lorry drivers - telling each other about the woman they were having affairs with, little realising that each was talking about the other one's wife!!!!!! ROFL LOL etc.
What was it called? Anyone seen it? It can't be as unfunny as Friends or Dharma and Greg anyway.
Update: I've found it. It was called Dogfood Dan and the Carmarthen Cowboy. It sounds utterly execrable. Did you watch it? I'd love to show you some, but apparently there are limits even to the rubbish Youtube hosts:
So in its place, here's a highly appropriate clip from Porridge, the 1970s prison comedy.
What was it called? Anyone seen it? It can't be as unfunny as Friends or Dharma and Greg anyway.
Update: I've found it. It was called Dogfood Dan and the Carmarthen Cowboy. It sounds utterly execrable. Did you watch it? I'd love to show you some, but apparently there are limits even to the rubbish Youtube hosts:
No videos found for “dogfood dan and the carmarthen cowboy”
Dogfood Dan and the Carmarthen Cowboy: Growing out of a single Yorkshire TV production in 1982 (screened in the series ITV Playhouse) and appearing as a one-series sitcom on the BBC six years later, Dogfood Dan And The Carmarthen Cowboy was a tale of two long-distance dogfood-carrying lorry drivers who, to the other's ignorance, are each having affairs with the other's wife. Although the men meet up on the road, exchange stories of their sexual escapades, and often talk to their wives about their travelling friend, the lies they spin and the false names they invent mean that neither the husbands nor the wives cotton on to the convoluted situation. Aubrey Owen likes to pass himself off as an MP, 'Aneurin', during his visits with Helen, while Dan claims he is carrying top secret 'abnormal' loads when pursuing the passionate Gwyneth. (Myfanwy in the 1982 version.) This was a complex, farcical idea from the ever-interesting David Nobbs, which employed sufficient detours and U-turns to make the extension from play to sitcom worthwhile.
So in its place, here's a highly appropriate clip from Porridge, the 1970s prison comedy.
The epitome of deadpan
I don't know if you're familiar with Michael Redmond - perhaps you remember his appearance as monosyllabic Father Stone in Father Ted. He's a great stand-up, and the subject of Stewart Lee's rant about plagiarism: Joe Pasquale stole one of Redmond's jokes and managed to make it unfunny.
Dr Who… and more to the point, WHY?
I make no further comment, except that surely Dr. Who should be allowed to remain innocent. I wonder what the BBC's lawyers would make of this: Dr Who Burlesque.
From the Department of You Couldn't Make It Up
George Osborne today defended the coalition government's planned spending cuts, claiming they would help create a more progressive societyHousing, welfare and unemployment benefits down, child savings fund abolished, sales taxes up, corporate taxes lowered, spending on nuclear weapons increased to £20 billion. Civil servants sacked by the tens of thousands, including those charged with chasing rich tax evaders. Philip Green, billionaire tax avoider and tax exile hired by the government. University entrance cut, bankers bonuses up.
and that income distribution was not the only measure of fairness.
"Progressiveness and fairness ... operate on a couple of levels," he told BBC Radio 4's Today programme. "Obviously, there's income distribution ... but also it operates on other levels: intergenerational fairness ... equality of opportunity ... and social mobility, making sure people have access to the best education whatever their background."
Said the St. Paul's School (£27,000 per year: median salary for UK workers in 2009: £21,000) and Oxford educated Bullingdon Club member multimillionaire (inherited: he's never had a proper job outside politics) expenses cheat.
Oh yes, and he's going to be a Baronet when daddy dies.
I told you. Tory Scum.
Uppalive and well!
Comrades, you will not believe it. I myself was so stunned by today's momentous event that I spent the morning lying in bed, believing myself to be dreaming.
The sky has fallen, the End Times have come, the Rapture is upon us: Paul Uppal MP, after a mere 3 and a half months, has answered a letter. More than that, he's sort of answered two letters.
Now, I don't want to get your hopes up. This isn't one of those 'answer all your questions in a spirit of openness and debate letters'. It's more a 'this is my legal duty letters and I'm not going to talk policy letters'. But it's a letter. From a Tory MP. So I put on my gloves.
What does he say?
Odd. I've never mentioned to him that I was frustrated. Looks like Paul - despite not having any kind of online presence more recent than May 2009 - is a Plashing Vole reader. Stick with us matey, it'll be educational. Still, at least he hasn't claimed pressure of work.
