1. The other day I was filming a behaviour management training video. Our cunning strategy was to use talented students on a BTEC drama course to help demonstrate the practical ways that students and teachers can interact. They were terrific, and one of them made a comment that cut to the heart of a problem we have in teaching. ‘But don’t you get this kind of stuff before you become a teacher?’ she said. And the honest answer I had to give was, ‘Er...sometimes. Some of it.’

    The missing jigsaw piece

    After many months of debate, interview, advice, consultation and collaboration, the report into behaviour management in ITT was launched. I’m so proud of the finished product. The working party were all agreed that we needed to write something succinct, practical and targeted at the needs of teachers at the beginning of their careers. There is still a disappointing deficit in behaviour management training in the UK (and abroad- I haven’t found any Shangri-Las in this sector). Too many teachers still enter the infancy of their careers with little structured support in running a classroom. Now this strikes me as a catastrophic omission in a role which requires such a substantial element of encouraging and directing the activities of others. This is no bolt-on, to be stapled onto teacher training; this is one leg of a tripod which along with pedagogy and subject knowledge, are essential for secure, efficient and productive teaching.

    I’ll stress: there are many good ITT providers who do well in this area, in both HE and SCITT routes; but there’s a quilt of good and less good practice, and it’s impossible to say that a robust training in this area is a guaranteed entitlement. One problem is that many providers still see behaviour management as something that will be picked up in placement schools, and their role is only to provide a short outline to the topic. The main problem with this approach is that it leaves the trainee at the mercy of their placement school’s capacities. And learning how to run a room isn't something you pick up by mere repetition, any more than you learn who to play piano by standing next to one. As many people have pointed out, Malcolm Gladwell's '10,000 hour rule to expertise' is mistaken. True mastery is only acquired through structured, deliberate learning, not proximity.

    WWW, EBI

    So we decided that there were two substantial areas of behaviour management training that needed to be addressed: content, and training methodology

    1. Content. It was obvious that some strategies used to run rooms work in some contexts but not in others; that some strategies work very well for many or most children, and some strategies were more boutique. The obvious recommendation to make is that teachers need to be exposed to a broad cocktail of possible strategies along with their suggested uses. The teacher then has the option of selecting which arrow in their quiver to employ, instead of wondering what one is needed from scratch. This sidesteps any accusation that teachers are trained in a stupidly one-size-fits-all strategy. At present, many teachers are at the mercy of the strategies their few mentors might provide. This broadens their range.

    We broke the behaviour curriculum content into a pleasingly alliterative triptych: routines, responses, and relationships. Routines are the best way to create structure in the classroom, create communal expectations of behaviour, and build habits. The great thing about routines is that once internalised, they reduce the cognitive load on the agent, who acts instinctively rather than processing it consciously. Responses, because once behaviour breaks down, it’s essential to know how to respond and restore calm. And Relationships, because understanding one’s own state as well the students’ is a powerful way to understand how to deal with classes, from SEND awareness, to appreciating how the human mind learns, remembers, focuses, as well as handling stress and processing an emotionally draining job.

    2. Methodology. Just as important as being formally instructed in a range of strategies was the way in which new teachers were trained in them. At one extreme, we see some courses deliver a forty five minute lecture to anxious rows of trainees, then a wave from the dock as their ship leaves port. They might as well be shot from a clown’s cannon into a bear cage. But even in courses where behaviour training was intended to be accrued from the classroom, it was often akin to the expectation of osmosis. We wouldn’t expect someone to learn how to drive from the Highway Code manual, nor would we pass them the driver's wheel while caning it at 100 mph against the traffic on the M1.



    Please don't panic, but can anyone on board fly a plane?

    So we focused on methods that aspired to the maximised, structured understanding of the practical matter of running a room: coaching; role plays; filmed teaching immersed in reflective conversations, feedback, and incremental improvements. This currently is an enormously fertile field for improvement. By physically enacting the movements and methods of good teachers, new colleagues learn the micro-behaviours of their profession in a low stakes, high value environment. We even nodded aspirationally to those courses that provided structured environments like this prior to the beginning of the school training year (eg Summer schools, where candidates could practice role playing common scenarios with one another). It’s amazing how much these techniques help with the practice of teaching.

    The situations we encounter as teachers are varied and complex; but they are not infinite, and most of them can be anticipated and placed in a taxonomy (eg lateness, children cussing one another); why not prepare teachers for these situations so that their response is practiced rather than created ad hoc? Routines, and language scripts can be of immense help in reducing the cognitive load of a high-pressure emotionally challenging and intellectually taxing role such as teaching.

    Practical magic

    We found other things that made good sense: tutors, mentors and trainees in behaviour management should, as much as possible, have demonstrated and fairly recent classroom experience. This was in order to reduce as much as possible the curious situation that sometimes occurs when such matters are trained by someone who themselves may not have optimal skills in this area, or believes that an academic qualification alone entitles them to train others. Classroom management has an enormous practical and experiential component. No carpenter would learn their trade by studying at the feet of a dendrologist alone (although such people may still have valuable lessons to impart in other areas related to this field). We also emphasised that students should be taught these techniques throughout their course, threaded through everything else, as well as discretely, and that skills in this area should be formally assessed and examined by the production of eg a digital portfolio of filmed lessons.

    This raised a few eyebrows, but we supported it because it provided evidence that training had actually happened for one thing (avoiding the ‘here’s a hand out on behaviour, now you’re trained’ problem) plus it built a portfolio that was actually useful- the sessions could be reviewed and reflected upon. Any data protection issues could be sensibly decided in advance of the course, and recording is now a cheap and practical possibility for everyone in this age of phone cameras.

    You're not even a real teacher *kisses teeth*

    The ministerial response was very positive (‘this is a recommendation with which we strongly agree, and we would encourage all providers to ensure that their programmes are structured accordingly’). While they stopped short of making our recommendations mandatory (which was itself one of our recommendations- we strongly believe that what we’ve put together is a clear, sensible and flexible model for all providers, to interpret in their own contexts), we expect it to be promoted in other ways:

    ‘Our recent White Paper, Educational Excellence Everywhere, published in March 2016, set out plans to develop a new set of quality criteria that will in future be applied when training places are being allocated to providers. We will therefore consider how best the new framework of content can be used to inform those criteria, with a view to ensuring that all providers who are allocated training places are clearly demonstrating the quality of content in their courses. Further detail of how we intend to apply the new criteria to the allocation of ITT places from 2017/18 onwards will be published shortly.’
    Nick Gibb, writing in Initial Teacher Training:Written statement - HCWS83 

    There is more than one lever in education, and if- as we hope- the above commitment is carried through, then we would be proud and delighted to see these recommendations absorbed into mainstream practice in ITT.

    Improving behaviour management training is one of the biggest opportunities we have for transforming education, the professional experience of teaching, and the life chances of children. The beauty of this is that there are experts in behaviour in every school; all we seek to do is unify and disseminate the best of what we already know about running a room. That’s why I’m perfectly happy for some people to say that much of what lies in this report is uncontroversial; that’s exactly right. It shouldn’t be. But so many teachers aren't even getting these basics imparted to them in a structured, conscious, habitual way. And many teachers couldn't consciously express what it is they do well, because it's often such an intuitive process.

