Italia ‘90

During my career, I have taught all age groups between 11 and 18. I have taught mainly at the upper end of that range, but the younger pupils are the most enjoyable to educate. They do not see education as something to be negotiated, or endured. They don’t tend to ask about the syllabus, or whether this will be on the test. They embrace irrelevant material with the same open mind as content central to the course. They delight in tangential learning. They ask questions that test the teacher, such is the width of their imagination. They approach learning without cynicism or pragmatism. If something is presented as interesting, they will run with it, interrogating it until understanding is teased out.

The 11, 12 or 13 year-old pupil is adept at expressing himself (or herself) and knows something of the world by this point. However, understanding is inevitably limited and therefore every new piece of learning is a potential gateway into something much larger. This pupil has not become dulled by screen exposure and it is unusual for teenage angst to have taken over as a dominant emotion. The spectre of assessments and external examinations has yet to hove into view and the desperate need to conform to the appearance, attitudes and opinions of one’s peers is still some way off.

There’s a focused energy that manifests itself in insatiable curiosity; the desire to ask question after question on matters of genuine interest. There’s also a pleasing lack of cynicism, unless they have become old before their time. My experience is that children are far more resilient than we give them credit for; many who speak of a lack of robustness in boys and girls are really attempting to push their own neuroses onto children. The world is a far more fascinating place when you have yet to fully work it out, or understand how you might play a part in its development. The world is an exciting place when observed from a height of just over a metre and consequently you’re forced to look up and wonder.

I reflect on this having recently watched the highlights from Italia ‘90, the 14th FIFA World Cup. I was glued to every game I was able to watch, being a 13 year old just out of Prep School in London. There is still much I remember about the tournament, and the football is only part of it. The names of the players, their clubs, the places and the history of the World Cup provided me with a gateway into much more and I existed for a few weeks in a wonderful place between true understanding and total ignorance. It was a sort of ‘zone of curiosity’, made more exciting for my grasp being tenuous.

The mad staring eyes of Toto Schillaci were often described as being typically Sicilian and I was therefore convinced there was a place in Italy where the inhabitants all possessed eyes like Marty Feldman. England played their group games in Cagliari, with its giant amphitheatre and necropolis and it seemed unusual to be playing matches on an island away from mainland Italy when other teams were fighting it out in glorious stadiums called the San Siro and Stadio delle Alpi. D H Lawrence wrote about Cagliari in his memoir, Sea and Sardinia and his trip of 69 years earlier felt like a very long time ago, though Peter Shilton had been playing professional football since before I was born, so he might as well have been on the boat with Lawrence. Not that they would have found much to talk about. I remember being excited that Chris Waddle played for Marseille when all the other players were marooned in English football and I reserved particular fondness for Steve Bull, who despite being good enough to play for England, plied his trade in the second division, presumably due to a sense of loyalty for his club, Wolverhampton Wanderers. I could only imagine Wolverhampton was a place of rare beauty, a bit like Ashby-de-la-Zouch, where you could get a free bar of chocolate if your own turned out to be defective. Your statutory rights were not affected.

I remember enjoying the silky violence of the Cameroon team, until they played England anyway. I was convinced the Argentinians were all cheats and was delighted to see Maradona in tears after the final. That was one back for Las Malvinas. I watched Lothar Matthaus’ goal versus Yugoslavia over and over and wondered how Scotland could manage to lose to Costa Rica. I had no idea where Costa Rica was or anything about the country, but it didn’t seem right for Scotland to lose to a country I presumed was a small Island off the Spanish coast. I remember being disappointed in Brazil too, having watched the 1970 final highlights and expected them to play like this al, the time. Incidentally, the moment where Pele dummies the ‘keeper might be my favourite bit of football, made better by the fact he misses the chance after all the hard work.

After all that rose-tinted rambling, there probably needs to be a conclusion. In short, it’s great being that age. You feel protected by family, excited about the world and keen to learn more about it. Almost anything is interesting if you’re willing to delve into it, and even when your team goes out on penalties in the semi-final, you’ve only got to wait for another 28 years for that to be put right. Let us all try to retain a little of the wide-eyed curiosity we had at the age of 13.


Praying for Gonski 3.0

We were treated to Gonski 2.0 this week. You can read the full report here, though it does come with the following health warning: you may find your blood pressure raised considerably as you trawl one edu-cliche after another. At least it has the good grace to wait until page 2 before taking a pot-shot at the fallacy of the ‘industrial model of School education’, but this sets the tone for a paper that shows scant regard for evidence and logic, instead focusing on the hardly-new ideas of the two ‘R’s: Rousseau (personalised learning) and Robinson (teaching creativity, and other ‘general capabilities’).

Whereas no-one would argue the desire to develop individuals that are independent, creative and collaborative critical thinkers, this is not going to happen by attempting to teach these skills directly. We all want pupils to comprehend what they read, to critically evaluate material and to develop informed opinions on issues of national and international importance, but starting with the end-goal rarely works. The tape at the finish line is not broken until the race has been run, and we’re ignoring the race itself by focusing only on the tape. I’ll admit this analogy doesn’t work fully, because education does not have a finishing line – there is always more depth and breadth to every aspect of education. Education does have a start line, however, and we set the next generation up for failure if we ignore what happens after this start.