Surgeries were held in the basement, behind a locked door marked 'beware of the leopard'. And oh yes, the lights and stairs have gone (to steal from Douglas Adams). Obviously I await the website with bated (yes, that's how you spell it) breath and will bring it to Vole-readers' attention.
Ah. We're into the meat, from my second letter. And oh dear, Paul and I are going to have a little falling out over this. Firstly, I didn't ask him to spout the Party line. I asked him a very specific question, which was why he voted against allowing the parents at schools to have a referendum or consultation about whether or not their schools should declare independence from local authorities, and another about how democratic, empowering or 'Big Society' it is to allow 2 people to make the decision: the Head and the Secretary of State for Education. You'll notice Paul's played the classic politician's trick of answering a question I didn't ask, while ignoring the one that I did ask (it's a good one for essay-writing too: if you don't know the answer, redefine the question as one to which you do know the solution).
Now listen up, Pauly. It's a bit embarrassing that I'm having to lecture an MP about democracy, but this is the position in which I find myself. You're a politician. So's the Secretary of State. Are you proposing to abolish yourself? I don't think so. What you mean by 'politicians' is the other lot: the opposition, and especially local government. Which kind of disappoints me, because local government is a lot more democratic than you. We have a lot of elected councillors, and they represent very small areas - a few streets, a few hundred people at most - so if they arse things up, it doesn't take much to get rid of them. They're also much, much more closely informed about the situation on the ground.
What you're trying to do is remove any local, democratic and informed decisions about local schools provision. Instead, you've got this vision of an unelected headteacher making decisions entirely on his or her own without reference to what the local community needs or wants. Perhaps the principal is a fundamentalist of some kind, or not religious enough for the community: under your system, he's the King of the Hill and everyone else, including the pupils' parents can sod off. Is that right? I don't think so. Perhaps I'll apply to start my own 'free' school: the Peter Kropotkin Academy of Atheist Anarchist-Marxism and we'll see how 'hands-off' this government really is.
More prosaically, dumping local government oversight means that he has to acquire the skills and time to hire his own staff, his own lawyers, his own kitchen crew, his own lollipop ladies, negotiate supply contracts, engage builders and architects and maintenance workers etc. etc. etc., whereas a local education authority can do all this professionally, honestly and efficiently, thanks to economies of scale. But of course, to you, these people are just bureaucrats, not hardworking, dedicated and locally accountable civil servants doing their best for the communities in which they live. And let's not forget that these teachers you want to liberate are the communist subversives you spent the 80s trying to crush. Where's the evidence that local government - and not central planning from the Department for Education has 'held them back'?
Unless, of course, your dirty little plan is just to get corporations to run schools under contract, and therefore divert taxpayers' money into the shareholders pockets: shareholders based anywhere around the globe, who have no concern for the good of the local community. It is, isn't it? Ooh Paul, you are naughty, but we like you. There's always an angle, isn't there?
Anyway, moving on:
Regarding your request for biographical details; I was started my education at Harborne Hill state School
Careful now. Syntax and capitalisation are starting to fray a little. I'd avoid Harborne if I were you, readers.
Does that mean you graduated Paul? It's a little opaque to me.
Now that's more like it. It sounds very impressive, if a little vague. It's a shame you haven't felt able to name these businesses, because that makes it much harder to check them out, but I'm sure I'll manage. There's certainly a rich seam to be mined there. I wonder how successful they were, whether the accounts were filed properly and so on, and whether they're still going. The Register of Members' Interests is going to be fascinating.
Seems reasonable not to move the kids, especially as Wolverhampton was only his second choice of seat - he lost a Birmingham seat in the previous election - and a marginal one at that. I wonder why he owns a house here then: perhaps it's an investment property, and I'm sure he'll declare it fully when the time comes. Wolves season ticket holder since 2007: I wonder if that's the same 2007 during which he sought to become a Conservative Party candidate here. Finally, I do worry about Mr U's secretarial skills - prepositions and full stops are a bit awry here. Perhaps Warwick University isn't all it's cracked up to be.
So there we have it. A real-life, honest-to-goodness letter from a Tory MP, only 14 weeks after he received mine. A treasure-trove of evasiveness and party-line nonsense, but a reply nonetheless.
