London

As I stood on Newark station, awaiting my connection for London, an express train came through. I was searching there for the right word to describe the few brief seconds it took to pass by, because ‘thundered’, ‘roared’, ‘flashed’, all the usual clichés, seemed inappropriate. This train just appeared and disappeared into the distance. A warning klaxon, then hundreds of awesome tons, with no rattles and a minimum of clatter, went by with a whoosh-whoosh-whoosh as each carriage expelled the trapped air in front of it. I thought how beautiful engineering could be.

I laughed at myself a little, knowing I would be writing about it, because I was reminded of essays I would write at school about ‘My Holiday’ of ‘My Trip to the Zoo’. In these I would invariably describe the sleepless anticipation of the night before; list the exciting things I had seen and done; and wind up with the declaration that I had arrived home ‘tired but happy’.

On this occasion the sights of the capital were incidental to this country mouse visiting his town mouse son. The sights of the capital were secondary to the pleasures of talking and drinking.

The first drink was in an O’Neills’s bar near King’s Cross, all Guinness and lager and London prices. So off to Soho by bus – it pays to have a good guide in this place – to check out three pubs of a traditional kind, where real ale is available at reasonable prices, that is, below £2 a pint.

For future reference I shall name them (all Sam Smith’s):

'The Duke of Argyle' in Great Windmill St
'The Glasshouse Stores' in Brewer St
'The White Horse' in Archer St

Then through Trafalgar Square to acknowledge the great Horatio. Am I right in thinking he’s looking towards France? Certainly he has his back to the truncated pregnant woman on the spare plinth. And there are no pigeons. Has Uncle Ken finally succeeded in his mission to eliminate them, aided by his battalions of hawks? Today pigeons, tomorrow the militarist-capitalist-imperialist power structure.

The train towards Crystal Palace took us past The Den, a lowly place compared with the Emirates Stadium which I had noticed as I approached King’s Cross. We had passed a small demonstration earlier, policed by a couple of bored constables, demanding that we refuse to play football against Israel. Judging by the abject performance later, our players had taken the message to heart.

The evening was spent in another pub where I was struck by the way my beer was pulled. I take an interest in these things. The perfect pint of real ale is drawn in this way. The bottom of the glass is held to the end of the spout and the handle given one long uninterrupted pull back, followed by a shorter one, and then there should be a pause, usefully occupied by the exchange of cash. Then a final pull should produce a pint with a creamy head and the beautiful sight of the beer clearing from the bottom. After a couple of minutes, you will have a fine, translucent amber-gold drink.

We tried out a Wetherspoon’s on Sunday, where I noted that my Pedigree was pulled in the manner prescribed by the video the company uses to train its staff. Excellent. I had another couple, just to make sure.

Occasionally we broke off from investigating these momentous matters to chat aimlessly about political philosophy, the conflict between individual freedom and social cohesion, the limits of free will, and other such inconsequential matters. I recall getting rather bogged down in an analogy about ants. I’m told that the film Antz addresses these issues.

No conversation with my son avoids the cinema for very long. The sins of critics, the inhumanity of Kubrick and Hitchcock, the undervaluation of John Wayne. I got to see The Sweet Smell of Success for the first time in ages and enough of Mulholland Drive to give me an appetite for much more.

Monday morning and we were back to Trafalgar Square to spend a short time in The National Gallery. I just wanted to catch up on the major paintings – artistic tourism – but was particularly impressed by the two Rubens hung side by side. These were Samson and Delilah and The Massacre of the Innocents. It was handy to be able to eavesdrop on a guide comparing and contrasting the two works. I was tempted to buy postcards of them, but there was no way they could do justice to such huge and detailed masterpieces. So I treated myself to these three, paintings by artists I did not know and which for some reason caught my eye:

The Virgin in Prayer by Sassoferrato (1609-1685). See also: http://sonofmavis.blogspot.com/2007/06/to-stumble-across-something-beautiful.html

St Francis in Meditation by Zurbaran (1598-1664)
Self-portrait by Rosa (1615-1673).