Just three years after the Australian National Curriculum was agreed and adopted by all States, the Gonski panel now provides a Review to Achieve Excellence in Australian Schools. More erudite individuals than I have offered their criticism of the report here and here so I don’t expect I am adding anything new, but I will take a swing at what I think is the most misguided of all the key themes appearing periodically throughout the 23 (!) recommendations.

I mentioned the Australian Curriculum in the previous paragraph, and I suppose in its current format it is a curriculum of sorts. It is light on content and academic rigour; it is repetitive; it offers little by way of logical academic progression. However, given that it leads into separate individual State-developed programmes of study in Years 11 and 12, it was always likely to pander to the lowest common denominator. For example, my own State’s flagship programme, the SACE, assumes limited prior knowledge for a variety of its subjects, such that an intelligent individual could take up a subject from scratch in Year 11 (or even Year 12), and reach apparent ‘mastery’ just 30-odd weeks later.

The Gonski report, despite mentioning the word curriculum, suggests its fragmentation to the point that, as reported by the ABC:

‘Teachers could then create individual learning plans for students that would not be tied to what year group they are in.’

This suggests that we are committing to personalised learning, differentiated instruction (taken to an extreme level) and effectively allowing pupils to learn what they like.

This is the very opposite of what a curriculum should be – that is, the essential knowledge and understanding we expect pupils to develop in a specific course. Presumably, we want all Australian Schoolchildren to be able to read, write and be numerate, but we also want them to know about the battle of Gallipoli (and in full context), about the colonial history of the country and the stolen generation, to name just two examples.

Curriculum *is* important and there must be a body of knowledge, a ‘tradition’, that we wish to pass on from generation to generation, even if these things are available (to some degree) on the internet. By knowing and understanding the substance of the subjects and the communal information we deem necessary to know, we are better able to understand ourselves, our nationality and our humanity. This knowledge is not just something we learn for exams, henceforth to be forgotten; it is something that exists within us, often in the background, to enable us to make wise decisions, to have compassion for others and to better understand ourselves. When, in Hamlet, the unstable Ophelia says ‘Lord, we know what we are, but not what we may be’, she hints at the uncertainty of the future (coincidentally a favourite topic amongst the edu-scaremongers). But the further we move into the future and the more knowledge and understanding we develop, we also know better who we are.

If we allow all pupils to follow individualised learning paths, we lose the joy of communal learning, unless it occurs by coincidence. We are less able to understand each other and each other’s point of view. There is a certain selfishness in learning only what interests you, rather than what might be good or useful. Expanding on this point, it fits within the context of that modern-day phenomenon, the veneration of the child. Many of us are terrified lest children should ever be bored, unhappy or academically challenged. By allowing for personalised learning, we promote selfishness, entitlement and ‘what I want’, rather than what is good for me. One of the Gonski recommendations is to… ensure all students have the opportunity within schools to be partners in their own learning. This is at best specious; how can students not be the dominant partner in their own learning, given that anything they learn can only ever be done by themselves?

The assumption of Gonski is that the reason for Australia’s relative decline since 2000 is at least in part due to the holding back of some of our most able pupils through a slavish devotion to an uninspiring curriculum. The curriculum is indeed uninspiring, but it need not be this way.  Genuine subject engagement comes from depth understanding within that subject, and achieving a degree of mastery. If teachers were liberated from the focus on ‘general capabilities’ and we instead left free to teach the central tenets of their subjects, better learning and more joy would ensue. All good teachers offer a natural differentiation within each class, extending the brightest children and ensuring those that struggle end up knowing at least what they need to know. The key is to set the minimum bar high (what needs to be learned by all) and then to soar over that bar where possible. Curriculum should be liberating, not constricting, but a fragmented curriculum is merely chaotic.

Back to the modern religion: the worship of children. One has only to look at the mushrooming of T20 cricket and the family-marketed Big Bash in particular (and now the ludicrous #100balls), the juggernaut of Superhero films or Disney kids’ movies and the willingness of parents to acts as slaves to their children to note the direction society is taking. Gonski is a essentially a reactive report, produced as an echo to a culture where too many adults are afraid to play the role of an adult (possibly due to a subconscious fear of being labelled as a promoter of adultism?

Maybe we need to re-visit the line from A Game of Chess, in T S Eliot’s The Waste Land: ‘what you get married for if you don’t want children?‘, as spoken by the garrulous cockney in the pub.

Here’s the modern-day version: what you have children for if you don’t want to educate them?

In Affectionate Remembrance of Test Cricket

A year or two ago I watched the film ‘Death of a Gentleman’, about the parlous state of modern international cricket. At the time, I thought its case was overstated. Despite the creation of a wonderful pantomime villain in Giles Clarke, the film wasn’t the dramatic exposé it promised to be. The game needs to evolve, and T20 cricket, pink-ball day/night tests, four-day test matches, DRS and the overt dominance of the ‘big three’ test playing nations were an inevitability of the development of the sport and the market forces at work within. Or so I thought at the time.

I love test cricket because it is more than just a sport. It is a game with Laws rather than rules. The spirit of the game is as important as the result, and history and tradition transcend what is occurring on the field of play. Words and phrases like Bodyline and The Golden Age are woven into the fabric of cricket, and giants of the game like Bradman, Hobbs, Richards and Imran Khan straddle eras in which the brand of cricket played reflects the times. The dour austerity of 1950s or the carefree abandon of the early part of the Twentieth Century were each epitomised by the nature of the cricket being played.