    It’s time to end that anomaly. Teachers deserve a guarantee that before, during and after they pass through the ITT hatchery, they will be exposed to the very best training in managing and optimising the behaviour available. It’s one of the biggest fears of trainee teachers; it puts people off applying; it’s one of the most commonly cited reasons for leaving the profession; it’s one of the chief training needs according to Head Teachers.

    We hope that this report will help to support the ITT sector in building their own programs of excellence. And incidentally it was a huge pleasure putting this together; the responses from the sectors were fantastic- hundreds of people, institutions and groups readily supplied evidence and experience to our discussions. It reminds me, if I needed it, that teaching is still one of the best sectors in our public space. Let's make it even better.





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  2. Amanda Spielman, yesterday


    An advisory vote was taken recently where an expected outcome was surprisingly rejected. Not Brexit, but the Education Select Committee’s recent decision not to approve Amanda Spielman’s appointment as HMCI. I think that’s unfortunate, mainly because I think Spielman is exactly what the education sector needs right now.

    Ofsted’s role with schools isn’t to tell teachers how to teach. That misapprehension has rightly been binned in the last 5 or 6 years. Indeed, one of the principal achievements of Wilshaw’s reign on the Iron Throne was to dislocate the infamous ‘preferred teaching style’ of Ofsted that was never formally enshrined but still existed in the gaps between statutes (which is why it took so long to identify and eradicate; it needed a campaign of whistle-blowing through the similarly informal forum of social media to expose it. No mechanism existed within its own structure to collate these concerns, much less address them.) There’s precedent for an HMCI not having taught in schools- Stewart Sutherland was a lecturer for example- but that misses the point.

    Spielman is one of the most qualified people I know to run a hydra like Ofsted. I’d probably agree that the inspectorate covers too broad a remit, and should be split in some way, but the suggestion that Spielman is less capable than previous incumbents is unsustainable. Her CV reads like Genghis Khan’s to-do list: start-up impossibly successful academy chain transforming the lives of thousands of children? Check. Chair Ofqual through some of its most challenging times? Check. What am I missing here? Where in her resume does it say anything other than ‘runs enormous educational organisations like an army of ninjas’?


    Could you just reach into your ribcage and tear out your heart please?

    HEY HIRE THIS LADY CHECK THE PASSION
    The strangest charge against her is ‘lacks passion.’ For a start, passion is demonstrated by action, not wept in a monologue across an interview bench. It bleeds out of everything she’s done. I’m forever telling my sixth formers to can that weasel word from their personal statements to UCAS, because it’s an empty claim to make. Poor old Emily Davison; how on earth will we ever know she was passionate about women’s suffrage? I mean, she threw herself in front of King George V’s horse, but she never mentioned she felt ‘passionately’ about it so we’ll never know, I guess. Maybe candidates should thump the tables a little more, or roar at Head Teachers’ conferences in Brighton College.

    I’ve met Spielman on many occasions; she’s spoken at several researchED conferences. She knows an extraordinary amount about the realities of schools, the gauntlet of disadvantage and opportunity that they represent, and possesses one of the five best minds in UK education. And I believe she understands exactly what kind of inspectorate my profession now needs. Not one that will attempt to be the arbiter of what good teaching is- that should be a conversation the teaching profession drives for itself, in partnership with other communities like ITT, research, and professional bodies. Ofsted can get the Hell out of that frankly. The biggest problem we had with Ofsted was that it crashed into the profession’s own sense of agency and self-analysis. Never mind what we thought, you better second-guess what the inspector wants otherwise *draws finger across throat*.

    Spielman has already drawn attention to the perverse disruption of the observer effect. (‘In science, the term observer effect refers to changes that the act of observation will make on a phenomenon being observed. This is often the result of instruments that, by necessity, alter the state of what they measure in some manner.’) She’s also spoken about the possibly of jettisoning the Outstanding judgement, on the grounds that Ofsted’s role might not be to define excellence (which perversely might have the effect of codifying, mortifying and therefore ossifying its generation). This is an HMCI-in-waiting who really appears to understand that the next phase in its development is a gear shift away from being a GREAT BIG SCARY BEAR towards something more supportive.

    And as for the claim that she may struggle building bridges with the sector, well, irony was just found at the bottom of Loch Lomond, with iron bars in its pockets. I’m watching my social media streams right now and can barely see anything other than support for Spielman, and wonder that her capacities could possibly be overlooked. I’ve never met a more popular choice. Anyone who claims that ‘the profession doesn’t trust her’ hasn’t been talking to the fairly large part of the profession I engage with. Perhaps some of the disapproval has come about because she’s perceived as being on the ‘wrong team’ in education, someone who won’t rock the boat. Well, anyone who thinks Spielman is some kind of Secretary of State poodle, doesn’t know her very well at all. She’s fiercely independent. And remember that Wilshaw was brought in as a Goveian ubermensch, but as the years passed he stirred on the slab and reminded everyone that while the HMCI role may appear to be a grace-and-favour appointment, it can be more akin to animating Frankenstein’s monster.

    Oh God not the buck


    Cersei Lannister, Queen of Kings Landing
    Finally, there was concern that she claimed the buck didn’t stop with Ofsted. Of course it doesn’t. Anyone who thinks that responsibility for any event can be easily reduced to something so simple as a single ‘buck’ shouldn’t criticise anyone clever enough to understand that responsibility is diffuse. Schools, for example, need to take personal ownership over some of their actions too. If you want Ofsted to continue to be the universal arbiter of all standards, fine: believe in mono bucks and get Wilshaw’s big brother. If you want partnerships and autonomy, then defy that.

    In case I’m not being clear enough, I think Spielman would be a terrific HMCI; I think she’s exactly the right shape for the role as it stands now; the time for Pale Riders is passed. I hope the Select Committee, wise as it is, reconsiders its support. These are turbulent times; we need stability, professional administration of governance, and someone who will navigate calmly and sensibly through emergent challenges such as the roles of MATs and RSCs. And we need it yesterday.
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  3. They say you don’t miss what you have ’til it’s gone. Last Monday morning, I lost the use of my hands. The full Double-Skywalker. At 6am I woke with my organic alarm clock baby Benjamin, and could barely lift him from his crib. Over breakfast we competed for who dropped most porridge. By noon I couldn’t fasten a button; by two I wasn’t capable of turning a key or a driving wheel without every crumb of my concentration. By three I was in hospital undergoing tests, bloods, X-Rays and ECGs; I could touch my nose but not scratch it; I could walk a straight line but not draw one. By six I could no longer sign my name, and when they released me at seven I only made it back in the car by treating my hands as spades rather than a prehensile Swiss Army knife.

    Before that I’d gone far enough up the tree to meet the NHS end-of-level boss consultant, who puzzled over my symptoms before ordering a MRI. When I asked what diagnoses they were considering, they didn’t sugar coat it. 
    ‘MS, possibly; or muscular dystrophy. Maybe a stroke.’ 

    I know- good times, right? I’m almost carelessly optimistic, but there is an abyss in such moments from which it is quite impossible to entirely extricate oneself. I’m 44 and have three people at home I would not bear to see hurt in any way. Nothing at that point offered any kind of positive angle; there was little to make the most of there. From a day where I was expecting to plan some lessons and pick up my kids, I was now considering the best ways to spare my family any further hardship. They sent me home with a caution to return if things got worse. 

