What would a teacher say about our leaders?

What stall would you like to be on? I’d just arrived at Carden Primary School’s Christmas fair, Santa hat squashed on my head. I’d turned up a bit late – I was always late to school – and the parent in charge was already frazzled. Tombola? No thanks.

I’d done that the week before. It’s hard work. Splat the rat? I can’t encourage cruelty to animals, even plastic ones.



I settled for the sweet stall. Who doesn’t like giving out goodies? Anything to try to restore the Tory image. Bags of sweets and small toys, packed by parents, maybe decorated by them too – who can’t resist glue and glitter this time of year? Each bag £1.

My maths would cope with the change. Is the child the mother of the woman? Some children hummed and hawed over the bags of sweets for ages, probably aping dad in Marks and Spencer. Squashing them, prodding them, shaking them, weighing them.

Others just grabbed one only for mum to say ‘no lollipops’ – you don’t want teeth like mummy’s – and had to put it back. Christmas and school fairs take you back, don’t they? While I was busy luring children to my stall like some kind of child catcher, I couldn’t help wondering what I was like as a child. As a teacher myself, I’ve just finished writing termly reports.

Gone are the days when you could write what you really think. Out are words like lazy or hopeless, however true and memorable; in are phrases that don’t mean much at all – “needs to concentrate more”; “needs more support next term.” And these days they’re typed, losing all sense of that final flourish of the pen as the teacher writes "appalling" as my maths teacher once described my work, the tail of the g almost slicing the word in half.

That word cuts me to the quick even now. No, these days reports are as much a judgement on the teacher’s performance as the student’s. What do my school reports say about me? I say do – how much am I still the same boy? I still have my pre-GSCE record of achievement – way back in 1992 when GCSEs were still a bit of a novelty, Medway was still part of Kent, and the top grade was an A and not an A star star star, or as it is now, a 9.

My French teacher, Mr Clifton, who used to sing opera into his coffee mug and dished out detentions like parking tickets without ever enforcing any, told my parents – “He must continue to aim for variety and accuracy in his writing”. Reader – I bet you think it’s still a problem. My craft, design and technology teacher, Mr Boothby – who used to read out exam results from best to worst in class – scrawled “Keep trying”.

Says it all really. I’ve squandered thousands not being able to paint or plumb. “He must read instructions carefully” – surprise surprise, that was my German teacher.

I’m rather proud my pint-sized self didn’t follow instructions. Don’t always do what you’re told. It depends on who's telling it.

Let’s hope our current top class, as they helicopter home for Christmas – Keir, Rachel, Ed, Ang, Dave – spend the hols in reflective mood. They’re underachieving – they know it – and their first test at local elections in May – not in Brighton thank goodness – is fast approaching. Unless Ang gets her way and abolishes all elections.

Let’s hope they’re good at swotting. What would their teachers write about them? Ed – “must not let his enthusiasm get in the way of facts”. How old is Ed? 55 on Christmas Eve.

Many of his former teachers are probably struggling to heat their homes. Guitar skills – D. Dave – “must work harder at geography”.

I quote a recent speech of his – “None of us wants Syria to become like Libya next door.” You and I might be excused this mistake, but a foreign secretary? Ang – “always does things in a rush”. With Ang in charge of planning, England’s green and pleasant land will end up looking more like Poundland than Poundbury.

Rachel – “very nice to her classmates. Maths not so good. Would do well in retail”.

Keir – “must stop blaming other people for his mistakes”. Cuts to the winter fuel allowance. National insurance rises.

VAT on private schools. Family farm tax. Shrinking economy.

Will Keir Starmer, like Crocker-Harris in the play The Browning Version – about an unpopular Classics master in a public school – use his Christmas message to admit his failings? He’d gain some kudos if he did. Crocker-Harris receives a gift from a boy in which he’s written “God from afar looks graciously upon a gentle master”. If only Starmer would learn that lesson.

Merry Christmas!.