There was an hour and a half to kill and so I had a couple of drinks. First at King’s Cross in its crowded, expensive bar. And then I made the weekend come full circle by going back to the O’Neill’s pub.

As I got up to leave I gestured to a man standing nearby that my seat was now free. He thanked me and then asked if we were in London. I assured him that we were, but that further topographical advice was beyond my competence.

‘I’ve just got out of prison,’ he said, by way of explanation.

‘Well,’ I said, resisting the temptation to say, ‘What for?’ and wished him good luck. He shook my hand. And then, as we do somewhat illogically in Lincolnshire, I left with the words, ‘Be seeing you.’

I’m always surprised how quickly you get from London to Newark, but arrived there to find my train was cancelled and I had to rush across Newark to catch an alternative, which stopped at every village possible and didn’t have any toilets.

So it was that I arrived home tired, but sweaty, pissed off and broke.

Yellow Ribbon: a song.

So why d’you wear that ribbon in your hatband? -
The yellow one, it’s often made me think.’
She flexed her barmaid arms
And flashed her barmaid’s charm.
‘I noticed it when first you came in here
To buy a drink.’

I eyed the glass of beer the woman proffered
And handed her the cash to pay my way.
Then I raised it to my lips,
And took a long, slow sip,
And pondered how I could explain to her
And wondered what I’d say.

‘Well, maybe it’s a sign I’m helping cancer
Perhaps I think that yellow goes with black.
Or maybe it’s to say
Thank you, boys who’ve gone away
To fight a war from which so many of you
Won’t be coming back.’

In truth I wear the ribbon in remembrance
Of loss, regret, and fear I couldn’t face.
For it’s a badge of shame
And I bear a coward’s name.
I ran away and lost a love I never can replace.

March 19 2007

7 am

Today I will describe a typical day. It is Monday 19 March, but it could be any day of the last five years or, who knows, of the next five.

Up at 6.05 and wondered if I would do things differently today, because I am, as it were, observing myself. There’s a scientific term for that phenomenon.

The news is about teenage deaths from knife attacks. The press is getting very hot under the collar about it. A headmaster has ordered pupils to wear clip-on ties, because they’re safer in woodwork classes and playground scuffles. And Freddie Flintoff has been described as ‘legless before wicket’. The BBC's done a survey of Iraquis, which seems grossly flawed to me, but that's because I'm not I'm not impressed by Hampstead liberal propaganda.

I've discovered this observer effect is called, as it happens, 'The Observer Effect' and is wrongly associated with the Heisenberger uncertainty principle. So now I know.

I think I’ll wash my hair and have a bath. Or am I going to do that just to make people think I have clean habits? On the other hand, if I don’t have a bath, is that because I am I trying to demonstrate that I’m not susceptible to outside pressure? It’s going to be difficult to make decisions today.

10.30

I drew up a list of pros and cons and decided to wash my hair and have a bath. I’m currently listening to Bob Dylan’s radio show. The theme is ‘Eyes’ this week. He’s just played Jimmy Rodgers, ‘Thee singing bray-ke – man-n’, as Bob described him in his distinctive style. And Brown-eyed handsome man (Chuck Berry) and Brown-eyed girl (Morrison). Good taste, that Dylan.

One of the highlights (and there are many) of Oh, Brother, where art thou? is the rendition by ‘The Soggy Bottom Boys’ of Jimmy Rodgers’ He’s in the jailhouse now. I’m halfway through watching that film again. Excellent.

I must have been doing something for the last two hours, apart from decision-making. Oh yes, I think I’ve discovered that the Maoris were the first settlers in New Zealand. I know everyone knows that but I have a friend who lived there for a long time and claims that the original people were called the Houri-Mouris and were all eaten by the Maoris. I wonder if he was taking the – I mean, I wonder if he was having a joke at my expense.

