Far From Being A Taboo

Whenever something has been hyped by friends or in the media, expectations are so high that I'm generally disappointed. Several months ago, I was pleased to see the return of a musical I watched almost ten years ago. I went along to the Grand in Leeds knowing nothing about the production and was absolutely blown away by it.

Mark Davies Markham's Taboo would undoubtedly appear in my top 5 theatre experiences if anyone challenged me to choose. Having seen it all those years ago I have often wondered why, after its initial tour, it seemed to disappear, rather than become a regular fixture in a West End Theatre – perhaps all the more surprising considering its Olivier Award win.

Co-written by the man himself, Taboo loosely follows Boy George's rise to fame. Markham's lively songs are both witty and moving, successfully reflecting the social upheaval of the time and shocking homophobia experienced by George and other New Romantic contemporaries. The script is cleverly packed with amusing innuendos and flamboyant characters while colourful costumes and sets reflect daring 80s' fashions.

I first saw Taboo being performed on a conventional proscenium stage that allows audiences to see the whole picture from as near or as far as seat prices and availability permit. The cast were faultless and the show had the added attraction of having Mark Little (Joe Mangel in Neighbours) playing Leigh Bowery. Normally seeing the good and bad in everything, I wouldn't call myself a hypercritical person but after Taboo couldn't think of a single criticism. I remember being inspired by the power of theatre and feeling energised.

Last weekend, I arrived at The Brixton Clubhouse feeling nervous. Having showered the show with praise for the last few months, I was anxious not to disappoint my companion. The cat-walk style stage only added to my nerves, making me fearful of audience participation. Sitting beside the edge of the stage, we both grew increasingly apprehensive as vibrantly dressed cast members walked around the bar area, pausing in menacing stances.

Although the experience was a completely different one, I'm relieved to say the revived production was just as worthy of the high praise its predecessor received. As Taboo is named after Leigh Bowery's legendary 80s' nightclub, its current performance space (a club venue above The Prince Albert pub) seems particularly apt. Lamp-lit tables and rows of chairs are dotted around a snaking cat-walk with the cast making use of the stage, table tops, bar surface and surrounding space. This set-up leaves little room for error and makes for a much more unique experience, ensuring every member of the audience sees the action from a different perspective.

Watching Paul Baker make a return to his role as Philip Sallon was an intensely personal experience as he paused inches away from my seat, facing my direction to sing one of the most emotionally raw numbers and caught my eye in the process. Final scenes following Leigh Bowery's life involved Samuel Buttery almost completely stripping off in a prolonged statuesque pose for the duration of a song; Those sitting nearest the club entrance would have had a direct view of his arse crack – I'm glad I wasn't sitting there!

The Verdict?

Even though vocals occasionally needed amplifying, Taboo's 2013 cast had no weak links with faultless performances from all. The Brixton Clubhouse venue provided a unique setting and approach to the musical, resulting in a memorable and exhilarating evening without disappointment.

http://www.brixtonclubhouse.com/taboo

Better The Devil You know

Source: http://blog.vmforsp.com/2012/07/vmware-cisco-nicira-the-devil-you-know/

Time has flown and it has now (rather amazingly) been over three years since I completed my NCTJ in Harlow and I still haven't found permanent writing work in or around Leeds. Although I've done a fair bit of freelance writing over the last few years, money from English supply teaching has predominantly kept me afloat. 

This week, as a large chunk of the population continue their struggle to find employment, I found myself having to choose between two temporary jobs. I've never been so in demand but felt miserable. A school I recently left, wanted me to return after the Easter holidays to cover a part-time contract. Having calculated the difference in earnings between full-time and part-time work, I had to decline their offer, despite desperately wanting to return.

A day later, in response to my decision the school proposed a slight increase on the part-time rate but I'd already been offered full-time work elsewhere for the same duration. Two hours after verbally accepting the new offer, I received a text message from the first school saying they could indeed match their offer. You might think I'd feel victorious - I didn't.