    Next day they got worse. I could barely hold a tissue, and I had to be driven to hospital this time, where they brought the MRI forward to the next day. By now I couldn’t pick up my ten month old boy without using my arms like chopsticks. With a lot of time on my hands but no hands with which to spend it, I was glad of social media, and big screen buttons I could tap with a claw, as I could no longer use a keyboard. I had to shower like a bear standing in a stream, and I slept that night in dread.

    Thursday I checked in early for the MRI. If you’ve never been for one then I can only describe it as the worst theme park ride ever. On House it looks like a bed in a 25th century travel Lodge. In reality it involved headphones, a neck and face brace to keep you still so you feel locked in, before you were loaded into the white plastic chamber like a flesh bullet into an enormous six-gun. ‘Would you like some music?’ asked the radiographer. ‘We have Youtube.’ I declined, on the grounds that if things went badly I would not only end up in a wheelchair, but I’d ruin a perfectly loved song in the process. 

    An hour and a half inside a tubular coffin listening to what I can only describe as the Philip Glass and Brian Eno having a knife-fight in the BBC sound effects cabinet; as Koyaanisqatsi raged around me ninety minutes crawled by, and the machine clattered and crackled and I clenched my teeth in case my crowns flew out, no matter what the radiographer said. My mind wandered to a childhood certainty that I had swallowed a five pence piece that never saw daylight. I wondered if it would tear itself through my navel like Geiger’s homunculus. 

    Another three hours waiting for a neuro consult to tell me if I needed to get ramps installed, and how long I had before they made an inspirational movie out of my life. I’m joking, but then, I was shaking. 

    Finally, the neurologist, who asked me to sit down in what I’m sure was a gesture of civility, but to me foreshadowed nothing but doom. He passed me a piece of paper:

    MRI Head
    MRI Spine whole
    The brain is normal
    The spinal cord is normal with no cord compression

    ‘All clear,’ Mr Bennett. ‘How do you feel?’ How did I feel? Like I’d just been handed my whole future back; like a piano hit the spot next to me on the pavement; like the luckiest son of a bitch ever. I felt alive. Alive, when I thought I was staring down the barrel of a gun for the next twenty years, withering before my family’s eyes. 

    He couldn’t say what caused it- a virus possibly, or an electrolyte imbalance, but whatever it was, it was lifting, and had started to recede that morning slightly. In the hospital cafe I tried to dent a can in my grip; I still couldn’t, but I could hold it. I could hold it. 

    By now I can type again, although my fingers feel like someone tied a roll of pound coins to each knuckle. My signature looks like my wife made my kid sign a father’s day card. I can shave again. I got my hands back.

    Few things grieve us more by their absence than by the loss of something simultaneously vital and monotonously reliable; the metronome of your heart; a parent; a place to sleep, a stable job. We take so much for granted, and it’s no revelation to say that our health is overlooked every second until it starts to elude us. Until this week, the question of the United Kingdom’s place in Europe, or even it’s own constituent parts, was of no concern to me; now it feels like a trunk full of rubies hanging over a smelting pit. 

    I returned to work today for the first time in almost a week, a wall of catching up circling around me like sandbags, things to be done, emails teeming and squawking to be released and fed. None of that mattered, at least for that moment, at least until I forgot what I had almost lost again and life got in the way of appreciating life’s bounty. I think that is one of the great pivotal lenses of adulthood: the ability to appreciate what you have at every point, which is one of the palpable lessons that being in the moment attempts to teach us. As children, we know only the baselines of our own culture and privilege. I never understood what my parents gave me until I tried to give it to someone else, for example. Sometimes we have to lose something, or risk losing it, to value it. It’s a hard lesson to teach students but we must, or they’ll squander riches they assume are indestructible and eternal, like freedom of speech, or the right to travel, or learning. 


    Ask any pilgrim how it feels to find a shower and a bed after three weeks on the road to Santiago. 

    That’s how I feel today. I feel grateful. And, I feel alive. 




    As a token of that gratitude, I made an offering to the Gods of Hubris via this website, and if you were so inclined feel free to do so too. You will have your own pilgrimage. 
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  4. Would you Adam and Eve it? Hollywood is flirting with the Bible again. In a culture where the salons of mainstream media are devoutly secular, religion finds it hard to get traction. But there is undoubtedly still a huge market in the temple: Gibson’s Passion of the Christ turned water into Cristal by marrying two audiences: those looking for powerful, operatic narrative, and those for whom attendance is a form of worship. To date, it’s grossed over $600 million, which is a lot to render unto Caesar. 


    Gone are the days when sword and sandals epics like The Robe and Ben Hur could rattle their rosaries with impunity; post modernism demands that we now deconstruct religious films in a way that satisfies the impulse to rationalise. There is an almost absurd tension in a cinematic culture where giant robots can wrestle metadimensional alien conquerors without examination, but any film that depicts say, the miracles of the Talmud has to have its papers stamped and wear its piety round its neck as it waves a bell, warning the unwary.


    So, to Noah. Russell Crowe is, by now, the master of these kinds of muscular patriarchs, part Liam Neeson, part Maximus Decimus. He occupies the role beautifully. Darron Aronofsky, one of Hollywood’s most interesting directors, wields the megaphone. His The Fountain  (one of my favourite films in the last decade, and I suspect I may be alone in the world when I say this) showed he could do mystical transcendentalism. The Wrestler showed he could do brawn and blood and burly men out of step with their times.  I don't know what Black Swan showed. This is film with, really, four actors: Crowe, agonising, and sawing, and submitting in sequence; Ray Winstone playing Tubal-Cain, the serial villain; Anthony Hopkins, playing Methuselah as a senile Welsh Gandalf, a role he has been contractually obliged to play since 1993; and the Ark, in a welcome return to our theatres since Evan Almighty.


    The Genesis account of Noah is spartan to say the least. Aronofsky’s used it as the napkin script for the IMDB Noah. The contrast is interesting. In the non-CGI Flood Narrative, Lamech, Noah's father, fathers him when he is 182 years old. You heard me. And far from being couponed by Ray Winstone’s Mespotomian gangster Tubal, he somehow struggled on for a mere 595 more years. Barely enough time to boil a pomegranate. And Noah, as the last of the antediluvian ubermensche, begat his three kids when he was 500. You also heard that right. I know some couples have a honeymoon period between getting married and starting a family, but that's positively lethargic, him and Mrs Noah (never named in the Bible, natch) gettin’ busy for half a millennia.


    The film swivels and hinges on a theme that is suggested by the Spartan Mosaic account but rarely developed: environmentalism. Noah appears on the screen as the world’s first Greenpeace activist, almost Hindu in his reverence for every thing that creeps, grows and respires in any form. He even scolds his son Shem for picking a Daisy, which in a world parched and blasted by sin, seems pretty small beer to get anxious about. And he’s vegetarian! This sits uneasily with Genesis Noah, who not only filled his Ark with animals two by two (except for fish, dinosaurs and unicorns- they could fuck off) but actually brought in pairs of animals that were not clean to eat and seven of the ones that were good to eat. It wasn’t an Ark, it was a goddamn larder. But I liked Soya Noah. I wonder if he, too, had allergies, and caused problems when everyone split  the restaurant bill?