I listened to Start the Week. There was a lot of argument about GM food. Apparently they have bred featherless chickens in Africa to help them keep cool. Now that doesn’t seem very logical to me, unless they’re Orpington Buffs. There are also rabbits that have been given a jellyfish gene to make glow green in the dark. God knows why. Perhaps to provide material for writers of limericks.

Bob’s playing Sonny Boy Williamson. I saw him perform on TV once. A huge man is how I remember him. His harmonica seemed lost in great hands like bunches of bananas and I was afraid he might swallow it when he played.

19.00

I set off for the library. I have Graham Greene’s Monsignor Quixote to pick up and The Vanishing of Esme Lennox, by Maggie O’Farrell, to return. Beautifully written book, by the way.

I didn’t get there, of course, because I called in the pub. My son was there, discussing the origins of modern popular music and the state of American cinema – I obviously taught the lad well. Then his mother turned up (I see her occasionally) to transact a little business which I won’t publish. And she had her mother in tow. All I wanted to do was have a quiet drink and do the crossword.

The pub’s heating had broken down; some idiot was yodelling; some woman was laughing hysterically – I would say orgasmically, but I’ve forgotten exactly what it sounds like; and then my usual beer ran out. I left, with a borrowed DVD and instructions to look various things up on the net.

I moved to another pub in the hope of bumping into someone.

I didn't. But I made some progress with a little rhyme I’m working on.

And so I went back to the first pub. More yodelling, more laughing and even less choice of ale, but there was heat now and I could sit and watch with smug complacency the sleet whipping down the street outside.

10.30

Remembered to eat something. Haslet, as a good Lincolnshire lad should. And watched that DVD of Jools Holland’s Later. Excellent contributions by Willie Nelson and Leonard Cohen (Dance Me to the End of Love). Robbie Williams was on as well, a glorified karaoke singer, The Kinks doing their usual tune, and Johnny Cash looking like death warmed up, but brilliant nonetheless.

There we are then. My day. I never did get that limerick written.

The Curse of the Killer Yoghurts

Another example of the tabloidisation of the news was the report about the shocking wastage of food in this country.

‘One third of all food thrown in the bin shock,’ blared the headline. Whether this was one third in terms of cost, weight, volume or nutritional value was obviously too complicated to be mentioned.

The report continued with the information, the small print as it were, that one half of that third was inedible, including such things as potato peelings, egg shells, tea bags, fish bones and the fat from meat. The kind of thing that would have gone into pigswill before it was so foolishly banned.

I have a friend who was brought up to leave a little on his plate. He even leaves a few drops of beer at the bottom of his glass. It’s all very irritating to someone like me who was always told to clean his plate while thinking about the starving millions. If ever I offered to put my cabbage in an envelope and send it to India, I was rewarded for my altruism with a clip round the ear.

One sixth, of course, is not as dramatic, but never fear. They had another statistic ready. ‘It still means that 15 pence out of every pound spent goes in the bin.’ Well, that depends whether you eat eggs with your chips or caviar.

And they trotted out all the interest groups. Axes were being ground on all sides. Ready meals are the wrong size. Supermarkets are to blame for making food too cheap – yes, food is too cheap. The government is to blame for insisting on back-covering sell-by dates. Councils aren’t doing enough to recycle. The ice-caps are melting under the weight of tea bags, and the planet is being destroyed by rancid yoghurt.

All this was pushed aside the next day when suddenly we were told not to worry about teenage binge-drinkers. Now, the real problem is that of middle-aged, middle class tipplers, who knock back a bottle of wine every night. And what’s more, it’s going to get worse when smoking is banned in pubs.

I’ll finish now and have a large glass of Chateau Neuf du Pape, while searching for a recipe for potato peel wine.

The House of Lords

So the House of Commons has given its opinion – both of them – on the composition of the ‘other place’.