Test cricket is a novel, and T20 is a pamphlet. T20 has no history and no culture to fall back on. The colours, mascots and walk-on music were designed in a meeting room by faceless executives. As a sport, you get exactly what it says on the tin. Bowlers possess more varieties than Heinz’s famed ‘57’ and batsmen try to plonk every ball into the crowd. There is no significant pressure associated with the format: bowlers accept they may be flogged on any given day, and a batsman might squirt a catch to cover point in the first over, but there’s always another chance tomorrow. In test cricket, pressure is what makes the game. There is pressure on the opening batsman who goes out on a pair in fading light, or the spin bowler tasked with skittling the opposition on a final day ‘bunsen’.

T20 mirrors modern living – quicker, louder, faster, with partial attention paid until something shinier comes along. T20 is disposable. Multiple players move between franchises in the off-season. The concepts of loyalty, building a career or genuine team spirit are anathema to T20, being less important than brash musical interludes, cheerleaders and placing KFC buckets on our heads. Kieron Pollard becomes a star only in this form of the game. We are no longer content to play the role of spectators, watching on the edge of our seats as the drama unfolds. We are now part of the action, actively involved from our armchairs or the stands. This is cricket as reality TV, where players are mic’d up on the field of play, cameramen on Segways chase incoming batsmen for close-up shots and members of the crowd don orange tabards for the chance to win thousands with a crowd catch.

The role and authority of the umpires has been eroded over time. If players don’t agree with decisions, they can have them overturned on replay, with garish neon screens proclaiming to everyone that the custodian of the game is wrong, undermined by the available technology. Where catches used to be claimed and the word of an opponent trusted, we now rely on endless and probably unreliable replays to tell us that the player is lying and the ball really did touch the turf. Umpires have had their horns sanded down, though thankfully not by a mixture of yellow tape and pitch-side dirt.

There are obvious parallels to be drawn with education, where teacher authority and the delivery of a communal academic curriculum plays second fiddle to student choice, engaging activities and personalised learning. We champion the quick and easy route to success (revision booklets and pre-test tests, drafted assignments and the Khan (though not Imran) Academy). We want immediate success and demonstration of ‘progress’ on a lesson by lesson basis rather than the slow and steady build-up of knowledge, skills and expertise. Raucous external stimuli have bred limited patience and if one thing doesn’t pique our interest, something else will be along in a moment. Two of the subjects that have been marginalised most in the curriculum (music and languages) are distinctly hierarchical rather than cumulative, and require dedication over years, perhaps decades, to master. We should relish this learning challenge, where the more we know, the more we realise lies unknown, where embracing both depth and breadth leads to complete immersion. Education is about means as well as ends, just as test cricket is about more than winning or losing.

CLR James, in his seminal text Beyond a Boundary, wrote ‘What do they know of cricket who only cricket know’. Today, we might ask what The KFC Buckethead Army care for the future of test cricket, but we probably already know the answer.

Educational Jenga

Over the last few months, a man has been building a house two doors down from our property. Almost single-handedly, one man has built a house. Every day of the week, from early until late, he has been on-site, building a house from scratch.

It has been interesting to watch, given that I have performed two major renovations in my adult life. One was when I put up a mirror in the dining room, and the other was when I painted the same room the following year. The former took me a few minutes but the latter task took four days. We had a small dining room, but using a roller about two inches in length (it looked more like a toothbrush) significantly lengthened the process.

Despite knowing little about solo house-building, the order in which the property has appeared seems logical. The site was levelled, the foundations developed, the house was built from the ground up, and we’ve now reached the external cladding stage. [I use the word cladding to make it sound like I know my terminology, but I’m willing to entertain the possibility I may be wrong].

It would be hard to justify another order in which the house could have been built – I might have offered some advice had I noticed the chap building a tiled roof on the freshly levelled earth, or attempting to hoist a piano into an as-yet unformed second floor. There are two areas of education currently en vogue that are analogous to this.


Jenga is a bad way to build a house. As the house gets taller, it becomes ever more apparent that the foundations are shaky, many essential support materials are missing and eventually (and inevitably) the whole edifice collapses.

Project-based learning is educational Jenga. Instead of concentrating on building solid foundations through a common core curriculum, PBL follows the individual interests of children, assuming that essential knowledge and skills will be gathered along the way.

Individual pupils may become a relative expert on whatever niche real-life project they are following, but it is inevitable that certain gaps will be left. The longer this approach goes on, the more gaps will appear, until the gaps outnumber solid blocks of understanding. Of course, this is of less concern to people when it isn’t them required to pick up the pieces and rebuild.


I do not believe it is possible to teach aspects of good character in an explicit manner, and certainly not independent of supporting ‘content’. I do think a key driver of Schools should be to develop people of excellent character, but it is best done through adherence to a rigorous academic curriculum, where desirable aspects such as resilience, grit, leadership, self-management, goal-setting etc are developed through what we teach. Without content, one is left with hypothetical situations and ‘what-ifs?’ Does anyone actually believe Donald Trump would wade into mass-shooting, even without a gun?