Paul Uppal MP: I salute you and reward you the Order of the Vole, 3rd Class.
The sky has fallen, the End Times have come, the Rapture is upon us: Paul Uppal MP, after a mere 3 and a half months, has answered a letter. More than that, he's sort of answered two letters.
Now, I don't want to get your hopes up. This isn't one of those 'answer all your questions in a spirit of openness and debate letters'. It's more a 'this is my legal duty letters and I'm not going to talk policy letters'. But it's a letter. From a Tory MP. So I put on my gloves.
What does he say?
Thank you for contacting me to congratulate me on my election as a new Member of Parliament. I cannot emphasise how sorry I am for the delay in getting back to you. I understand your frustration at not receiving a response sooner.
Odd. I've never mentioned to him that I was frustrated. Looks like Paul - despite not having any kind of online presence more recent than May 2009 - is a Plashing Vole reader. Stick with us matey, it'll be educational. Still, at least he hasn't claimed pressure of work.
I have been having fortnightly surgeries at the Civic Centre which have proved to be popular and constructive. I have now set up a constituency office and will be advertising upcoming surgeries through a new website which will be launched in the near future.
Surgeries were held in the basement, behind a locked door marked 'beware of the leopard'. And oh yes, the lights and stairs have gone (to steal from Douglas Adams). Obviously I await the website with bated (yes, that's how you spell it) breath and will bring it to Vole-readers' attention.
I further appreciate your concerns about the Government extending the Academies Programme. The purpose of the legislation is to end the culture where politicians and bureaucrats tells schools what to do and instead we put the teachers and heads in the driving seat. It will be for heads to decide whether or not they want to take up these freedoms and to liberate themselves from some of the bureaucracy that's held them back in the past.
Ah. We're into the meat, from my second letter. And oh dear, Paul and I are going to have a little falling out over this. Firstly, I didn't ask him to spout the Party line. I asked him a very specific question, which was why he voted against allowing the parents at schools to have a referendum or consultation about whether or not their schools should declare independence from local authorities, and another about how democratic, empowering or 'Big Society' it is to allow 2 people to make the decision: the Head and the Secretary of State for Education. You'll notice Paul's played the classic politician's trick of answering a question I didn't ask, while ignoring the one that I did ask (it's a good one for essay-writing too: if you don't know the answer, redefine the question as one to which you do know the solution).
Now listen up, Pauly. It's a bit embarrassing that I'm having to lecture an MP about democracy, but this is the position in which I find myself. You're a politician. So's the Secretary of State. Are you proposing to abolish yourself? I don't think so. What you mean by 'politicians' is the other lot: the opposition, and especially local government. Which kind of disappoints me, because local government is a lot more democratic than you. We have a lot of elected councillors, and they represent very small areas - a few streets, a few hundred people at most - so if they arse things up, it doesn't take much to get rid of them. They're also much, much more closely informed about the situation on the ground.
What you're trying to do is remove any local, democratic and informed decisions about local schools provision. Instead, you've got this vision of an unelected headteacher making decisions entirely on his or her own without reference to what the local community needs or wants. Perhaps the principal is a fundamentalist of some kind, or not religious enough for the community: under your system, he's the King of the Hill and everyone else, including the pupils' parents can sod off. Is that right? I don't think so. Perhaps I'll apply to start my own 'free' school: the Peter Kropotkin Academy of Atheist Anarchist-Marxism and we'll see how 'hands-off' this government really is.
More prosaically, dumping local government oversight means that he has to acquire the skills and time to hire his own staff, his own lawyers, his own kitchen crew, his own lollipop ladies, negotiate supply contracts, engage builders and architects and maintenance workers etc. etc. etc., whereas a local education authority can do all this professionally, honestly and efficiently, thanks to economies of scale. But of course, to you, these people are just bureaucrats, not hardworking, dedicated and locally accountable civil servants doing their best for the communities in which they live. And let's not forget that these teachers you want to liberate are the communist subversives you spent the 80s trying to crush. Where's the evidence that local government - and not central planning from the Department for Education has 'held them back'?
Unless, of course, your dirty little plan is just to get corporations to run schools under contract, and therefore divert taxpayers' money into the shareholders pockets: shareholders based anywhere around the globe, who have no concern for the good of the local community. It is, isn't it? Ooh Paul, you are naughty, but we like you. There's always an angle, isn't there?