80% elected or 100% elected, they’re not sure. The Lords themselves are. They reject both options, and of course they would, wouldn’t they? Who cares anyway?

I do, for one. And not just because I’m a traditionalist, with a taste for pomp and pageantry and idiosyncratic British institutions. No, we need a House of Lords, or a Senate, call it what you like, that that can save the House of Commons from itself.

Because the Commons, for all its posturing as being the supreme law-making body and the watchdog of the executive, is a failure. It’s a place where debate is superficial and partisan, where most legislation goes through without any scrutiny at all, either because its another statutory instrument or a European directive. It’s a place where members are bullied, bribed and blackmailed by the whips into conforming, and where success is measured, at best, in terms of office or, at worst, in mere re-election.

In the recent past, at least, only the House of Lords has shown intelligent thought on issues or demonstrated any concern for the constitution and our liberties.

So I find myself, surprisingly, against an elected upper House, whether 80 or 100%. As I see it, the proposals carry the following implications:

Ø We are set to lose the experience, even wisdom, of many of our appointed Lords. People who have made and have nothing left to prove or gain. Even the odd bishop can have a point of view to contribute, not to mention judges, generals, former PMs, businessmen, artists and trade unionists. They no longer have to be ambitious and therefore corruptible.

Ø Many of these people, and even former party MPs, do not accept a party whip,the so-called crossbenchers. They are not susceptible to the threats of party managers

Ø Instead the second chamber will be composed wholly or predominately of elected and therefore party men. They are likely to be the same kind of candidates who stand for the European so-called Parliament, second-raters and non-entities.

Ø And they’re going to be there for 15 years at a time. That means you only have to be elected twice and it’s a job for life. Despite that, unlike the current unelected Lords, these are people who will do as they are told. Some MPs have expressed fear that an elected other place will give it ‘democratic legitimacy’ and lead to constitutional conflict. I don’t think it will, which is a pity, because we don’t have half as much conflict as we should.

Ø It will be made even worse because they will be elected on the ‘list system’ of PR, which puts the whole process in the central power of party machines.

What about democracy, I hear you say. My reply is that the Commons provide the democratic representation of the people and it doesn’t matter if unelected people contribute to the democratic process, whether they be the Queen, civil servants or the barmaids in the pub next door to Westminster.

Poetry and Prose

(1)

There was no getting to his weakness. In public, even in summer, he wore big boots, specially made for him, a band of steel reinforcing each heel. At home, when he bathed or slept, he kept a pistol within reach, loaded. And because to be invulnerable is to be alone, he was alone even when he was with you. You could sense it in the rigidity of his carriage, as if under his fine-fitting suits were layers of armour. Yet everyone loved to see him in action. While his enemies were thinking of small advantages, he only thought endgame.

Then she came along, who seemed to be all women fused into one, cheekbones and breasts evidence that evolution doesn’t care about fairness, and a mind so good, well, it was like his. You could see his body soften, and days later, when finally they were naked, she instinctively knew what to do – as smart men do with a mastectomy scar – kiss his heel before kissing what he considered to be his power, and with a tenderness that made him tremble.

And so Achilles began to live differently. Both friends and enemies were astounded by his willingness to listen, and hesitate before responding. Even in victory he’d walk away without angering a single god. He wore sandals now because she liked him in sandals. He never felt so exposed, or so open to the world. You could see in his face something resembling terror, but in fact it was love, for which he would die.

* * * * *
(2)

She smiled a moment, as if she had forgotten that;
Gave me an intense look,
Seemed about to say something else,
Changed her mind.
She opened the door and we went in.
There was a lamp on by the bed,
The shutters were closed.
The bed was as she had left it,
The sheet and a folk-weave bedspread thrown aside,
The pillow crumpled;
Some open book of poetry beneath the lamp.
I could see its broken lines of print;
An abalone shell used as an ash-tray.
We stood a little at a loss, as people do
When they have foreseen such moments too long.
Her hair was down,
The white hem of her nightdress reached almost
To her ankles.
She glanced around the room, as if with my eyes,
As if I might be contemptuous of such domestic simplicity;
Made a little grimace.
I smiled but her shyness was contagious –
Adam and Eve before the Fall.