I've never been someone to back down on an agreement, often to the detriment of my health and extreme annoyance of less reliables. I knew in my heart I wanted to return to school number one but that morally and professional this was the wrong decision. Experiences at school number one reignited my passion for teaching and after two terms, working there felt right but school number two had its own strengths and the additional lure of future job prospects. So what did I do?

Having discussed my predicament with a few other teachers soon to leave school number two, the idiom “better the devil you know” seemed to best summarise my situation. My first instinct was to ring the teaching supply agency who were clearly angry with school number one's unprofessional conduct and suggested it would be inadvisable to back-out of the new job offer. We agreed I'd sleep on it and let them know my decision the next morning.

My next phone call to my old Head Of Department revealed tears had been shed and a letter of complaint written to the school's governors as a result of the poor management of the situation. Like me, my dad seemed to pendulum between the two offers, initially telling me to go back to school number one who had clearly fought with “the powers that be” to secure my return and to follow my heart before advising me to make the most professional decision and perhaps go with school number two.

Returning home, I explained the situation in full to The Boy who then briefly experienced the hideous torrent of thoughts spinning around my head. Having listed the pros and cons of each job, I was still unable to resolve my dilemma. The solution unexpectedly came to me during my nightly pilates session.

This morning, I managed to nab my current Head Of Department in school number two and very transparently explained the headache-inducing internal conflict I was experiencing. She spoke to me both personally and professionally, thanking me for my honesty and perceptively saying I'd clearly already made a decision that was completely understandable.

After her blessing, my conscience cleared and I was finally able to go with my gut instinct - only wishing I'd followed it earlier when I'd first contemplating stalling my answer to the second school's job offer. I'm sure many people out there would be able to make this decision in seconds, viewing it as a no-brainer but, to me, going back on your word is a definite no-no. This whole experience seems to only reaffirm my enduring belief honesty is always the best policy - let's just hope, unlike my brain, my gut has my best interests in mind (or stomach?).  

The Thin End of The Wedge

 

Teaching certain English set texts often involves discussing and touching upon subjects that wouldn't be out of place in PSHE lessons. In the last term I've had a series of memorable lessons, involving sexual content. When lessons have taken an unexpected turn, students have asked if I'm embarrassed and as I'm pretty desensitised these days and used to be the only girl in an otherwise all-male house, the answer is always “No”.

The first unforgettable discussion during a lesson came about after I asked students what Curley wearing a glove full of Vaseline on one hand might reveal about his character (Steinbeck's Of Mice And Men). I'd expected answers involving Curley having rough hands from manual labour or that he cares about his wife but instead was met with the response: “His wife has a dry vagina.” After that lesson, I dreaded marking the books to find student had all added this piece of information to their notes – thankfully, they hadn't!

Several weeks later, I was reading Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go with a top set year nine class. I own the book and had never got round to reading it but knew what to expect from seeing the film. Unfortunately I managed to overlook the fact things may well get a bit racy and read a chapter to the group that described certain characters masturbating and getting “wet”. During my reading, I could hear a lot of embarrassed giggles and after I'd finished the section, a certain male student raised his hand. Looking genuinely quite confused, he asked me how that was possible, referring in particular to the female protagonist.

Now teaching in a different school, I am doing Shakespeare's Twelfth Night with an all male group and suffering from a lack of play texts. As students have to share copies of the book, I was planning on letting them read through certain scenes together to afterwards deduce word meanings from the glossary at the back. Testing the usefulness of the glossary, I came across a rather shocking explanation quoted below:

“Cut’: (a) a docked horse; (b) a gelding; c) cunt (vulgar slang for the vulva)"

(Taken from Act 2, Scene 4 of the 2001 edition)

While the C-word doesn't offend me, I am honestly pretty shocked Wordsworth Classics deem its inclusion acceptable and were unable to find a less offensive suitable alternative. Their most inconsiderate choice of explanatory vocabulary means I am now going to have to include a mini-lesson about the etymology of this controversial word:

www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=cunt

Reality Check

As children we're generally oblivious to our own mortality but that wasn't the case for me. For some reason as a young'un I recall crying for hours (or maybe it was mere minutes and it felt much longer?) when I realised that I would die one day and then crying for even longer once it sunk in the same was true of anyone close to me. I have no idea what triggered this realisation but have always felt in some ways I got my crying down with.