    I have to mention the Watchers. The Watchers are very odd. It’s like the Never Ending Story met The Seventh Seal. In the Bible, the ‘sons of God’ (angels) ‘saw the daughters of man and saw that they were fair’ (comedy whistle effect) ‘and they took them wives of all they chose.’ AMIRIGHT, ANGELS?. The children of this controversial system of matrimony were ‘giants of the earth’, although after that there’s no mention, which seems a bit remiss. The film doesn't miss the same chance, making them, essentially, giant stone ents, hroom-hrooming around the script, teaching men how to build steam engines and iPads, supplying cheap immigrant labour for ark-building (they come here, taking our women, doing all our jobs for free) and giving Aronofsky a chance to add the Battle for Helm’s Deep into the Flood narrative. Initially they capture and threaten Noah Then they join forces with him against the evil king. And I realised where I'd seen this before: Flash Gordon. Hroom. 



    Emma Watson acted rather than inhabited her invented role of Ila, presumably created to prevent audiences wondering, as primary children automatically have since time began, if everyone in the Bible had incest for dessert (fundamentalist answer: yes). Barren land, barren wombs: the theme of fertility grew ripe throughout the film, as the sterile Watson anguished about her infertility (which was touching), and the eco-theme hammered home the idea that humanity had poisoned the earth with the sin of their industry and avarice, and old Noah determined that God had decided all humanity should perish for its wickedness…EVEN THOUGH HE MADE NOAH BUILD AN ENORMOUS  GODDAMN ARK THAT WOULD SAVE HIM.


    This led to one of the most difficult and almost successful inventions of the story: Noah becomes Bad, Red Kryptonite Noah, determined that Humanity shouldn’t  survive past his family’s life spans (which would only be, oh, 900 years or so, probably. Hardly worth getting out of bed for, really). It’s a dangerous gambit, to turn your protagonist into a monster in the third act. That’s fine for a plot twist in Scream VII, but less so if you want to bring your audience on the character journey. By the middle of the third act, I, and probably many others, was checking out on Noah and rooting for Winstone’s cruel, arrogant tyrannical- but specifically, not infanticidal- Tubal to bury Crowe. 


    It works…just. But only because Crowe follows in the Biblical  tradition where God instructs that Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac as a test of faith. The God of the Old Testament, it has to be said, does not mess about with cuddles. In fact, Genesis begins with one of my favourite lines in the Bible, Genesis 6:6- ‘And it repented the LORD that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him at his heart.’ Let that settle in: God repented. He regretted something he had done. That’s an astonishing quality to ascribe to a perfect, and therefore changeless being. 


    And then, in a moment of ghastly tension that was difficult to watch, Noah goes to butcher the children that he believes represent a defiance of God’s genocidal will….and fails. Or rather he succeeds, feeling only love as he looks at their wee faces. I was watching through my fingers. Even Abraham didn't have t go through with it in the end (with the Angel Michael jumping out at the last moment shouting PUNKED at Abraham, and I bet he and Isaac laughed about it all the way home, right before Sarah his wife turned his balls into a purse. Watson's final scene with Crowe was unexpectedly touching, and the whole character arc, and plot, rested on that gentle moment of mercy.


    It’s a film that divides, of course. Many Christians still believe in the literal truth of the Flood narrative (although ti’s worth remembering that most churches, including the Catholic and Anglican churches, long ago accepted evolution and the Old Earth theory of the Big Bang as the most probably stories of creation), and in America (of course) there were accusations of impiety and blasphemy (most amusingly, by several Christian groups that hadn't actually seen it yet. WHAT DO WE WANT? WE HAVE NO IDEA. WHEN DO WE WANT IT? etc). Aronofsky sneakily slips in the six day Creation of Genesis 1 in a CGI sequence that clearly apes the Big Bang and the evolution of the species in a way that would make the History Channel proud. 



    It’s been banned in several of the Muslim states, although that’s hardly remarkable when you remember that the depiction of any prophets in film or picture is considered sacrilege. And it has coined it in, already making almost $350 million at the Bronze Age box offices. Noah has made his Ark deposit back.




    It’s a triumph for many reasons, despite its Biblical length and supporting actors so arboreal you could make a mast of them. For one, it’s something that Aronofsky does well that few Big Tent movies do in the popcorn shops: it drags creation themes, religion, faith, mercy, sin, stewardship and dominion into what is in turns an action movie, a family saga, a getaway, a history narrative and a parable. It’s not often Hollywood does Big Ideas like that. And it does so in a way that mimics Cameron’s ability to tell vast, cosmic stories through the lens of a few characters. Noah the film is like the Ark itself: improbable, vast, heaving under its own weight. But it floats. Better, it sails. 
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  5. I really should have done this a while ago. Last year the TES decided to do the decent thing and make us legal, and now I blog on their website once, sometimes twice a week here. The same swears, the same cant and rhetoric, the same excruciating application of metaphor, the same tiresome pop culture- it's all there.

    You can leave comments underneath each blog, just like you could here, although you might have to sign in- like stabbing, it takes a second. I'll blog about non-educational stuff here from time to time, in preparation for the launch of my new website in March 2014.

    Best wishes

    Tom

    http://community.tes.co.uk/tom_bennett/b/weblog/default.aspx

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  6. If you're a Twitter user in the UK, you can't help have noticed that it's Troliday today. This is the latest crest of a wave of protest currently ebbing and rising in response to a particularly grisly series of high-profile misogynistic attacks on, among others Mary Beard, and many other women who have the temerity to be too high profile and successful.

    The aim of Troliday is for users to spend 24 hours away from Twitter in an act of solidarity and as an attempt to persuade Twitter to police its badlands more carefully, both of which are perfectly noble goals. But I can't find enthusiasm for Troliday. I think it's self-defeating. I think it's a good cause but a bad strategy. Many of my reasons have been exhaustively described already throughout the day, so I'll reiterate briefly:

    1. To paraphrase the NRA, if we silence ourselves, then the only people left who get to say anything are the ones with the complicated and unresolved childhoods.
    2. A boycott only works when withholding your services or goods actually hurts the organisation targeted. If a handful of people in the media decide to withhold their Sunday sermons, life very much proceeds as it was.
    3. When you battle an idea, you need bigger ideas to win.

    Memes, and the battle for the bigger idea

    I'll explain. For most people, a meme is a recurrent internet funny, like the scowling cat, the Facepalm of Picard, or Gandalf telling some unlucky high-schoolers that they shall indeed, not pass. But the term was coined by Richard Dawkins in his book the Selfish Gene. As opposed to the gene, which was a unit of genetic inheritance, a meme was a unit of cultural or intellectual capital that could be passed on to other members of the species. The important thing was that memes acted like genes: if they offered a survival advantage or some kind of utility, they would replicate successfully and propagate. For example, the habit of washing ones hands before eating has a benefit, and so survives, whereas the practice of trepanning does not.

    What excites those who study memes is that it's a model that can usefully describe all kinds of cultural processes. Communism is a collection of memes, as is Capitalism. So is Coca Cola, and Apple, and Hula-Hoops, and social networking, and ... anything that we do. Gangnam Style is a meme that acted like a virus before exhausting itself, having consumed its host, gratefully.

    And that's why it's important not to stay silent. Unlike World WarII, this isn't a battle against an enemy with clear ideological and geographical boundaries. This is a contest of ideas. On one side (and I abhor the linear description of two poles, but it'll do for explanation) is the idea that women are objects that exist as a helpmeet to man; on the other, the idea that they are not, that they deserve every privilege and consideration that their male counterparts enjoy. On the first side we have the glass ceiling, the male gaze, patria potestas, feet binding, and the fear of weak men who cannot sustain a reasonable erection without constructing women as vile whores. These are ideas.