The first piece (1) is a poem by Stephen Dunn, called Achilles in Love, written out as a piece of prose. The second (2) is a couple of paragraphs from John Fowles' The Magus, written out as free 'verse'.

It makes me wonder.

The Muse

I wonder how many poets and other authors claimed to have a 'muse' of their own, or at least a person, real or imagined, who inspires their work.

Dante had Beatrice, with whom he fell in love when he was nine years old and she eight. Horace wrote of Lydia, Petrarch, of sonnet fame, immortalised Laura, and Pasternak's Zhivago Lara. Goethe is supposed to have loved, seduced and abandoned a girl in his youth and was still writing about her years later as Gretchen. I have a feeling the poor girl might have preferred that he make an honest woman of her. But then, poets! They live by different rules, don't we - I mean they.

Shakespeare wrote of his dark lady, whose eyes were nothing like the sun, and the young man of whose eyes Shakespeare felt he could not describe the beauty.

The Roman poet, Catullus, penned these lines to Lesbia - 'I curse her every hour sincerely. Yet, hang me, but I love her dearly.' When I was at school our Latin teacher cunningly mentioned the erotic content of Catullus' work and for a while we studied hard, until we discovered we could getter better and more accessible English material.

And then, of course, there's Mavis. Not too poetic a name to modern sensibilities, and far too much associated with Coronation Street. But it is the good old English name for one of our favourite songbirds. Namely, the thrush. On second thoughts not a poetic name at all.

The Lie

The Lie by Sir Walter Raleigh is one of my favourite poems, probably because it's very simple in its versification and rhyme. It's an angry, bitter diatribe against the venality, hypocrisy and shallowness of those who rule - and it's always interesting to read the words of those who don't share my mildness and passivity.

I believe Walt wrote it while awaiting execution in the Tower of London, which no doubt jaundiced his view of life somewhat. He had been an adventurer all his life, a bit of a chancer really, who had finally overreached himself by promising to bring boatloads of gold back from 'El Dorado', and failing to do so. Nowadays, he would merely have been sacked, or appointed to the House of Lords. Back then he lost his head, after 15 (?) years of imprisonment.

The poem is so different from Achilles in Love by Stephen Dunn, a dense and allusive poem which I read in The Times yesterday. Should you need a commentary in order to appreciate a poem? Is poetry a minority pursuit?

My Mate

Freddie


They’re an queer lot, Yorkshire fork
- Tha knors, the way they talk.
Well, I thought I’d met one of ‘em, nerm of Fred.
But Fred’s not Yorkshire born,
Despite ‘is funny torn.
E’s Lincolnshire from t’toes to t’top of t’ead.

He’s a proper Lincoln feller
With a belly that’s reet yeller
But as a lad were tekken north, where men are men,
Where women go without,
And you don’t do owt for nowt
And if you do do owt, tha does it for thi’sen.

‘E likes to ‘ave a smork
‘E knows how to tek a jork
Just as well when merts like me are on t'floor
Cos if ‘is words I miss
I allus tek the piss
But with Fred it’s easy come and easy gor

He works ‘ard all through t’night
And arrives at t’pub first light
To slerke ‘is thirst with several pints of cork.
For this blork ‘e sups no erles
- Apart from times ‘e ferls.
Then ‘e’s a real, reet Yorkshire pisshead, that’s no jork.

Why does ‘e work so ‘ard,
Stacking boxes in the yard?
‘E grafts all night and wants no sympathy
‘E staggers out of bed
Just to get a pat on t’ead
I’d say ‘e just wants to break free.

