The Wallygrange Grammar School Blog!
Mike Knowles
Copyright 2011 by Mike Knowles
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011
Mike Knowles
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, (apart from brief inclusions in a review), without the express permission in writing from the author. Remember: plagiarism is the last refuge of the untalented. And I should know!
DISCLAIMER!
The Author would like to stress that Wallygrange Grammar School, (motto: All Major Credit Cards Accepted), is totally fictitious and any resemblances whatsoever to the prestigious King’s School in Macclesfield are purely coincidental. There’s no school next to the sewage works in Prestbury. I’ve walked past there a number of times and I’ve never seen one. And the very fact that Prestbury even has a sewage works is something most residents prefer to forget. After all, these are not working class people for whom the treatment of sewage is an acceptable subject for discussion. These are the landed gentry.
This painting shows former pupil, Ivor Mare, who in 1883 went to Australia to live with a horse.
THE HEADMASTER
That’s me, up there! Alfred Hitchcork, NUT TA. And I’m standing outside my palatial mansion in Prestbury. As you can see, it’s not a photo. It’s an oil painting. Ordinary mortals have their photos taken. People like me have their portraits painted. Just like in the old days when Van Cough and those others went around looking for rich patrons. In this case the artist was the head of our Art Department, Damian Hurst. And he did it for nothing! It was either that or I turned whistleblower and he ended up on the front page of the tabloids. What did he do? Well, that’s between me, Hurst and the badger. I could have paid him but, as my grandmother always says, look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves. In case anyone thinks the mansion looks rather small, I told Hurst to just paint half if it otherwise people will be looking at that instead of me! Which will never do.
In fact my mansion is considerably larger than Wayne Rooney’s house! Rooney’s house? Don’t make me laugh. My garden shed’s bigger than that. In fact, Rooney’s place might just be big enough for my garden gnomes. They can go in there to keep out of the rain. Yes, these are real gnomes. Or, as some call them, dwarfs. I pay them to wear funny outfits and stand around my garden. Cruel? Ask them. They get paid well for their work. And standing there holding gardening implements and lanterns can hardly be called work. Some even get to sit on large mushrooms carved out of marble. From this you’ll gather that the headmaster of an independent school must be raking it in. But be warned! Before you all go rushing off to be one, I must point out that not all head teachers of independent schools are as well paid as I am. And as for those poor buggers in state schools...I carry more loose change in my pockets than they earn in a year! In fact, I get better money than any of my colleagues. And when you read our blog you’ll know why. They say money isn’t everything. Rubbish! Where would you be without money, eh? You’d be living rough on the street selling The Big Issue. Well, don’t thrust one in my face or you’ll get a swift kick up the ars*! The sound of cash is the only thing I listen to. And I’m not talking about the late Johnny Cash, either!
OFSTED!
Even teachers with nerves of steel shiver in fear when they hear that word! But not me...not Alfie Hitchcork. Oh, no! My nerves are made of titanium. Which is much lighter and stronger than steel. But for those less fortunate than I, cases of chronic and seemingly intractable constipation have been miraculously cured at the very mention of an OFSTED inspection. We’re talking soiled underwear. We’re talking brown stains on the seat of your trousers. The Office for Standards in Education would have everyone believe their job is to ensure each pupil in the UK gets the very best education. But, as my father used to say, you can’t bul*shit a bul*shitter! And I’ll have you know that I’m one of the biggest bul*shitters around. So there! The truth is OFSTED was set up by a meddling government with nothing better to do than poke their noses into things that don’t concern them. Leave teaching to the teachers, I say! So what exactly do OFSTED do when they come to inspect a school? Well, it was King Alfred who coined that famous Anglo-Saxon expression, “They want to know the ins and outs of a cat’s ars**ole.
Only he was applying it to the Vikings who kept asking him how much gold he had. He tried to tell them that money wasn’t everything. “Bol*o*ks!” cried the Vikings. “It might not be everything to you, but it is to us!” And that actually happened. Back whenever and wherever it was. And to prove it this story of King Alfred came straight from the lips of David Hirving, the head of our history department. I can vouch for that because I saw them move as he was talking to me.
Anyway, that’s quite enough about him! This is my book. Before moving on to our magnificent blog you’ll need to get some idea of what sort of school Wallygrange is. I could have given you extracts from our school prospectus, but our solicitors have advised against it. At least until the court case has been resolved. So, instead, our 6th Form suggested we let you read the 2010 OFSTED report. The one that totally slagged us off. I won’t pull any punches. All Wallygrange we believe in transparency. Which is why we wear cellophane clothing. Only joking. We don’t wear it all the time. So I must warn you here and now: this report makes grim reading. It couldn’t have been more negative. But you must bear in mind that the report gives only one side of the story. Their side. I’m not suggesting for one moment OFSTED are biased. What I am suggesting is that they sent a young woman to do a man’s job. Never a good idea. This was the first school she’d ever inspected. And she did so with no support from her colleagues. In those circumstances how on earth could she be expected to do a good job? Obviously, we ourselves couldn’t give her any support. After all, it’s not our job to help these people. So my advice to the reader is to look at this report objectively and ignore any negative aspects because these will inevitably prejudice your opinion.