    On the other side, we have universal suffrage, No means No, Dworkin, Wollstonecraft, Greer, the Equal Rights Movement and JS goddamn Mill if you please. These are other ideas. These ideas are in constant battle with each other, in abstract or concrete battlefields, shifting every day, taking place in new theatres every moment. Justice of any sort will not appear by itself, unless you believe that it exists as a natural commodity, which I do not. It must be constructed. It must be created, constantly, from the atoms of chaos and disorder that constitute our moral universe.

    So I cannot conceive of silence in this context. Silence is an abdication of responsibility from wrestling with other ideas. Other than the idea behind the silence, which isn't entirely without merit, the silence itself is a vacuum of ideas. It is the absence of ideas. It is shadow. It is darkness. The only ideas that are left to replicate are the ideas of unhappy and fearful men, cupping their timid viscera and congratulating each other.

    How should we conduct ourselves in this arena? By speaking. The internet has bred courage in men who would previously have lived lives of desperate anonymity. The cure for their candour is exposure; confrontation; the spotlight of infamy. Mary Beard so deftly demonstrated this when she was party to the exposure of one such braveheart, whose bawdy boldness stopped at the point his mother found out.

    By all means, let Twitter design methods that ease the process of exposure and reporting; they profit from our participation, and should be held responsible for good governance. I couldn't organise a car boot sale without making sure my participants were reasonably safe from harm, so let them spend some money on their algorithms and customer care advisers.

    And culture needs to start catching up with technology. When people start to realise that a threat to kill and rape becomes a published artefact once you press send, and redress can be legally sought against it, then they might think twice before airing their vile opinions beyond the pool tables and bars of privacy.

    But the biggest weapon against these cruel, selfish and exploitative ideas, is better ideas. Police are essential, but it isn't only police that make out streets safe. We have to reclaim the streets ourselves, police our own corridors too. I cannot change the whole world- no matter what some journalists with odd ideas of their importance think- but I can do something about the spot right in front of me. Any garbage that appears in my timeline gets questioned, just the same way that I'd cross the street to help if an old lady was being hassled. That's something we can all do.

    So I can't condone silence. It isn't the non compliance of Rosa Parks, or the Salt Marches. It's cargo-cult activism; it apes activism, but it does nothing. It's activism with no calories. Worse, because it temporarily satisfies the pang for justice, it actually denies justice the opportunity to be performed.

    Finally it hasn't been helped by the slightly smug way in which a few of its proponents have implied that their absence would somehow end Twitter.  In fact, for that alone, perhaps the silence served at least some small purpose. Self important, self-elected salons are another idea entirely.
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  7. So, I have a book out.

    It's been a long time coming. Since I started teaching, I knew there was something suspicious about what I was being told worked in classrooms, and what actually happened. It started in teacher training, as well-meaning lecturers and reading lists advocated apparently cast-iron guarantees that this method of educating children, or that way of directing behaviour, would be efficient. It continued on DfE sponsored training programs where I was taught how to use NLP, Brain Gym, Learning Styles and soft persuasion techniques akin to hypnosis.

    Then I began teaching, guided by mentors who assured me that other contemporary orthodoxies were the way to win hearts and minds. It took me years to realise that thing I could smell was a bunch of rats wearing lab coats. And why should any new teacher question what they are told? Establishment orthodoxies carried the authority of scripture. And often it was justified with a common phrase- ‘the research shows this.’

    I remember reading Ben Goldacre’s Bad Science, and being amused and horrified by the cavalier ways in which science could be hijacked by  hustlers. His harrowing of Brain Gym led me to wonder what else, like Descartes, I needed to question. What I discovered led me to write Teacher Proof.

    First of all I discovered that a lot of what was considered to be absolute dogma by many teachers, was built on quicksand.  Learning Styles, for example, were almost universally accepted by every teacher who trained me. It was a Damascan epiphany to find out that there was hardly a scrap of evidence to substantiate it, that the serious academic  community had washed its hands of it long ago. But it lingered on, a zombie theory, staggering from classroom to classroom, mauling lesson plans.

    Once I had peeled one strip of paper from the wall, I could do nothing else but keep pulling, and see how much came off. Much, much more, it turned out. First of all, I entered the world of pseudo-education, where optimistic internet sites boasted of Olympian gains to made by the adoption of this pill (often Omega 3), that smell (sometimes Lavender, sometimes not) or even this sound (the Mozart Effect, for instance). These, at least, seemed to be obvious pigs in pokes. Other companies sold hats- literally, thinking hats- of various colours, or exercises that promised to boost brain power. But they asked customers to gamble a lot more than a stamp, as Charles Atlas innocently proposed.

    Unfortunately, it was often just as bad when I progressed to the realms of alleged propriety; I found that a lot of what was practically contemporary catechism, was merely cant. Group work, three-part lessons, thinking skills, multiple intelligences, hierarchies of thinking like Bloom’s, all- at least to my poor eyes- appeared to rely on opinion and rhetoric as much as data. Delving deeper, I found that this was an affliction that affected the social sciences as badly as the natural sciences- perhaps worse, as natural sciences are at least readily amenable to verification. But any social science- from economics to sociology- is subject to inherent methodological restrictions that makes any claims to predictive or explanatory powers intrinsically difficult.

    Which isn’t to say that social science isn’t’ a powerful and urgent device with which to accrue an understanding of the human condition. But merely to require that its claims be interpreted appropriately. It is a very different proposition to claim, for example, that water boils at 100 degrees Celsius at sea level, than it is to say that children learn best in groups. The first can be at least disputed immediately, or not, by testing. The latter requires a plethora of causal factors to be adjusted and  accounted for. And to confound matters further, humans are notoriously hard to fit on a microscope slide. Nor are we always the most reliable of subjects.

    Sometimes this was the faulty of those writing the research; sometimes the research was, as Richard Feynman describes, Cargo Cult Science; sometimes the writers appeared to have no idea what the scientific method was, believing it to be some kind of fancy dress with which one clothed a piece of journalism; sometimes allegedly sober pieces of research were simply misinterpreted by a willing media; sometimes it was the teachers themselves that had misappropriated the findings; sometimes it was the policy makers who were hungry for a magic bullet and had already made their minds up about what they were buying.

    Whatever the reasons, it was clear: the educational research we were asked to assimilate in schools was often more like magic beans than magic bullets. That’s unhealthy. There are armies of earnest, dedicated professionals working in educational research who are horrified by some of the fantastical or flimsy claims made by the hustlers and their PRs. If educators want to get past this unhealthy  system of intellectual bondage, we need to become more informed about what the research actually says, and what good research actually means; about how hard it is to say anything for certain in education, and when claims can be ignored, and when they should be listened to.

    So I wrote Teacher Proof. It’s aimed primarily at people who work in schools, but it’s also for anyone involved in education, research and policy. I am, unashamedly, a teacher. I admit I have entered a world- of educational research- in which I am only a guest. I am aware that in my travels I may be more of a tourist than a native. But I have tried to write as honestly and as plainly as I can, about matters that affect me deeply- the education of children. If I have made any errors- and I’m sure that I have- I welcome correction, and discussion. I can’t shake the feeling that teachers would do well to make research more of their business, get involved, participate in studies, and perhaps even conduct some of their own, with guidance. I’d also like to think that researchers would be well advised to ensure their theories are tested objectively, with an eye to disproving them, in classrooms with meaningful sample sizes. There is a great deal of good that the two communities can do together.

