Saturday, 16 October 2010

What's in a name?

Way back in the last century when I first began my sacred vocation I found it was easy enough to judge the quality of a class by the given names. Back in the 90s before inclusion scumbag spotting as it was known was an integral part of the first term of the PGCE. Look it up. It was drummed into us that a Wayne, Darren, Luke, Troy, Michalea, Leanne or Kayleigh in your class was always going to be a gobby furrowed browed handful with a propensity for anger, violence and smoke crusted BO and possibly nits.  Whilst Peter (but not Pete), Martin, Timothy (usually small), Katherine, Sarah or Elizabeth (but not Lizzie) were always going to remain fragrantly anonymous and possibly hard-working which wasn't really important so long as they didn't get dragged into the morass of failure and degradation by their piss-poor problem child colleagues.During the second term advanced surname spotting was an invaluable course all very useful for the surname was often a clue as to the fine upstanding peaceful and co-operative Roma or Traveller contingent who we always looked forward to teaching.  

The more advanced could take a course in foreign names -  Mohammeds for example could go either way depending on whether they were still Mohammed or whether they had adopted the cooler monkier Mo. Effnik kids we soon observed, war torn qat chewing Somalis knife weilding and gun toting aside, lived up to the well-honed cliche of being fine, hard-working, more motivated, ambitious, intelligent and articulate than the feral underclass from the sink estates even if they couldn't utter a word of English on arrival.

Having been awa the fashions have changed and down here in Grimmouth-sur-Mer where time moves more slowly the tattooed and multi-pierced Darrens and Leannes have drunkenly spawned a swathe of gelled up grunting Jordans, Mitchells, Bradleys and Ryans along with a  cohort of defiant, shouty junior harpies named Jasmin, Chelsea, Bacardi, Aleesha who fulfil the same worthy purpose of instantly gratifying the prejudice of middle class teachers and EWOs.  Spelling also seems to have become voluntary and some half wits have foisted their spawn with initials instead of a name. The example of France should be followed, as in so many areas, with the idiot parents having their license to breed removed and their children put up for adoption to nice middle class families and rebranded Harry and Emily. 

You know it makes sense.

Thursday, 7 October 2010

My grubby little secret

Tis a rare time that I agree with anything that the poisonous, foul, repulsive, greed party suggest. The Tories to me represent all that is loathsome in England embodied in the grotesque little cockmonkey that is William Hague. That appalling little man speaks for Britain abroad. Well, not Britain per se just the controlling parts. Anyway, how they must slap their heads in disbelief that this nation, well those that count, choose that buffoon as foreign minister. Well, apart from Berlusconi who is probably king of the cockmonkeys. None of which is not to say that Labour tickle me too much. No, the pandering to business, the deity that is or are The Sacred Markets and of course the twisting and turning to voice the concerns of the weirds who run the Daily Mail who supposedly represent the voice of the mythical lost land of Middle England. A nasty small minded vapid place of jealousies, petty ambitions and a blind-eyed view of history.

My very own inner Daily Mail. Cute eh?
Well, that's now out of my system but the scene needed to be set as I found myself having to take a metaphorical thump in the face from the wet fish of hard cold reality when I found myself nodding unconsciously in support of the nonentity arguing with Paxman that excessive benefits should not be given to those serial spawners many of whose progeny despoil my school and give benefit claimers a bad name in the aformentioned toilet paper. It should be unsurprising I suppose, as I have often let loose my inner Daily Mail when bemoaning the ferret faced furrowed browed loin fruit I have had to attempt to teach. I have overheard many aspiring hard-faced mini-mums-to-be drone on about how she would have an oiklet and get a council flat just like her elder sister Slapella, (19) already on her third siring so why bother studying your crap subject? And when said mini-mum's brood mare is still in her 20s you end up thinking yes maybe the scumbag greedball Tories are on to something...and then you feel exceptionally grubby and foul at having acknowled that you, like everyone else, has an inner Daily Mail. Ugh.