Since distant memories of tearful days, I've never been particularly emotional but in more recent years have found myself more susceptible to cheesy films, often rather paradoxically feeling the old tear ducts welling during more uplifting scenes. I've also become a regular reader of Metro's “Good Deed Feed”, and have even taken to reading out-dated “feeds” (daily printed text messages thanking random folk for assisting people in distress - for carrying bags, giving up a seat, returning lost/forgotten goods...).

In the last few years the threat of death has been increasingly apparent after Old Dear was diagnosed with myeloma and a great Aunt passed several months back. As soon as the C word reared its ugly head, I increasingly discovered many of my friends had relatives and friends who'd survived or were undergoing treatment for different cancers.

Today, I experienced a whole new reality check. Walking to Leeds train station, I saw something in the distance blocking the road. As I got nearer I realised with horror it was a body with another figure hunched over it. I mentally prepared myself to help whoever it may be but before I was near enough, a small crowd had already formed. Before long more people from the offices opposite were running out to offer further assistance. It's not the first time, I've seen road accidents with pedestrians or cyclists lying helplessly on the cold concrete floor but today is something I can't shake.

As I walked past the clustered people, out of respect I tried to avoid staring or looking too closely. The final snatch I caught will, however, always stick in my head. The body on the ground was an unresponsive man of around the same age as my dad and over him stood an unsurprisingly distraught woman – presumably his wife. The final image I have of the scene is of the woman desperately crying out “Colin”, his face and the sizable puddle of blood flowing from beneath his head. Actually seeing the red of the blood somehow acted as an unwelcome reminder of our own fragility. I hope you're OK, Colin, whoever you may be. 

If Teenagers Could Set Homework...

Every week the same Year Ten students attempt to derail their drama lesson by asking my opinion about various bands and films. As my time with them is fast coming to a close, I decided to humour them by allowing them to set me a homework each in our penultimate lesson. The only instructions they were given? Avoid overly personal questions and anything that would alone take me several hours to complete. During the lesson I left the fate of my weekend in their hands by passing around a piece of paper and a pen.

If you've ever pondered what kind of homework teenagers would set given the chance then here's your answer:

Q: What's your favourite band?

A: I'm not sure I have one favourite.

Q: Do you like Panic! At The Disco?

A: They're probably the most instantly likeable out of my listening homeworks set.

Q: Do you like Enter Shikari?

A: They're a bit nu-metal for me these days.

Q: Do you like Vybz Kartel – Straight Jeans And Fitted?

A: I made a few seconds into this song before having to relieve myself of the torture.

Q: Do you ever go to festivals? If so, which ones? Do you party?

A: From 16 up I went to two festivals a year until I started teaching and school term dates meant Glastonbury was tricky.

Q: What is your favourite song and what's your favourite R n' B song now?

A: I don't really have one favourite and the last “R n' B” song I remember liking is Estelle's American Boy.

Q: What's the most embarrassing thing you did in school?

A: There are far too many to list but the most relevant memory I have is during a play rehearsal when I was sitting near the edge of a stage and the teacher kept telling me to move my chair nearer the edge, despite my protestations. Inevitably my chair eventually toppled over the edge causing me to fall onto lots of upturned gym equipment and severely wind myself.

Q: Research about wombats – what do they eat?

A: Funnily enough, I have appreciated wombats for many years since first meeting one when visiting the east coast of Australia. They eat plants, roots and grasses.