If we attempt to deliver/teach these desirable ‘extras’ separately from the core curriculum, we have moved beyond the teaching of knowledge and skills into more ephemeral areas. We should not be looking to build buttresses, turrets and carved gargoyles before the main house is complete. Even their necessity could be a matter for discussion. ‘Learning to learn’, for example, is an unhelpful phrase – you have either learned something, or you haven’t; this mythical skill is a phrase of extreme glibness.

Another problem with these accoutrements is the contradictory nature of them. Sacre-Coeur in Montmarte is built as a bizarre Romano-Byzantine structure, with some features detracting, and even clashing, with others. It is difficult to blend aspects of architecture that are incongruous and it is similar with education. Pushing the concept of grit and resilience in the absence of content is hard enough, but doing so whilst channelling a narrative of it’s ok to not be ok, linking high academic expectations with increased mental health concerns and focusing on the ‘culture of the self’ means a careful path needs to be trod to avoid giving messages clearly at odds with each other.

Our current house was built in 2014 and we’re moving to a more traditional, turn of the century, colonial town house. Maybe this is coincidence, but I think there’s an element of symbolism too.


Knowledge tests in Disguise

This title is from everyone’s favourite cognitive psychologist, Daniel Willingham. He does for quotable edu-soundbites what Oscar Wilde did for epigrams and witticisms.

The quote in full is: “reading tests are knowledge tests in disguise” and I first came across this line in E D Hirsch’s book Why Knowledge Matters, presented as an argument against the existence of a ‘main-idea finding’ skill. The point is that to derive genuine meaning from reading, one needs a canon of specific background knowledge, able to be accessed in order to present oneself as a good reader. When it comes to reading tests, children appear better readers when the topic they are reading about is familiar.

Perhaps this is unsurprising, and imagine the frustration one would feel reading a book where you did not possess the knowledge the writer had assumed. All text contains some assumed knowledge – it wouldn’t help the flow of a novel if the author needed to break from narrative to explain that Moscow is a city in Russia, or that a frigate is a warship.

[One of my own pet-hates is when characters are required to ‘talk the plot’ in books or films just to bring the reader/viewer on board. A good example of this was in the Eddie Redmayne vehicle The Theory of Everything, where Stephen Hawking’s room mate proclaims “but Stephen, you’re the finest physicist at Cambridge University”, just in case you thought he was gunning for a 2.2 in Business Management.]

Back to my main idea. We have introduced ‘tutor group reading’ this year at my School, and the list of titles across years 7 to 10 are below: Reading Wall.jpg

It is interesting to note where success has occurred. Several of the books have boys captivated, with The Giver, Maggot Moon and A Monster Calls being standout favourites. The language is simple in The Giver, and there’s very little background knowledge required to give context to the story. The story is told from the point of view of children, and without giving too much away, one needs to have an appreciation of colour, memory, pain, basic societal structures etc. It is safe to say that most children by the age of 13 will be familiar with these concepts without having been taught them explicitly. The language in A Fortunate Life is even simpler, but without some knowledge of Australian geography, the pioneer life in the early Twentieth Century and Australian involvement in World War I, a certain richness of the book is lost.

In Year 9, The Fight has presented the greatest challenge. I think I knew this would be the case. For those unfamiliar, it tells the story of The Rumble in the Jungle – Ali vs Foreman in Kinshasa in 1974. The book delves into some Bantu philosophy too, and I’d be surprised if any boy had come across the central tenets here. Putting this to one side, and having re-read the book recently, I made a list of the characters one needs to know before being able to glean depth understanding of what made the fight so important:

  1. Muhammad Ali
  2. George Foreman
  3. Joe Frazier
  4. Don King
  5. Ernest Hemingway
  6. Hunter S Thompson
  7. Patrice Lumumba
  8. Mobutu Sese Seko
  9. Joseph Conrad
  10. King Leopold II of Belgium

Without some knowledge of these people – who they were, what they did and why this is relevant – one is only able to read the book as a story of a heavyweight boxing contest at best. The book is reduced to an exercise in waiting for the fight to begin, and then seeing who gets knocked out. No deeper meaning is possible; enjoyment is limited and replaced with frustration, akin to listening to a person telling a story about a film you haven’t seen. There may be snippets of sense to grasp, but most of the time you feel like the only person in the conversation who doesn’t get the joke.

You might (not unfairly) ask why this text was chosen, given the likely frustration that would develop. I suppose I was keen to see if we could instil a sense of curiosity amongst the boys – the exotic names of places such as Kinshasa or Nsele, the rhythmic and aggressive language of Ali, the names of former vanquished heavyweights. Even if one needs to halt the story every few pages, the opportunity to veer off down less-trodden paths (Heart of Darkness and Apocalypse Now being fairly obvious diversions) is one to be embraced. Knowledge begets knowledge, and every new character or situation can be a springboard from which to dive into a different world. Whether this happens will become apparent in time, but presenting something that all boys will relish suggests we are pandering to pre-developed interests. A more ambitious (if higher risk approach) will mean that some need to pedal quite hard to keep up, but the views will be all the more spectacular once the summit is reached.

Australian Edu-Facebook

Since moving to Australia almost two years ago, I have been made to feel welcome. With an Ashes series starting this week, I reserve the right to change my mind, but it’s been an easy transition thus far. The social hierarchy and class structure is less pronounced than in the UK, though I’m pleased to note the obsession with where you went to School remains, at least in South Australia. People are easy-going, and the word ‘banter’ has yet to be corrupted as it has been in the UK. Some semblance of wit still remains.