Anyway, moving on:
Regarding your request for biographical details; I was started my education at Harborne Hill state School
Careful now. Syntax and capitalisation are starting to fray a little. I'd avoid Harborne if I were you, readers.
then moving on to Matthew Boulton Technical College and finishing my studies at Warwick University.
Does that mean you graduated Paul? It's a little opaque to me.
After leaving University I have run my own businesses involved in managing, constructing and investing in commercial property. These businesses operated in the UK, US and India.
Now that's more like it. It sounds very impressive, if a little vague. It's a shame you haven't felt able to name these businesses, because that makes it much harder to check them out, but I'm sure I'll manage. There's certainly a rich seam to be mined there. I wonder how successful they were, whether the accounts were filed properly and so on, and whether they're still going. The Register of Members' Interests is going to be fascinating.
I own a house in the constituency but I have lived in Halesowen for over twenty years. Currently my children are at school there and I hope you can understand I do not wish to disturb this crucial time in their development.
I have been a keen supporter of Wolverhampton Wanderers visiting to the Molineux regularly since 2002 and I have been a season ticket holder since 2007 Finally I have only been a member of the Conservative Part nor have I held any other political positions.
Seems reasonable not to move the kids, especially as Wolverhampton was only his second choice of seat - he lost a Birmingham seat in the previous election - and a marginal one at that. I wonder why he owns a house here then: perhaps it's an investment property, and I'm sure he'll declare it fully when the time comes. Wolves season ticket holder since 2007: I wonder if that's the same 2007 during which he sought to become a Conservative Party candidate here. Finally, I do worry about Mr U's secretarial skills - prepositions and full stops are a bit awry here. Perhaps Warwick University isn't all it's cracked up to be.
So there we have it. A real-life, honest-to-goodness letter from a Tory MP, only 14 weeks after he received mine. A treasure-trove of evasiveness and party-line nonsense, but a reply nonetheless.
Paul Uppal MP: I salute you and reward you the Order of the Vole, 3rd Class.
Monday, 16 August 2010
Random round-up
I got Cerys Matthew's CD of Welsh folk standards today, Tir. It's very good. I also got a copy of Breaking Away, my favourite film when I was a teen. It's what got me into cycling - a classic tale of an American small-town boy who becomes obsessed with race cycling to the extent that he adopts an Italian accent to emulate his heroes. Having been treated shoddily by them in a race, he forms a team of working-class locals to beat those snobs up at the university. Highly recommended.
Talking of cycling, there's a job going for you ladies. Not a very progressive one, I should point out:
Talking of cycling, there's a job going for you ladies. Not a very progressive one, I should point out:
Happy news for women looking to break into the male dominated world of cycle racing: the Tour of Britain, our island's humble version of the Gallic road race, is looking for a woman to take part.
The bad news is that the chosen lady will not be giving the gents what-for on her bicycle, but looking pretty on the podium, kissing the sweaty cheek of whichever man win's the day's stage.
For the princely sum of £50 per eight-hour day (plus accommodation and expenses), you could become a "presentation hostess" for the eight-day men-only race, which starts in Rochdale on 11 September.
What is crushingly depressing is that the hostesses (known widely as podium girls and festishised all over the internet) tend to be top cyclists themselves. The "winner" will join Lauren Bason, who rides for Wolverhampton Wheelers, on the podium. And at this year's Tour de France, Claire Pedrono, cycling champion of Brittany, was given the "honour" or holding up the chalkboard with the information about the riders' times.
Alastair Grant, the Tour's commercial manager, doesn't think so. "It's very much part of the history and culture of cycling - for better or worse - that there are presentation hostesses involved in the podium presentations at the end of the stage. Their role is not to stand there and look pretty by any means; they are there to coordinate the activity that goes on. They will be bringing our VIP dignitaries on the stage, handing the trophies to them to hand to the cyclists, they help the riders to put the presentation jerseys on."
If you want the very important job of helping grown men put their jumpers on, email kathryn@thetour.co.uk
Another week, another disappointment
I'm used to not getting birthday and Christmas cards, even from close family. After all, it's not a legal requirement.
Sadly, I'm getting used to being spurned by Paul Uppal MP, who still hasn't replied to a polite letter (May 6th) and another one a couple of months ago on a different subject.
