Education news & jobs at the Times Higher Education Supplement
It was inevtiable that the impasse over the pay offer would lead to local bargaining, and I’m amazed the union negotiators didn’t do more to head it off, especially as they are apparently blessed with telepathic powers, according to this report, where the chair of the education committee says “ one member of the committee had asked union representatives why they had not put the employers’ offer to their members in a ballot.
And the unions had explained they felt this would waste time when they knew what the outcome would be.”
While looking for something else entirely, I chanced upon a sort of online journal kept by one of my students. I’m not going to link to it, because I don’t want to send my minuscule audience there, so you’ll have to take my word about the contents. I like this student – he’s intelligent, original in his thinking, and pretty diligent. He’s also a Goth, with the standard-issue monochromatic clothes, multiple piercings, and, no doubt, tattoos.
He writes about his life, which seems to consist entirely of getting stoned, getting pissed, or both, playing computer games, and going to see bands with names like “Necrophagists”. What really struck me, though, was the air of nihilist despair that hangs over the whole thing. Everything is shit, life is shit, university is shit, etc etc. The witty and clever young man I see in the classroom is transformed in the journal into a raging misanthrope, apparently devoid of any sense of hope or ambition. Sad to see someone of that age as cynical as someone of my age…
According to Guido, the deputy prime minister’s affair with the fragrant Tracey isn’t the only one he’s had. Frankly, it matters little to me, or anyone else, apart from Mrs Prescott, who Prezza is bonking in one of his many houses. (Having said that, this has replaced the image of Major and Currie in the annals of political coition. ‘Er indoors always reminds me that Prezza looks exactly like Cartman in South Park, and the idea of him with his keks off making whoopee on the deputy prime ministerial desk is not a happy one).
What really stinks though is the idea that the revelations have been made simply so that Tracey can “tell her side of the story”. Yeah, right. If that was the case, why not simply release a statement to the media? Why go straight to Max Clifford? Couldn’t be anything to do with a sum north of £100,000 could it?
To Oxford, for a conference, by train. A fairly uneventful journey, but one enlivened by two people who sat across the aisle from me. When they got on, the man said to the woman “I’m sure I know you from somewhere”, which sounded like the ultimate cheesy chat-up line, until it emerged that they did vaguely know each other: they were in the army, posted in Paderborn, and had mutual friends. Now, I wasn’t particularly listening to this couple as they embarked on their conversation, but since they conducted their chat as if they were in a private rather than a public space, I was more or less obliged to listen. So, what do I now know about them?
-that the man has had an operation for twisted testicles, which nearly went gangrenous, but that he was having sex less than three days later;
that his wife is a Filipino (I would have said Filipina, but that’s me being pedantic) and is very small;
-that he has the names of his children tattooed on his body;
-that he will not have the name of his wife tattooed on his body, because of the possibility, however remote, that they might one day split up;
-that he intends to have a protective angel tattooed on his back;
-that he breeds dogs;
-that several named members of the British military in Germany are “wankers”;
-that parts of Germany are boring because nobody speaks English;
-that the woman also has a tattoo;
-that she does not want any more children as one is enough;
-that she had to get a restraining order on the father;
Too much information, and rather intimate information at that, conducted at high volume, so that most of the carriage could hear. They obviously don’t teach them that discretion is the better part of valour in the army these days.
The return journey was enhanced by the presence of two groups familiar to all who have to travel on to Blackpool – the weekend revellers. In this case, a group of bullet headed thirty something men in football shirts, who had actual crates of beer to drink, and a group of three girls, who joined at Warrington. The girls looked about 17, but might have been younger. They were dressed comme il faut, that is to say in jeans sitting low enough to expose the pelvic bone, teamed with tops short enough to expose the studs in their navels, and their distressingly flabby midriffs. They carried no luggage beyond plastic bags, which clinked suggestively. Each had a paper cup from which a sickly sweet smell emerged. The cups contained, I soon discovered, Baileys, and it was clear that quite a bit of it had been drunk already. They talked loudly, mainly disputing the identity of the boy one of them had snogged the night before -“It was GARY!” and about what they were going to do in Blackpool- get drunk mostly, although as one of them sweetly put it “I’m fuckin’ bladdered already”.
I took my reluctant leave of the gilded youth and of the shaven headed men for the final leg of my journey, musing again on what ever happened to that famous English reticence and reserve.
I blogged some time ago about the roadside floral tributes that seem to be everywhere now. The most elaborate one I’ve seen is now on view on my journey to work. It consists of one of those arrangements of flowers made to spell out words, as favoured by East End gangsters – DIAMOND GEEZER on the side of the coffin, you know the kind of thing. Well, this one commemorates the death of a Mr Sadd, and consists of the words SON, UNCLE, BROTHER followed by a floral car. The odd details of his life and death are in this story
What struck me about the tribute was that the major defining feature of this man’s life and character is omitted – but I suppose you couldn’t ask the florist to make the flowers spell THIEF, could you?
This story beggars belief – or rather, it would, if it weren’t yet another example of topsyturvydom in our culture. Let’s see, now. What would I do if I had a chair that emitted farting noises when I sat on it? I’D GET ANOTHER BLEEDING CHAIR!!! This woman’s a deputy head – she could order a new chair, or just pinch one from somewhere in the school. I’m sure the lawyers love it, though, as more taxpayers’ money is spent in an utterly futile cause.
Amazon – doncha love ’em? I looked at my recommendations today and was startled to find this thing.
They’d recommended it because I’d purchased this:
Can you spot why?
The Observer | Travel | Me and my travels: George Galloway:
Here’s George:
“The best place I’ve been is…
Iraq. It’s magical. I first visited in 1993. I fell in love with it, head over heels. It’s one of the few places I physically long for.”
Well, I’m sure not many constituents in Bethnal and Bow will be standing in his way…
Bush takes a swing at cricket in Pakistan – Yahoo! News UK
It’s bad enough trying to explain cricket to the average intelligent American…
OMB NEWS | UK | UK Politics | In Full: Tessa Jowell inquiry letter
Of course, Owen Barder does it with his customary style.