It seems quite difficult to genuinely offend an Australian – that is, until one enters the world of education.

Education is complicated. There are relatively few absolute truths, it is difficult to say with certainty ‘what works’, and even the purpose of education is up for debate. Is it to provide skilled individuals for an uncertain future workforce, to create a community of cultured intellectuals, a bit of both or something different entirely? I think everyone who works in education should find it interesting to debate these ideas. I’d be surprised if anyone wasn’t interested in these ideas, given that we have all been to School, and must have some opinion on what education is for, and what constitutes a successful education.

Twitter is an excellent forum for education debate, and by this I refer to pre-planned debates such as happen on the #AussieEd hashtag. It allows people from different backgrounds and timezones to come together, make their points, support the views of strangers and challenge the views of colleagues. This all happens in a space where hierarchy is removed, where no single ‘voice’ can dominate. Ideas are promoted, and people are free to agree or disagree with these ideas. Ideas do not have feelings, and we should all be happy for our ideas to be challenged. We should be willing to defend our ideology, willing to take on board the wisdom of others, and willing to change our mind. If conflict is the problem, education is usually the answer, and by discussing ideas in education, we become more educated and hence more effective educators. I am grateful to those people who act as administrators for pre-arranged conversations to take place; these specifically arranged discussion topics help to keep the conversation on track. It also provides a space where it is natural to interact with strangers, those who see things from a different perspective and who might learn from you, as you may do from them.

It can be unnerving for a stranger to appear from the ether and take you to task over something you have posted, but if you post in a public forum (which is what I think Twitter should be), it is reasonable to receive comment or challenge.

But it doesn’t tend to happen like this. Australian education on Twitter seems to think it is Australian education on Facebook/Instagram. I know I shouldn’t tell people how to use social media, but the platforms (in general) serve a very different purpose. Facebook is about friends, likes and platitudes. A photo is posted; it garners likes from your friends, who write ‘awww’ or ‘so cute’ or ‘looking beautiful, lovely’. Everyone wins. This isn’t a debate, or a challenging of ideas. People don’t post critical comments under photos of babies. No-one expects their choice of Sharm as a holiday destination to be questioned. The etiquette of Facebook gives rise to a cycle of likes, shares and phatic commentary.

Australian edu-Twitter has a Facebook mentality; a mentality that say if I post a statement, I expect likes and platitudes. Here’s a statement:


And here’s another statement:

Maybe you agree with the statements and maybe you don’t. But when similar statements are made as part of an organised discussion on education, it should be possible to challenge those statements in a reasonable manner, rather than simply re-tweeting with a comment ‘This’.

Twitter is not Facebook. If you don’t want ideas you hold dear to be criticised, you are probably better off posting them on Facebook, preferably with a photo of your young family enjoying a holiday sunset. You can then gather all the ‘awww’s you like, without every being required to reflect on your position.

The *new* three ‘R’s?

Richard Dawkins (science writer and Muslim-baiter) is an old boy of Oundle School in the UK. I taught at Oundle for almost ten years, in two stints, and had the pleasure of meeting Mr Dawkins, even dining with him on one occasion. He was rather stiff company, difficult to draw on any topic of conversation and generally gave the impression that he’d rather be somewhere else, which was probably exactly the impression he wished to convey.
Dawkins is credited with having coined the neologism ‘meme’, and if you spend much time on edu-Twitter, you’ll find a lot of memes. Some popular edu-folk seem to communicate almost entirely in memes. Justin Tarte is a good example, Adrian Scarlett another. Their pithy, single-line posts of truthiness, often emblazoned slogan-like on a 1980s Athena poster-style background, tend to be popular with a certain type of Twitter user: people who engage the retweet button more readily than the brain.
These posts focus on things like how Schools in 2017 look a bit like Schools in 1917, the killer observation that prisons have a ‘uniform’ (and so do Schools) and even that graves are laid out in rows and so are some classrooms. These points are made to suggest that the obvious modernisation of hospitals, industry etc, has not been mirrored in Schools, which still rely on a method of instruction (teacher educating the class) that is so very 20th Century.
The arrow of time is fixed, and as such, technological, industrial and scientific progress develops apace, and this is broadly a good thing. It has also caused global climate change and has developed nuclear weapons, but it is up to society to determine how this is managed. We are a progressive species and it is unnatural to stall progress.
Education is different, however, due to the annoying habit of the human race to refresh itself in complete ignorance. Babies are pretty thick, and need to be educated from scratch, even babies born into 21st Century learning. Technological or medical progress is not necessarily linear, but it doesn’t have a reset button, unlike education. There is always a new Reception class, always a new Year 7 cohort and always a fresh set of young adults moving into Year 11 – the triumphs and disasters of the previous year are rarely relevant to the new class coming through. Advances in technology and wider access to information (which is still what some people think will revolutionise education) do not give us the right to bypass the basics – the Three ‘R’s – that have proved fundamental to the education of human beings since time immemorial. We should be careful not to try and build taller buildings on more shaky foundations.
There is evidence to suggest education in Schools has stalled. Flatlining NAPLAN scores and the first decease in the percentage of top grades at GCSE for about 30 years are just two examples. Despite the fact our children don’t seem to be getting any cleverer, we are still advancing the bleeding edge of technology. How to explain this paradox? Maybe, as Matt Ridley points out, we’ve reached a point where we can build things as a species that no one individual is able to create, and thus we’ve advanced further than our individual abilities due to the power of widespread collaboration? Put simply, everyone knows a bit, and these bits together make quite an impressive whole. Or maybe the people responsible for these advances were educated not by their own random exploration of the internet, but with a focus on core academic disciplines from a young age. It’s conjecture, but I suspect the lack of improvement in education is a direct result of moving away from a more traditional form of education, whereas use the same evidence to justify a move away from just such a model.
Perhaps we’re regressing as a species? Perhaps these days we’re all about memes and selfies and reality TV and no-platforming those we disagree with rather than entering into informed debate. Maybe we just got bored of educating each new generation in the important Three ‘R’s of Reading, w(R)iting and (a)Rithmetic? I agree with Hirsch: if you could measure just one thing upon which to judge the success of Schooling, it would be the reading ability of a School leaver. Reading at a high level allows us to gather knowledge, make connections and communicate better ourselves.
I suggest we re-embrace the Old Three ‘R’s and raise serious questions over the New Three ‘R’s. These New (unofficial) R’s’: Risk-taking, Resilience and (Ken) Robinson might make for better soundbites and memes, but they are more likely to take us back to the dark ages than into a more enlightened, educated future.
Risk-taking? The modern risk-taker sees inanimate statues as a foe worth battling.
Resilience? Modern resilience seeks to diagnose 1/4 of young girls with depression and promotes the removal of tackling from the game of rugby.
Robinson? Dance your way to success in Mathematics.
When Tasmania first broke away from mainland Australia, around 12000 years ago, the population was too small to collaborate successfully and thus advance, and the people therefore actually experienced regression. Surely something similar can’t happen in 2017?