The difference between my dear old mum and Paul Uppal is that he is legally required to reply - he's my Member of Parliament. Quite what he's up to, I'm not sure. He certainly isn't busy running constituency surgeries, joining committees or asking written questions of ministers, that's for sure. Has anyone seen him? Apart, that is, from the property industry, whose views he is far more interested in hearing than those of any of his constituents (though obviously this is nothing to do with his own commercial interests, no no no).
Come on Paul. Hounding you week after week hurts me than it hurts you. You can end it all with a short note, fulfilling your legal duty. Or, we can go through this every single week until you lose the election in 4 and a half years. It's up to you.
Sadly, I'm getting used to being spurned by Paul Uppal MP, who still hasn't replied to a polite letter (May 6th) and another one a couple of months ago on a different subject.
The difference between my dear old mum and Paul Uppal is that he is legally required to reply - he's my Member of Parliament. Quite what he's up to, I'm not sure. He certainly isn't busy running constituency surgeries, joining committees or asking written questions of ministers, that's for sure. Has anyone seen him? Apart, that is, from the property industry, whose views he is far more interested in hearing than those of any of his constituents (though obviously this is nothing to do with his own commercial interests, no no no).
Come on Paul. Hounding you week after week hurts me than it hurts you. You can end it all with a short note, fulfilling your legal duty. Or, we can go through this every single week until you lose the election in 4 and a half years. It's up to you.
Stinking Lying Tory Scum
David Cameron, 14th May, 2010:
"I want this to be the greenest government ever" (with video).
"There is a fourth minister in this department who cares passionately about this agenda and that is me, the prime minister, right. I mean that from the bottom of my heart."
Cameron used the four-minute speech to formally announce the coalition's pledge to cut carbon emissions by 10% in the first 12 months. He said this would be helped by a new innovation to publish the energy being used by government departments in real time. "This is transparency in action to drive forward the cuts in carbon emissions. It's a new way of doing climate change, it's a new way of doing politics, it's in the spirit of our age and I think it will make a very big difference," he said.
Caroline Spelman, Environment Secretary, 20th May 2010:
"It will be the greenest Government we have ever had,"
George Osborne, Chancellor, July 2008
"This will be the greenest government ever".
16th August 2010:
The coalition is watering down a commitment to tough new environmental emissions standards, raising the possibility of dirty coal-fired power stations such as Kingsnorth going ahead.
Green groups are aghast that a flagship policy called for in opposition by both Lib Dems and Tories, and which they last year tried to force on the Labour government, will now not be implemented in the coalition's first energy bill to be published this year.
Introducing a so-called "environmental performance standard" (EPS) for power companies would have restricted greenhouse gas emissions from coal and gas plants and encouraged companies wishing to build to use more efficient technology.
The introduction of an EPS was personally championed by David Cameron, George Osborne and Nick Clegg when in opposition; their opposition to Kingsnorth became something of a cause c̩l̬bre Рand even features in the coalition agreement Рbut was opposed by energy companies and Tory backbenchers.
These pollution restrictions were promised by both the Conservatives and the Liberal Democrats. They were inserted into a Labour Government energy bill by the Tories as an amendment. They were written into the coalition agreement between the Tories and the Liberal Democrats.
Now they've been dumped the minute the lobbyists get through the doors. I'm getting used to the relentless contempt for the poor, the young and the regional, but I'm still shocked by the naked dishonesty of these bastards. I'm already despondent about our pathetic response to climate change, but now I'm boilingly angry.
Oh yes, and they're planning to sell our nature reserves and reduce environmental protection too…
Oh yes, and they're planning to sell our nature reserves and reduce environmental protection too…
Cue the usual pictures of fruity teenage girls…
Yes, it's A-level results week, the favourite time of year for posh newspapers. Not only can they bemoan the degraded state of the educational system if they're Conservative ('everybody gets an A* now, not like in my day when we had to recite Latin verbs while bog-snorkelling in full Cadet uniform merely for a D') or cheer the triumph of the comprehensive system if they're 'liberal' ('My daughter Proletaria got 12 As despite being disembowelled daily by the rough kids in her East London workhouse'), they all get to decorate the front page - and the following 6 pages - with bright pictures of nubile teenage girls opening their results letter, which pleases everyone, I'm sure you'll agree. Especially ageing paedophiles.