But ‘e’s more than crertes to lift
And packages to shift -
There’s drivin’ through the night both near and far.
If ‘e wants ‘is pay to earn
‘E’s got office cords to learn.
(I thought young lad were learning the guitar.)

‘Is first name’s really Mark
And it’s just a silly lark
That’s ‘is nickname comes from t’singer blork in Queen
But Freddie’s not a queer
Even though ‘e drinks no beer
‘E’s a lady-killer, keen and lean and mean.

Yes, ‘e’s got the teeth to flash
And until he shaved his tash
The two men looked the serme, like pair of gloves.
But this Fred lifts no shirts
He prefers an arse in skirts -
It’s a crazy little thing that we call love

Oh yes, ‘e likes the girls
And ‘e loves to fondle curls
With female ‘earts t’bugger likes to toy
He just wants it all
But he doesn't want to fall
‘E’s just a good old-fashioned lover boy.

As a lad ‘e used to run
But now them days is done
Them borns is creakin’ when ‘e teks an ‘ike.
All the exercise ‘e terkes
Is liftin’ lords o’ crertes
Though sometimes ‘e just likes to ride ‘is bike.

They say ‘e’s Sleight by nerme
And ‘e’s pretty slight in frerme.
I doubt if he is over 5 foot 4
But if ‘e has the thought
That yon blork there’s a scrort
It isn’t long ‘fore t’bugger’s out the door.

I can still remember
It were one day last September
When a drunk refused to leave, just stood and cussed.
Our Fred were on ‘is feet
And yon scrort were out on’t street,
And that is how another one bit the dust.

Well, ‘e wants to go back ‘orm
E’s not content to use ‘is phorn
To the dales ‘e often talks of going back.
But Freddie, just think on -
Forget you when you’re gone?
You Mark my words, young Fred - Sleight chance of that.

The Magpies

I met old Madge, sat on a post,
He eyed me, full of sorrow.
I raised my hand,
As man to man,
Hi, Magpie mate, good morrow.

Another maggot bird flew in,
His feathers fluffed with joy.
He turned my way,
He seemed to say,
Good day to you, old boy.

I wondered as the third arrived,
If what men say is true,
Why they believe
These birds are thieves –
Good morning, Sirs, to you.

Mischievous, motley jesters all,
Who love all shining things,
I’ve seen you steal
A hawk’s own meal
And scare him with your wings.

They say you wouldn’t board the ark,
That you are birds of evil.
You flapped around
Christ’s bloody crown –
Not you, you handsome devils.

A fourth arrived, a fifth, a sixth,
To where a rabbit lay
Full near to death.
With its last breath
Said, Spare me, sirs, today.

For, Magpies, I shall soon be dead.
Then you can have your fill.
But with pit-black eyes
The cruel magpies,
They gathered for the kill

Satan’s blood dripped from their tongue,
Their beaks, they stabbed and speared
The rabbit’s eyes.
It screamed and cried.
God damn you, Sirs – they never heard.

You hateful birds, of carrion bred,
For life you are not fit,
Keep from my way.
And hear me say,
On all you god-damned birds I spit.

Education, Education, Education

Each year my old secondary school awards a gold medal to ‘the best scholar’ of the year. Now that’s an old-fashioned concept, isn’t it? Imagine, singling one pupil out as superior. What about the losers? Scarred for life, doomed to low self-esteem, branded for life as failures.

It’s obviously a grammar school. And here’s another oddity. A year or two ago, it was won by a girl. Now, it’s not odd because girls are intellectually inferior, but because this school is single-sex, apart from the sixth form, where a few females are allowed in.

Moreover, two years before, her brother had won the prize.

What’s not odd is that they are Asians. Because – and I realise I am generalising here – Asians tend to take Tony Blair’s mantra ‘Education, education, education’ seriously. While Tony thinks government intervention can solve everything with targets, league tables, ‘parental choice’ and adding yet another subject to the curriculum every time there’s a press headline, Asians know that it all begins at home.