Qualified = quality?

Of all the observations I’ve made on Twitter in recent months, my suggestion that it may be worth allowing unqualified teachers into the class room has been (by some distance) the least popular. It’s the turd in the swimming pool; the plate of pork scratchings at the bar mitzvah.

This was not an observation made purely to provoke. I taught in the UK for just over 18 years, in three independent Schools. There is no requirement for teachers to be qualified in the UK independent sector, and we were interested only in appointing the best people for each job advertised. The best Schools are always those with the best teachers, and nothing makes one’s job easier as a manager than having really good people around you, effectively making you look good.

We wanted to cast our net far and wide, and so as well as advertising through the standard channels, we used to contact the top dozen or so universities, enquiring whether they had any particularly impressive final year undergraduates or postgraduates who might be interested in a career in teaching, or even just or year or two’s teaching experience. We used all contacts available (through recent teaching appointments, ex-pupils etc) to ensure that any person who might be worth an interview ended up applying for any post advertised.

By contacting the universities direct, we could ensure at the very least we would be getting a genuine expert in that subject, recommended by those at the university who knew them well. We would be under no compulsion to appoint them, nor even to interview, but we did appoint teachers (maybe one in ten) over a number of years via this route. None of those teachers ended up being what one might term a poor appointment, and some were amongst the best teachers I have worked with. What we all seek in teachers are those people who really know and enjoy their subject; someone who is able to communicate their expertise; someone who can build strong connections with those they teach; someone hard-working, with an appropriate amount of gravitas. You don’t need a qualification in teaching to possess those attributes. You certainly need a good degree in the relevant subject from a good university as a minimum, but the other characteristics are related to the individual, and can probably be developed more than ‘taught’.

Comparisons are often made between teachers and other professions when it comes to qualifications, or lack of them. Pilots and brain surgeons are the most common examples used to scoff at the possibility that any teacher might be able to succeed without a teaching qualification. No-one would suggest picking someone at random to operate on a patient, but the training for such a role occurs as part of a medical degree, just as one could argue that the training to be a maths teacher comes as part of a degree in maths. One does not need a qualification from catering College apparently to be a world-renowned chef (Heston Blumenthal is self-taught), and though he may be an exceptional case, there are also exceptional teachers who have not been formally trained, other than in their subject. Teaching is perhaps more like driving. There are some drivers who despite managing to pass their test in the dim and distant past, should probably not be behind the wheel of a car today.

Teaching is a more natural act than some people think. Flying a plane is certainly not something that should be attempted without having been taught how to do it, but every single one of us acts as a teacher at some point. Whether it’s as parents helping our children to read or simply explaining to a friend the rules of an unfamiliar sport, we all teach, just as we all learn. We don’t need a piece of paper endorsing us for these skills, just as it’s not always necessary for a teacher to know about the 1944 Education Act, Vygotsky’s zone of proximal development or Bloom’s taxonomy.

I have known and worked with some excellent teachers and some lousy teachers. The quality has probably been better amongst the unqualified, but that’s because we tend to see these appointments as carrying greater risk and therefore only made an appointment when we felt sure of success. I share the concerns of many about the status of the teaching profession, especially the worryingly low academic threshold required to be accepted onto a degree in teacher education, but I also believe that despite its counter-intuitive nature, opening up the profession to a wider candidacy may just help to raise the bar. 