    Perhaps then teachers can look forward to hearing the latest research, and run towards it; and researchers can see classrooms not as awkward inconveniences between data sampling and publication. There’s an awful lot of good research out there, but it gets drowned out by the bad.

    Good ideas, like decent whisky, need time to settle and mature. I suspect that we need to develop more of a critical faculty to sift the ideal from the merely idealistic. Maybe then we’ll be immune to novelty and fashion in pedagogy. Or, as I call it, Teacher Proof.
     
    Buy Teacher Proof HERE
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  8. Brace yourself
    Ken Robinson, godfather of unusually-used paperclips, is back. He's famous to millions of educators as the author and speaker behind the RSA animation 'How schools kill creativity', which among other awards, is also winner of 'the most superficially convincing but ultimately brainless education clip'- joint winner with Shift Happens. You might have seen him at a TED conference, if you're extremely rich, or on Youtube if you're not. I've never really understood the Cult of Ken. He's affable, intelligent, charismatic and passionate about helping children. But unfortunately he's also quite wrong in many matters regarding them.

    This week Ken has descended from TED Olympus to lecture Michael Gove on the National Curriculum. In an interview with The Guardian he says:
    '[The] current plans for the national curriculum seem likely to stifle the creativity of students and teachers alike.' 
     This does sound bad. Creativity is one of those abstracts so nebulous that it could mean a million things to a million ears. Most people would consider it a good thing, broadly, without being able to reify it. That's what makes any discussion about it so slippery.
    'The important issue here is that when he talks about creativity, Gove seems to mean what he says but to misunderstand what he's talking about. His views also suggest some serious misconceptions about teaching and learning in general.'
     That last bit made me sit up. I am neither the Secretary of State for Education, nor a Professor, but I am a teacher, which Sir Ken has never been, so I feel entitled to comment. Incidentally, that's an odd thing, isn't it? People are never been shy of expressing their opinions about education, no matter how little experience of it they actually  have. Many spurn Gove for his inexperience, but are more forgiving of Rosen or Robinson. I suspect it's simply affinity towards whomever says what we already believe, more eloquently. 

    I also have some dark views on people with PhDs in education and beyond who have built a life in education without ever doing the damned thing itself. It is rare to find an emeritus professor of mathematics who has never added anything up in his head. Robinson's wisdom springs from a well of theory, compounded by distinguished service, garnished with laurels. But I'll tether that beast for now.

    His main objection is that the new National Curriculum will stifle creativity. I confess, I'm left scratching my head as to how this will happen. In what subject? Has he even read it? This is the same National Curriculum (draft, of course) that contains compulsory Music...and Art....and Design Technology, right? And that's just the subjects that most obviously lend themselves to interpretation as creative endeavours. Yes, I can see how having all that art and music will just strain the creativity out of kids. Christ, it's like Mao's China.

    Will this harrowing happen in English, with its creative writing component? Where forming a critical assessment of texts studied is central to the whole enterprise? Perhaps he means in History, that much debated echo chamber of neurosis, where everyone is appointed because their favourite inspirational figure has fallen off the table? I have no idea. All I know is that the proposed curriculum as it stands can barely bear its own weight, so heavy with creative pursuits is it saddled.

    Robinson's Barely

    In his piece in the Guardian, Robinson explains what he defines creativity as. He also tackles Gove over his claims that creativity requires mastery before it can properly flourish, but this is a straw man (© Old Andrew) argument. Children- and all of us- are naturally creative. We create all the damn time. Every time we imagine anything that is beyond our immediate senses, we create. When we day dream, we create. When we fear, or hope, or plan, or imagine, we create. We are the architects of galaxies within our minds. Creativity is not some skill by itself; it has no substance. Creativity is the description we give to actions, events and objects once they have been created. It cannot be taught by itself. It can only emerge, unbidden, through the material we attempt to master. It reveals itself continuously through the way we design and solve problems.

    What we can do to help kids practise creativity is to give them something to create with. In a potter's hands this is clay. In the realm of our minds, the matter is ideas: knowledge is the atom of creativity; comprehension and understanding are its molecules. A child can be creative, as can a Master of Arts. But which one has the tools to create more extensively, constructively?

    A masterpiece, apparently
    Robinson also uses an odd argument when he discusses Hans Zimmer, the near omnipresent scorer of every other blockbuster movie this decade. Apparently he was so troublesome as a child he was kicked out of seven schools. SEVEN. Only a teacher can appreciate what an arse Hans Zimmer must have been as a child to get kicked out of so many schools, and I say that as a fan. School eight had a more unusual approach, however, which Robinson applauds:
    'The headmaster took him to one side on the first day and said: "Look, I've read all these reports. How are we going to avoid this sort of trouble here? What is it you really want to do?" Hans said that all he really wanted to do was play music. With the head's support, he spent most of the time doing exactly that. Slowly he became engaged in other work too.'
    I applaud the Head for his unorthodoxy. But what do we take from this? That schools should only let kids study what they like? That they can tell all the other teachers to fuck off? That may work if you have bottomless resources, and are dealing someone as predisposed to pursue music as Hans Zimmer (who attended Hurtwood House, a private school in Surrey incidentally) but we don't just teach children what they like, because they are children, and what they like may not be what they need.

    People like Robinson seem to believe that our jobs as educators is to uncover the talents and aptitudes personal to each child, and then to elevate them. This assumes that such aptitudes exist, uncovered, undiscovered, like statues of David buried in cold lava, and our jobs are to be archaeologists of character. Who buries these statues? What fairy hand blesses each child with gifts, and then challenges its guardians with discovering them? What immortal hand or eye?

    Two problems: firstly, its doubtful such talents exist intrinsically. They must be generated, not revealed. Zimmer was the son of two musicians, who grew up in a music studio and played by himself for countless hours. I wonder if that's where the aptitude came from? I'm just guessing. Take a child into ten different lifetimes and watch as ten different lives grow from each path. DNA isn't destiny, and experience carves us into the shapes that it will. We're not just archaeologists; we're sculptors.

    Secondly, it is the entitlement of every child to the legacy of their culture's heritage, whether they bloody like it or not. Universal education has at its heart this concern: that no matter what your background, you are entitled to a broad and rigorous exposure to the best that culture, science and thought has produced. To do anything else is to deny children- and it will be poor children especially- worlds beyond their experiences, and entire universes of opportunity. Allow a child, even a parent, to decide what children should learn, and we risk a regress towards cultural solipsism. Lucky Hans Zimmer; but no culture could, or should, build an education system on his experiences.

    Is Robinson serious when he suggests this? That we should allow children to find their heart song and never mind all that beastly sums and Norman Conquest rubbish? Or that we should make lessons as entertaining as possible, and ensure that children are engaged at all times? Only a man who has never taught could think this. Or do we accept that learning, like anything worthwhile, is often hard work? That opinion won't draw applause at a TED conference populated by believers and acolytes, but it's the truth.