Q: Do you like 80s' films? (Hint: Say “yes” and talk to me about The Breakfast Club)

A: I do indeed like 80s' films and The Breakfast Club is one of my favourites.

Q: Have you seen Con Air or read Salem's Lot?

A: I watched Con Air years ago but not recently and haven't read Salem's Lot, although I used to favour Stephen King novels in my youth.

Q: What's the worst thing you did as a child? Did anyone know?

A: I did plenty of shameful things but one that always sticks in my mind is the day when I was pushing my Nan on a swing and the whole thing toppled over into a hedge. I was devastated and felt awful.

Q: Listen to The Joy Formidable, what do you think?

A: They are the kind of angry girl rock I should keep as a guilty pleasure but will admit to quite liking – for this reason they reminded me of Letters To Cleo.

Q: On a scale of 1-10, how amazing am I?

A: Given I couldn't fault the student who set me this taxing question, the answer was an easy 10.

Q: Do you like Fleet Foxes?

A: I have a feeling I should have an opinion on this already. They sound like growers and like Simon and Garfunkel might have been one of their influences.

Q: What's your favourite musical to watch?

A: I'd recommend Taboo to anyone; having seen it years ago, I remember thoroughly enjoying it and laughing pretty hard. It's back on in London for anyone travelling that way: http://www.brixtonclubhouse.com/taboo

Q: Listen to The Maine's Pioneer album, do you like them as a band?

A: They're the kind of band I would have liked if they'd been around when I was 19.

The Paradox Of Achieving

I've just survived my first short-notice Ofsted visit and as a result have been reflecting on changes in educational practice. Every year when results seemingly improve, around September the news is full of claims exams are getting easier but as a teacher I'm not so sure this is true.

It's shockingly (for me at least) been over fifteen years since I sat my GCSEs and since then the pressure put on schools to ensure students get that all important English C grade has massively increased. In keeping with often unrealistic expectations, teachers have changed teaching styles to more thoroughly prepare students for their exams.

Back “in the day” teachers would introduce students to concepts and literary/linguistic terminology and then leave them to individual interpretation (no disrespect intended to my English teacher - she was brilliant). I don't remember being given essay plans, spoon-fed textual interpretation or being given detailed lessons on how to approach individual exam questions. I was certainly never told how many minutes to spend on each question or shown patterns in question wording.

Today, however, the enormous pressure teachers are under to deliver results means more students have become reliant on teachers and less able to carry out independent study (I often feel like students want you to dictate essay question answers, learn new concepts for them and when marking books, I frequently find notes copied from the board but work that involves analysing language unaided is incomplete). In response to higher numbers achieving the benchmark C grade, examining boards have made exams more difficult, often introducing additional questions students are expected to answer in the same amount of time.

In addition to reduced planning/writing time, boards like AQA have altered the grade boundaries so it is now more difficult to achieve higher grades, resulting in some odd weighting in mark schemes, for instance a top band used to cover As and A*s but now also includes B grades. What mark constitutes each grade seems to fluctuate and change so unpredictably teachers are no longer able to say a piece of work is definitely a C or B. Many teachers are wary of speaking in grades at all for fear of dashing hopes when boundaries later change. The focus being put on Cs has also devalued the achievement of “lower-ability” students who perform impressively but don't reach the benchmark and in turn, many students seem happy to settle with a C grade, rather than aiming high – to summarise, the C has almost become the new A*.

The recent Ofsted visit began with us all being told to “carry on as normal”, rather than plan “show” lessons of the kind commonly seen in recruitment days (when applying for a teaching position applicants have to plan a lesson for the headteacher and department head to assess based on a topic outlined by the school) that aren't always practical on a daily basis. By day two, we were told Ofsted didn't want “teacher-led” lessons and were keen to see independent learning.