Connections over relationships

Good afternoon. The final day of Term 2 is always a good occasion – we have a holiday to look forward to, the days are getting longer, summer is coming and there is much to reflect on that is positive in terms of enjoyment and achievement over the past 9 weeks.

One phrase I have heard repeated recently is that ‘teaching is all about relationships’. It’s a decent soundbite, but an over-simplification. Teaching is not all about anything. Very little of any substance or value is all about one thing, and even if you believed this was true, you should not be able to reduce the complexities of human interaction into one simple stock phrase. Generally, when you tug at things, you will find the whole world attached to them.

A friend of mine wrote an article last year trying to make this relationship point, and he used the example of Claudio Ranieri and his Leicester City team, winning the Premier League against all odds in 2016. His point was that the strength of relationships between player and coach allowed the team to perform at a far higher level than should have been possible. Leicester City became greater than the sum of its parts due to strong relationships.

The next season, and a few months after he penned that article, Leicester – with the same players and manager – was out of title contention, battling relegation instead, and Ranieri was sacked amidst rumours of a player revolt. It seemed that the relationships were great when the going was good and turned sour when the results dipped.

One of the reasons I think it’s simplistic to talk of relationships being key is that it is easy to confuse easy acquaintance for genuine relationships – when things turn tough, does your relationship with an individual get stronger, or does it fade into the background? When you need help, who are your rocks, and who is like sand disappearing through your fingers?

I am interested in connections – connections made on multiple levels; connections made through deep, life-affirming, fundamental human experiences. We have a relationship of sorts with everyone we interact with, but we don’t necessarily make connections. E M Forster wrote in Chapter 22 of the 1910 novel Howard’s End, the following two words: Only Connect.

These two words are part of a longer quote, but it is the phrase Only Connect that is often quoted. It is connection to people that we must continue to work on, and that includes people to whom we have little natural affinity. George Orwell wrote in The Road to Wigan Pier that ‘the main problem with the working classes is that they smell’, and though he clearly felt a sense of revulsion when confronted with the miners of northern Britain in the 1930s, he also felt a sense of nobility in their willingness to graft against oppressive conditions both at work and in the home. He overcome his natural lack of connection with these people. You too will find people that are tough to connect with on occasions, but we all must make the effort to do so. It is far harder to display genuine care for those people you do not connect with.

16 days ago, a tower block burned down in West London. The Grenfell Tower was an oasis of poverty in a desert of wealth. The area of West London, in the borough of Kensington and Chelsea, is one of the most affluent parts, in one of the most expensive cities in the world. The Grenfell Tower was an ugly eyesore, completed in 1974 and built high into the sky like a gangrenous finger, designed to house large numbers of what remained throughout its existence some of society’s poorest people. There were 227 bedrooms in this single tower block, and the death toll from the fire currently stands at 80. Due to the ferocity of the fire and the extent of the destruction, it is unlikely the final number will be known until 2018.

The Grenfell tower stands right on the edge of the patch where my brother works as an officer in the Metropolitan police, and perhaps it is for this reason that I feel a sense of connection to the residents of the Grenfell Tower, even though I didn’t know any of them personally and hence had no relationship with anyone. A compassion for people is an essential part of basic human decency, and it should run deeper than a cursory sadness which is felt for a second and then lost.

Stefan Zweig expressed this perfectly, in his novel Beware of Pity, and he said:

There are two kinds of pity. One, the weak minded, sentimental sort, is really just the heart’s impatience to rid itself as quickly as possible of the painful experience of being moved by another person’s suffering. It is not a case of real sympathy, of feeling with the sufferer, but a way of defending yourself against someone else’s pain. The other kind, the only one that counts, is unsentimental but creative. It knows its own mind, and is determined to stand by the sufferer, patiently suffering too, to the last of its strength and even beyond.

On a more positive note, it is often the case that out of great tragedy comes examples of fortitude, generosity and the indomitable human spirit. One simple example was that of Rory Walsh, aged 18, who lived in a house opposite the Tower, and was due to sit the equivalent of his Year 12 English examination the next day. He worked from 2am until 8am that morning at the Maxilla Social Club, helping to organise donations and with the re-housing of newly homeless people, before heading off to sit his examination at 9am.

This is in stark contrast to the involvement of certain people employed by news channels, who took to helicopters to circle the building, capturing pictures for a gawping public. For people in the burning tower, to think you might be about to be rescued and instead to face a dawning realisation that you were merely being filmed – to move from hope to despair – is unimaginable. For those people in the helicopters, to be able to detach oneself from intense human suffering, and not only not to assist, but to fan the flames with whirring blades and to offer a semblance of hope only to dash it, is something those people need to live with.

The truth is that we can never know how we will react in a purely hypothetical circumstance until that circumstance is made real. Character reveals itself in moments like these, and I would like to think we would all do the right thing, even if it happens to inconvenience us. It is important to spend time cultivating relationships, but also developing deep connections with people, day in day out, such that your desire to help and do the right thing when need demands is natural and never forced. Maybe if Ranieri’s connection to his players had gone deeper, they would have battled through the tough times together.