    Here's to you, Mr Robinson

    Robinson is a kind and articulate man, but he's as much a credible educational revolutionary as Paolo Coelho is a plumber. He may hold the LEGO Prize for international achievement in education ( and I am NOT making that up: best award ever) but his theories of what creativity is, and how it must be taught, are sophistry and illusion. There isn't a shin-bone of evidence to support what he says. Creativity cannot be taught directly. We're just not that powerful, or precise. Our medicine is not strong enough. We can demonstrate how others have been creative. We can give them an anvil, a forge and a hammer. We can show them swords, and shoes, and breastplates. We can let them try for themselves more and more as they learn.

    But the rest is up to them. And the National Curriculum in its draft form does nothing to deter this.I really like Sir Ken. But he should stick to stand-up.



    The interview in the Guardian:

     http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2013/may/17/to-encourage-creativity-mr-gove-understand

    Shift doesn't happen. My earlier thoughts on Ken Robinson's RSA Animate video

    http://behaviourguru.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/box-shift-doesnt-happen-ken-robinson.html?q=robinson
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  9. 'I can't wear the same thing twice.'- Kelly Mok
    I turned down a job teaching in a Hong Kong school a few years back. If I'd seen Tiger Teachers (Unreported World, Channel 4) before I responded, I might have thought twice. The Chinese island has seen such an explosion in after school tutoring that celebrity super tutors have emerged, some of them earning millions of pounds every year.

    Tutors like Richard Eng, the founder of the Beacon College, an extra curricular institute that sees 40,000 students walk politely through its doors, sit quietly and say f*ck all as Tutor Kings and Queens like Richard apparently do little other than lecture to them for an hour and a half. The students are prepping for the Hong Kong Diploma of Secondary Education (HKDSE), the ultimate arbiter of University entrance. If you thought our exams were high stake, take a look at JJ, the student the program followed through his time at Beacon College. I've seen hydraulics on Tower Bridge under less stress. JJ was wound tighter than a mousetrap as he prepared for the Rubicon of the exams. Access to Uni would open opportunities of salary and occupation that would be closed if his grades didn't cut it. But if you expected his parents to be awful Tiger Tyrants, they were surprisingly low key. Mum was brutal when poor JJ opened his mock results; 'You're not going to pass,' she said, in her best Mum-of-the-year impression. Dad was more sanguine. 'As long as he's happy,' he said. 'I just don't want him to have to drive a cab like me.' And I thought, you didn't do so bad, mate.

    The competition for Uni entrance is so intense that it creates a Malthusian pond: 80,000 students compete for 17,000 places, and there are no illusions about the value of coming second in this race. In a culture where certification is a matter of status, failing to get into tertiary education is a badge of caste.

    Which is where the Tutor Kings and Queens appear. There's always a profit to be made in any circumstance: in war, munition stocks rise; in peace, mortar. In any market, where there is demand, there is supply. If extra tutoring conveys an advantage, then in order to flourish, that advantage is desired. The problem with advantage, as any giraffe knows, is that once everyone has it, it no longer represents an advantage, and the extra tutoring serves to simply prevent falling behind. And the spring tightens further.

    Dickmobile
    Richard Eng is one of the most famous of the new wave of Tutor Kings. Richard wears Louis Vuitton, and drives a Lamborghini with the number plate RICHARD. Although he's 49, he looks half that; some of the other teachers on his Beacon College website look like they could be heart throbs and pin-ups. The documentary showed us the fruits of his trade: a penthouse apartment and a privately educated daughter with ambitions of Stamford University in the USA. She won't have to sit the HKDSE, of course, as she doesn't attend state school.

    What does this show us? Eng himself admitted that the Hong Kong system of examination was a 'factory for creating losers.' His decision not to send his own daughter to state school (a habit, coincidentally, apparently common in Hong Kong educationalists) is a bitter signal of its perceived weaknesses. It's an odd mirror for us in the UK: the Hong Kong system was, until recently fairly closely modelled on the British system. In primary school, many children regularly have two hours of homework every night. Behaviour is famously excellent, although even I have my limits as to how much is too much. It's one thing for pupils to do exactly as a teacher asks. It's another for this to allow the teacher to become little more than someone dictating from a powerpoint. With the little we were shown, I was deeply unmoved by the quality of the cramming sessions: sitting in silence as someone drones at you wouldn't be my preferred activity for remedial learning. Still, maybe we didn't see it all. Compared to this, I felt practically progressive. THAT'S how drilled it looked.
    Timetables...taught by Dick

    And what about state schools? What do they think? Here's a quote from the Slate:
    'Not for nothing do most of this city's rank-and-file teachers despise the tutorial industry. Educators at Hong Kong's heavily subsidized local schools earn about $60,000—roughly half of what a tutor who's just becoming a public figure brings in. Very few tutors have teaching backgrounds; cram chains like Modern Education are more likely to scout out young, charismatic lawyers or former beauty contestants. And in the contest to capture students' attention, plain, hardworking professors simply can't compete with miniskirted billboard personalities. In a strange irony, regular teachers often find that their lack of glamour makes them less credible as educators: Parents and their kids tend to believe that since mainstream schools are free and all teachers paid the same wage, the instructors have no real incentive to adequately prepare pupils for the public exams.
    The truth is that formal schools simply don't have the resources to pore over old tests, spot trends, develop shortcuts, and predict questions. Tutors deal in quick tricks proven to boost results. Their extracurricular sessions may not relay much in the way of real knowledge, but they deliver what they promise: high scores. "We're a supplement to day school, like a vitamin," says Eng.'
    THE DICK FORCE FIVE
    There is a danger, always, to easy adoption of international examples as evidence for improvements at home. Hong Kong is often lauded as an international jet rocket in the literacy and numeracy rankings, but with such a vast culture of docility in the classroom, and cramming after school (believed to be 85% of the school population), it's little wonder that we should see variations between Jimmy Lau and Jimmy Law. Given that behaviour in the UK is still a significant problem, and that after school tutoring is still a minority sport over here, I can't see parity any time soon. The worry is that we look at other aspects of the Kowloon model and mistakenly assume that aping them will benefit the children of Motherwell and Chester. Ironically, reformers in Hong Kong have looked to Britain for ways of driving improvement, settling on, among other things, project work, creativity and discovery learning, which just goes to show that it's possible to go backwards as well as forwards in educational reform. Give it a decade, and you'll see a Chinese Old Andrew or an Oriental Behaviour Shogun banging on about synthetic phonics, assertive discipline and the good old days.  

    I'm a huge fan of hard work; I also love the idea of kids slogging away to learn. But this Hong Kong market model is a beacon all right- it's a lighthouse, warning us from the rocks. The point of school isn't to get kids into university; the point of school is to educate children, because we view education as intrinsically valuable. University is an extrinsic end, and a very noble goal for anyone who wants to work hard enough to get in. But this miserable dystopian world of pass or fail is the death of both education and social mobility, as advantages are only conferred to those already enjoying advantage. Add to that the celebrity world of image-driven after-school tutorials, and it seems to make an educational culture more cruel for those at the bottom, not less.

    Actually, maybe I made the right decision after all.



    http://www.channel4.com/programmes/unreported-world/4od

    For the whole program.

    http://www.slate.com/articles/double_x/doublex/2011/08/meet_the_glamorous_celebrity_tutors_of_hong_kong.2.html

    Slate article by Hillary Brenhouse



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  10. The last GTC ad campaign
    One of my deeper shames is that I possess a certificate for NLP (see below). Worthless, utterly without value. Everyone at the course got one, which means that it's as precious an accolade as the sensor that toots when I walk into my local newsagent. You turned up? Congratulations, welcome to the Star Chamber. It's like getting a 'Yes' from David Walliams.