I mentioned this to a friend, who came up with an anecdote of his own. He told me about a family of Ugandan Asians, friends of his, who had been expelled by Amin and arrived in Britain penniless. They opened the stereotypical corner shop and worked long hours. The children helped out. But they also studied. They never missed school because their parents wanted to take advantage of a cheap-flight holiday; they wouldn’t have dared play truant; they were given set hours to do homework and this was enforced and supervised.

They grew up polite, well-educated, successful and integrated.

The Prime Minister-designate grew up in a home like that. But no doubt he will continue the current system, a muddle of bright ideas, wishful thinking and cock-eyed optimism.

Brighton's School Lottery

Sitting in the pub yesterday I noticed the silent TV indicate ‘Breaking News’. That title is so over-used nowadays that I no longer anticipate World War III or a reduction in tobacco tax. And sure enough this item was only about the lottery. There was the obligatory thumbs-up sign and then six numbers in differently coloured balls.

Then it moved on to an item about schools. You could tell it was about schools because there was film of two girls with satchels walking through some gates bearing a sign saying ‘School.’ (Obviously they’d found film of a black girl and white girl together).

Then it moved back to the lottery, then schools again. What the hell was going on? I discovered later that it was one item about the ballot system Brighton plans to use to allocate over-subscribed places in its schools.

The issue perfectly illustrates any number of my betes noires. I’ve already indicated one – the trivialisation of important issues with idiotic, superficial reporting.

Then there’s spin, as for example with the use of the word ‘lottery’. The press uses it because it relates the issue to something all us poor simpletons can understand; opponents use it because it demonstrates a lack of seriousness; which is why those proposing the idea like to use the word ‘ballot’. It is obviously not a ballot, by the way, because a ballot is concerned with choice.

Moreover, in the arguments I’ve heard about this system, people find it difficult to stick to the point. I heard some Tory fulminating about it, who was unable to avoid banging on about how comprehensive education was a mistake. And his Labour opposite number segueing in one sentence from defending a crude but practical way of allocating children to limited school places to ‘breaking the cycle of deprivation.’

Next are all the unsubstantiated generalisations. ‘Rich, middle class parents are buying houses near to the best schools.’ ‘Good schools will suffer from an influx of disruptive pupils.’

And then you get the special interest groups. Estate agents – for God’s sake! – warn of falling house prices. And environmentalists are worried that more car travel might be created.

What about all the questions left begging? Why are the ‘best schools’ in more affluent areas in the first place? If it is true that children from ‘poorer’ backgrounds are more likely to be ‘disruptive’, then why is that so?

So, what do I think?

Ø I am in favour of selective education, and the right of parents to choose independent education. The former is a dead duck and the latter out of the question for most people. So ignore this point.

Ø If this is simply a question of allocating children to schools, children should go to their nearest school. This criterion is absolute and not a matter for parental choice. If this means a school is over-subscribed, then it’s the next nearest. Only if there is space after the distance factor has been used, should parents be able to send their children further afield.

Ø Allow for other factors – special needs, special talents, etc.

Ø If parents wish to move into an area to be near a ‘good’ school (whatever that means), good for them.

Ø If this whole argument is about variations in educational standards, we should be a bit more hard-headed

Ø I do not believe there is such a gulf between ‘rich’ and ‘deprived’. That is just left-wing scaremongering and sociological over-simplification.

Ø People are not created by their environment. It is people who create their environment. Any other philosophy is degrading to human beings, and absolves them of responsibility.

Ø Responsible individuals should not suffer because others are irresponsible. In other words, if there are parents out there who don’t give a damn about the future of their children and who bring them up to share that attitude, then others should not see their own children thrown into the same bear-pit.

Ø If you think my thinking is reactionary and that all children are equally capable of being modelled into honours graduates, then let teachers prove it, without half-baked, starry-eyed experiments in social engineering.

PS This blog is good fun:

http://overheardlines.blogspot.com/index.html