But, to quote Helen Keller: although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of suffering. Suffering is inevitable at certain points – I see it in the eyes of those I teach every day – but it is through a strong and improving sense of community that we will overcome. I am a great believer in the power of a strong, respectful and reinforcing community – it is one of the reasons I loved the School musical Oliver! last week. Quite apart from the quality of the production – it was the community – the music, the acting, the set design; the Prep and the Secondary, the boys and their teachers, the audience and the players. It was a coming together of people to produce a genuine community activity.

This is part of the reason I tend to favour whole class teaching and communal learning. I favour all boys following a broadly common curriculum. Whenever I hear of differentiated instruction, personal learning and modifications to curriculum, I think we lose out on that powerful sense of community, and though necessary at times, in its worst form it can lead to fracturing, fragmentation and incoherence in the curriculum and can even promote a sense of selfishness and entitlement. We are all individuals, but we operate better as part of a wider and powerful community.

E M Forster’s full quote is this: Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer.

This College is your and my community. It should not be fractured and fragmented. This College is what connects all of us. We can deepen those connections by what we say and what we do and the care we take for our fellow (Princes) men.

I wish you happy and restful holidays, and a productive and purposeful Term 3 when we return. I’ll finish with the words of President John F Kennedy, who understood better than most the need to unite people:

 In his 1961 address to the Canadian parliament, he uttered perhaps my favourite Kennedy quote: “Geography has made us neighbours. History has made us friends. Economics has made us partners. And necessity has made us allies. Those whom nature hath so joined together, let no man put asunder. What unites us is far greater than what divides us.

The Immaculate reception

I have written about the sport of American football before, and the surprising number of themes common to the world of education. Malcolm Gladwell’s 2008 article , Most Likely to Succeed, draws a convincing parallel between the difficulty of identifying effective teachers and effective Quarterbacks. My own most recent NFL-related scribble, Players not Plays. has perhaps not reached so wide an audience, but think it makes a valid and related point: the contents of one’s playbook will pale into insignificance if the players are not fit for purpose.

I was reminded of the NFL again this week as I was made aware of a dragon I believed to have been slain. Caitlin Moran’s terrible Why I should run our Schools , George Monbiot’s development of a game for all the family, Sir Ken Robinson-bingo, and now this latest polemic are generic examples of an argument that, despite its nonsensical construct, staunchly refuses to die. It is educational bindweed – just when you think you’ve hacked away the final root, it springs up somewhere else in the garden.

One of the key principles of the argument, as if you needed reminding, is as follows. All information is on the internet, and everyone has a smartphone. So anything you need to know can be accessed at the click of a button. Hence by not knowing anything yourself, you free up your brain, and rather than acting as a store of undigested chunks of information, it can be used for nebulous skills such as thinking critically about the latest piece of information you’ve just accessed on your smart-phone.

Of course the people whose job it is to put stuff on the internet do need to know something, and probably quite a lot, but we’re not them, so we can just look up things they have placed on the internet whenever we need. If we know what it is that we need to look up, that is. And also how it relates to the other things we needed to look up to be able to be able to understand and give context to the thing it was that we didn’t know anything about originally.

Despite all this, the internet has not as a rule made us cleverer, and those writing the articles would have you believe that it’s the fault of teachers cramming Gradgrindian facts into the heads of poor Schoolchildren. If only we knew less, we could do more critical thinking. Except you can only think about what you know, and at that point, the argument fall apart. What even are you, if you don’t know anything about anything?

A disclaimer: I do not believe that all learning happens in class, or as a direct result of what we are taught by teachers, though they may provide the inspiration. The acquisition of knowledge comes from myriad sources, not least from the self. Learning how to learn is a thing, and we should embrace the idea that we can all be autodidacts.

This is where my link to NFL comes in. It is perhaps the best example of something I have discovered and learned about purely by myself. I have never played the sport, been exposed to it at School or university, or been encouraged to investigate by parents, teachers or coaches. I simply stumbled across the game some time in the mid-90s, and have been finding out about the game ever since. I have been to games in the UK at Wembley, and also in the US at Buffalo, Green Bay and Dallas. I have watched countless games live, in replay, condensed and analysed. I have read books, articles, message-boards, and have attempted to absorb the rules, strategy, history and culture of the game.

And yet, despite this 20-year commitment, there is plenty I do not understand. Tackling, pass-interference, the difference between College and professional game, the scheduling, salary cap; the effect of the 1978 rule changes, re-location of franchises, read-option and what makes a good long-snapper remain as much a mystery as ever they were. I have committed to finding out about the game, piecing together each fragment of information and developing links between them. Incidentally, the title of this blog is probably the most famous play in the game, when Chuck Noll’s Steelers overcame John Madden’s Raiders and set the tone for Steeler dominance for the remainder of that decade. It took me 10+ years of interest in the game to uncover this pivotal moment.

The journey has been enjoyable, but in terms of efficiency, it’s happened at a geological pace. If I had signed up for a 6 week intensive course on Football: America’s game (note: course does not exist), I imagine I would have learned as much as I have done in 20-odd years of auto-didacticism. And therein lies the problem with the ‘you can just look it up’ argument. Maybe you can, but even if this is true, it still requires effort, luck, dedication and it’s mightily inefficient. It requires the time we do not have.

With learning, there is always an opportunity cost; auto didacticism and looking stuff up might be a realistic option when it comes to transatlantic sport, less so when we’re talking fixed-time Schooling.

And if you don’t believe that, you can Ickey-shuffle off.