Giving Ofsted what they want puts teachers in a “Catch-22” situation. Some students are very unlikely to ever achieve the required C grade without being spoon-fed – after all, not many of us are interested in or good at everything. Other “D/C borderline” students have the potential to achieve or exceed that sought-after C provided they are willing to put in additional independent work outside of lessons but are so unused to working on their own initiative, they have no idea where to begin.

The answer lies in league tables/Ofsted reports backing off to move away from schools being judged purely on statistics and examining boards ceasing to stuff far too much into the curriculum for the typical two-year time scale schools work to. With breathing space, schools and teachers would have the confidence to implement potentially risky whole new approaches to learning that encourage independent work and in turn students would have more faith in their own ability. Of course, changes would lead to an initial dip in results but once students were used to the kind of learning expected during A'level and university courses, exams would be an honest reflection of individual ability; teenagers would be more resourceful and possess the kind of gumption many employers look for. However, expectations in the job market putting additional pressure on students to “get results” means this change is unlikely to happen any time soon and we're stuck in this awful Catch-22 situation.   

When Is The right Time?

This New Year's Eve perfectly illustrated the meaning behind Robert Burns' line of poetry (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_a_Mouse) John Steinbeck used as the title for one of his best-known works. For the first time in twelve years The Boy and I spent the evening apart; He suffered from something resembling the Norovirus and remained within safe proximity of a bathroom while I ate an enormous feast from around the globe at a friend's house. Although I had an enjoyable night, The Boy's absence meant the whole evening just didn't feel right and what seemed like a “best-laid” plan was easily scuppered.

There have been many times over the years that a friend has broken big life-changing news to me months after the actual event and I have wondered why I wasn't told sooner. Put in a similar position, I have since also suffered the “when is the right time” dilemma. When asked the question “How you are?”, 90% of the time for most of us the answer is easy; It generally involves a simple response like “Not too bad”, “Could be better” or “A bit tired” but every now and again it's hard to put into words how you are feeling or perhaps things aren't going too well and you'd rather not burden the questioner with your own problems or dampen the mood. In these situations it is easy to see why news travels slowly.

The timing of my breaking New Year's Eve news had been carefully planned and was an exceedingly long time coming. To some, the news was expected and long-overdue but because of The Boy's illness it never came and was delayed until New Year's Day. After one failed attempt, I finally got through to my parents and The Boy dialled his family digits. My mother's initial response included words to the effect: “It seems weird after all these years...” My dad's reaction was more as you might expect with him seeming audibly pleased and asking the usual follow-up questions you might ask in response to such information.

After over 11 years together, The Boy and I have surpassed the average length of many a celebrity marriage. According to research by The National Wedding Show, the average couple gets engaged two years, 11 months and eight days after first setting eyes on each other (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-515470/The-average-man-proposes-years—average-woman-wants-pop-question-months-earlier.html). Had we done so closer to the average time span, finding the right moment to break the news wouldn't have been an issue. We most certainly wouldn't have kept quiet for four months in order for my recently engaged cousin to solely have the limelight over the festive period. And who knows we may well have been just as surprised as our friends and family.

Of course a much earlier engagement was delayed by my own refusal to accept adulthood and conform to the norm. Over the last six years, The Boy has indeed attempted to pop the question on numerous occasions but has either misjudged his timing or been met by my own inability to believe he was actually serious. As a result, he unsurprisingly announced some time ago, he was no longer willing to take on the responsibility and the words “How about it then?” took on a whole new comedic meaning.

Now, I'm struggling to casually break the somewhat predictable news in conversation and find the “right time”. It's weeks since we “came out” but beyond family, very few other people know our well-kept “secret” and it took me a good hour to find the words to tell two of them! In the news, I've read many a tragic tale of people discovering a loved-one has died through social media. As a Facebook and Twitter user, I'm interested in seeing whether tidings of joy can be spread just as easily without me directly posting anything so dear readers (whoever you may be) be comforted in the knowledge you are among the first to know. Let's see if social media does its magic without my help...