Comedian Robert Webb celebrates his victory in getting to Cambridge from a state school, in this lovely piece drawn to my attention by Adam.
Interestingly, Webb's comedy partner, Mitchell, went to a fee-paying school, and is presumably the target of this little wind-up.
I went to all the types of school there are, through the simple means of being quite rubbish at basically everything (4% in a maths exam was a particularly high point). I can confidently say that the state school I went to (St. John Fisher, Newcastle-under-Lyme) was both the least violent and most academic of the lot. Though Set 3 Maths class could be a bit lively, and we did spend metalwork making weaponry, including a fearsome throwing star which I very much regret losing.
Comedian Robert Webb celebrates his victory in getting to Cambridge from a state school, in this lovely piece drawn to my attention by Adam.
I can also sense the phrase “bright kids from working-class backgrounds” is about to be dragged out of the cupboard under the stairs, like a plastic Christmas tree with a wonky stand. Who are these kids? Have you met one? The only one I know is me. As an authority on the subject, I can relate that what “bright kids from working-class backgrounds” need to do is a) have a luckily stable home life, b) be phenomenally lucky with their state school, c) work hard, d) stay awake in the interview and e) be lucky.
The trouble with showing off about the “journey” from watching Blind Date and having ice on the inside of your bedroom window to Robinson College (also responsible for Nick Clegg – sorry) is that it irritates your privately educated friends. They suspect that you’re quietly going around believing that your achievement in getting into a good university is somehow greater than theirs.
In this suspicion they are, of course, dead right. Hell hath no smugness like a grammar school boy come good.
Interestingly, Webb's comedy partner, Mitchell, went to a fee-paying school, and is presumably the target of this little wind-up.
I went to all the types of school there are, through the simple means of being quite rubbish at basically everything (4% in a maths exam was a particularly high point). I can confidently say that the state school I went to (St. John Fisher, Newcastle-under-Lyme) was both the least violent and most academic of the lot. Though Set 3 Maths class could be a bit lively, and we did spend metalwork making weaponry, including a fearsome throwing star which I very much regret losing.
Saturday, 14 August 2010
Coom on down!
A few more from Coomasaharn lake. But still no rock art. Rest here, or click on these for larger versions.
Looking toward Glenbeigh and the Dingle peninsula
Yet more montbretia
I'm lichen this.
All farms must have outside baths. It's a little-known EU Common Agricultural Policy requirement.
I found a beautifully rusted bike and plough on a wall - follow the link for more pictures.
Up where the air is clear
After the madness of Puck Fair, we headed to a mountain lake to search for prehistoric rock art, which abounds in these parts.
Did we find any?
No, we bloody didn't. But we did wander round Coomasaharn Lake, which is beautiful: icy, forbidding and dark one minute, sunny and warm the next (as they say in Kerry, if you don't like the weather, come back in 15 minutes - I travelled with waterproofs and Factor 50).
The place was full of rocks, montbretia and fuschia making the hedges walls of bright colour, rusty farm equipment of the kind I love - a Welsh farmer poet once told me that Welsh farms only produce two things: shit and scrap - and abandoned Famine cottages everywhere you look. The clean air encourages mosses and lichens, and the views over to the next peninsula are amazing. The rest of the pictures are here (including those of the Lamborghini sitting outside a farmer's cottage) but here are a few samples. Best viewed in full-screen by clicking on them.
Did we find any?
No, we bloody didn't. But we did wander round Coomasaharn Lake, which is beautiful: icy, forbidding and dark one minute, sunny and warm the next (as they say in Kerry, if you don't like the weather, come back in 15 minutes - I travelled with waterproofs and Factor 50).
The place was full of rocks, montbretia and fuschia making the hedges walls of bright colour, rusty farm equipment of the kind I love - a Welsh farmer poet once told me that Welsh farms only produce two things: shit and scrap - and abandoned Famine cottages everywhere you look. The clean air encourages mosses and lichens, and the views over to the next peninsula are amazing. The rest of the pictures are here (including those of the Lamborghini sitting outside a farmer's cottage) but here are a few samples. Best viewed in full-screen by clicking on them.
Royal Baking Powder tin, sitting on the windowsill of the cottage above
Moss on a wall
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