    But imagine if teachers could be certified in a way that you'd be proud to hang on your wall. I bring this up because an idea has broken the surface that's been submarine for several years: a Royal College of Teaching (RCOT). I wonder how many teachers are aware that there already is a College of Teaching? Well, there is, and what's more it's been around so long (since 1846), I'm surprised Dan Brown hasn't written a part for them as the shadowy overlords of education across the centuries. These days it's based in the Institute of Education, London, no doubt in some crepuscular underground ossiery. Plotting.

    Support for the idea of a RCOT has been very broad indeed. In fact, it might be the most omnipopular suggestion since Bank Holidays or pudding. An unlikely Justice League of Education has put its mighty shoulders to this: the NUT, the NAHT, the ASCL, the NASUWT, Michael Gove, Labour, the Council for Subject Associations, the Education Select Committee, have all dropped their white balls in the bag. With that kind of political will, it feels like pushing against an open door, or perhaps jump-starting a speeding train.So who's shovelling the coal?

    Michael Gove indicated his support for its inception last week, although he stressed that it would be independent of the DfE, perhaps aware that his patronage would be considered by some to be as welcome as Julia Burchill helping Suzanne Moore win an argument ('Here, let me put your ashtray fire out with this bucket of petrol'). He's right to do so. The establishment needs to stand very still and quiet if it wants these deer to come closer.

    A blue print for the RCOT is already being drawn up by the Prince's Teaching Institute, one of the Heir Apparent's charitable trusts formed in 2006 to promote the work of a series of Summer schools, themselves designed to 'bring together voices in education', which is a gloriously aristocratic ambition. Its provenance might suggest it might embody a somewhat homoeopathic attitude towards education. But an examination of their website reveals distinctly independent DNA: teacher training based on subject knowledge; professional development aimed at revisiting core knowledge, sabbaticals and so on. Now that makes a refreshing change.

    Before we are teachers, we are subject experts, otherwise we aren't fit to instruct anyone else. And yet, once we become teachers, how often are we encouraged to revisit the fuel and the flame that fired us in the first place? Most CPD consists of anodyne INSETS that are endured rather than enjoyed or embraced. Try telling your line manager you want to go on a training day specific to your subject, and watch the blank stare. Tell them you want to explore 'Displaying progress in 20 minutes for Ofsted' and their saddles will ululate like an Afghan widow.

    First session of the proposed Royal College
    The PTI's aims are interesting. They advise teachers to take a step back from the centrifuge of the school once in a while to re-evaluate and reignite their passion and raison d'etre for teaching. I took a teacher fellowship sabbatical a few years ago and it sharpened- possibly saved- my career vim. Priests do, and I suggest that we should too.

    Everyone *Hearts* the RCOT. Why?

    The reasons are obvious: in the Guild of Teachers mirror, everyone can see their ambitions reflected. To understand it further, look at where such a body places itself. For the immediate future, it's likely that its ambitions would be to provide a supplementary certification process to existing qualifications like QTS. It would be, in effect, a value-added supplement to the minimum height requirement of profession entry. Membership (in increments of mastery) could confer upon its participants the kudos of having achieved a certain level of acumen, CPD and evidenced attainment, which would then be redeemable in the job market.  That, so far, is as uncontroversial as custard.

    It's what comes afterwards that makes this a Game of Thrones. What if such a body started to appropriate QTS itself? Or certified approved CPD linked to job development? It could provide a magnetic north for teacher standards; it could define and prescribe the Shibboleths of good practice. In short, it could transform the way that teachers are trained, hired, evaluated and indirectly, promoted, retained and distributed. It could help to define what a teacher is. Add to that powers of excommunication and sanction, and you have three hotels on Mayfair.

    No small prize. No wonder people are- for the best of reasons- queueing up outside in their sleeping bags waiting for the doors to open.

    The fine print

    One of the main challenges in its emergent phase will be dealing with the Manichean cage fight occupying education for some decades, which might be broadly characterised by the child-centred and knowledge-centred approaches. Of course, depending on the mood and balls of the RCOT, they could simply pick a lane and race it like a dragster, but that would cleave a profession in two like Solomon's baby. If it were to assume powers of registration and accreditation it could be a powerful force one way or the other, and culture change would happen anyway. A wise body would accommodate both poles.

    My shame. Luckily I escaped.
    So what should it be? What shouldn't it be? We don't need another union; that pitch is as crowded as a conga in a coffin. We certainly don't need another General Teaching Council, unlovely, unloved and missed by no one, which by its death rattle had become, to teachers, nothing more than an annual debit on their bank statement for which they received...well, nothing really. It's greatest failure lay in what it didn't do rather than what it did. It didn't map good teaching- it merely punished the bad, and not always wisely, as a number of odd, high profile cases showed. It was meant to regulate the teaching profession- membership was compulsory in order to teach in maintained schools, and by its demise it had 500,000 teachers on its register- but the bar it set was so nebulous and so shallow that its impact was cursory.

    So what could a RCOT be? It could be what the GTC was meant to be, but wasn't.

    1. A regulatory body. Membership could be seen as a badge of credibility, something to be striven towards. At first, an aspiration. Later on, perhaps a minimum bar.
    2. A body of advocacy- not for pay, conditions, the profession of teachers- but for the practice of teaching. It could observe, analyse, dispute or promote the very best thinking in education- from both research and the collective well of experience, and take a lead in promoting and disseminating these treasures.
    3. A critical friend to itself. Teaching is not nursing or medicine. It is far more prone to dispute than either, because even the building blocks of educational debate are disputed. Because of this an RCOT needs to be a fluid, genuinely introspective body that welcomes, absorbs and accommodates the inevitable challenges from within and without that such a large and broad church will entail.
    4. A guarantor of CPD- or even a provider.
    5. An independent voice for teaching and teachers, liaising with all of the satellites that orbit our heavenly bodies. At present the press turns to a handful of names in its Rolodex when they need a quote. We need a body that can meaninglessly represent teaching, not merely telegenic partisans.
    6. A certifier of teacher development- what Tim Oates of Cambridge Assessment calls an 'advanced certifier'. Doctors are required to evidence continued commitment to professional development; imagine if teachers had to do the same, not by ruinous days spent in mid-price conference hotels scooping up pens and shortbread, but revisiting their subjects, and learning skills they genuinely want and need.

    I've frequently written with frustration at how, in education, we have student voice, stakeholder voice, parent power and Westminster voice- but never teacher voice, which is odd when you consider that we are the professionals most affected by it all. What an odd omission. Who would think it logical or fit to exclude such an important community? Yet here we are. There is room, of course in any discussion, for those not blessed with the scars and spoils of the classroom, but for too long the room has been missing an elephant: us.

    The RCOT needs to be constructed by teachers; populated with teachers; run by teachers. The iron, right  now, is red hot. The need has rarely been greater. The will is there. If we succeed, we can fix teaching from within, without waiting for someone else to do it for us. We can transform from many quiet voices into one authoritative one- not the moronic bellow of a crowd, but the careful proclamation of experience.

    Get this wrong, and it'll take decades to clear up the mess. Get it right, and we could change the lives of millions of children for the better. This engine runs on hope.




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