In this extract of the report you’ll get a picture of our school and the rather weird characters that inhabit it. Weird by some finicky standards, but not by mine. Some of them are not quite human. Are they the missing links the anthropologists are looking for? Or are they, perhaps, the result of some alien abduction procedure? A mixture of ET and Forest Gump. Who knows? Anyway, I started the blog because I wanted to put the record straight. To give those meddling busybodies a chance to read just what happens at our school. During the day, that is. At night we’re all at home. Apart from the...but we try not to think of them. Of course, that’s assuming those OFSTED people can read! So I’d like to finish with these words. OFSTED said we were the worst. Well, they’ve had their say, now I’m having mine. And I’ll leave the good people of Macclesfield and the rest of the world to decide if OFSTED were right.
Our 6th Formers assure me that you won’t have much trouble on that score!
HEADS OF DEPARTMENT AND STAFF AT WALLYGRANGE GRAMMAR SCHOOL MENTIONED IN THE BLOG
Damien Hurst: Head of Art Department.
George Orwill: Head of English Department.
Gary Leo: Head of Geography Department.
David Hirving: Head of History Department.
Julius Seesar: Head of Languages Department.
Paul Koncentration: Head of Special Needs Department.
Bill Gaits: Head of IT Department.
Nigella Larsen: School Cook.
Archie Medes: Head of Mathematics Department.
Jim Nast: Head of Physical Education Department.
Don Capone BA Hon: Head of Respect Department.
Albert Ironstine: Head of Science Department.
Jamie Uliver: Head of Food Technology Department.
A. Rodin: Head of Metalwork Department.
Florence Nitindale: School Nurse.
Andy McNarb: Senior Caretaker.
Naomi Shorthand: School Secretary.
One of the accusations levelled by OFSTED was that I employed teachers not for their teaching abilities, but because of their monikers. That I searched high and low for these people and that I even paid some of them to change their names. And that none of the teachers, apart from Mr Capone, had any qualifications at all! In my defence I can only remind them that paper qualifications aren’t everything and that many of my staff have been educated at the school of hard knocks, (some knocks, in the case of former SAS man Andy McNarb, very hard indeed), and the university of life.
REPORT: NOT FOR PUBLICATION
WALLYGRANGE GRAMMAR SCHOOL INSPECTION NOVEMBER, 2010
Prestbury, Cheshire.
LEA area: Macclesfield.
Unique reference number: 8876554.
Headmaster: Alfred Hitchcork.
Reporting inspector: Marilyn Munroe.
Dates of inspection: 15th to 17th November 2010.
Inspection number: 253765.
Full inspection carried out under section 10 of the School Inspections Act 1996.
Type of school: Secondary.
School category: Fee paying private.
Age range of pupils: 11 to 16
Gender of pupils: Male, and some others.
School address: Candlestick Lane,
Prestbury,
Cheshire.
Postcode: 0B KN0B
Telephone number: 01625 999911
Fax number: 01625 9990001
Headmaster: Alfred Hitchcork
Deputy Headmaster: Alfred Hitchcork.
School Caretaker: Andy McNarb.
Head of School Accounts Department: Alfred Hitchcork.
Chairman of governors: Alfred Hitchcork.
Chairman of the Parent Teacher’s Association: Alfred Hitchcork.
Last inspection: November 2007.
THE REPORT
I must first apologise for the delay in making my report. I’ve just finished my counselling sessions and the doctor says I’m ready to put my experiences down on paper. He says it will help me come to terms with what has happened to me. I was warned about Wallygrange. When they heard I’d been assigned to inspect the place, my colleagues told me not to come within a million miles of the school. They advised me to report sick. They spoke of gross incompetence on the part of the teaching staff. They told me there was no discipline. They said the headmaster was a compulsive liar who couldn’t tell the truth to save his own life. They spoke of fraud. Of happenings so strange they made crop circles and UFO abductions look commonplace. They said the place was haunted. That it was being used by the government to conduct weird experiments. That it had been taken over by aliens. And when they told me that the other members of the inspection team were off sick and that I’d have to do it on my own, I should have refused. But I was new in the job and this would be my first inspection so I was determined to show them I could do it. So, like a fool, I decided to go there with an open mind. I was sure they were exaggerating. After all, no school could be that bad. In the event I was wrong and they were right. I barely managed to escape from that hellhole with my life. Even worse, I had to leave part of my body behind. My union have told me to start legal proceedings to get compensation, but I’m not hopeful. After all, who’s going to believe I was scalped by Big Chief Sitting Bull?
I’d set out early and arrived in Prestbury at 8.43 am as the pupils were arriving. There was something about them I couldn’t quite fathom. A haunted look on their faces. It was the look of an animal in a laboratory cage. An animal that senses there’s something not quite right about the place, but they just can’t figure out what. My first shock came when I pulled into the staff parking space. No sooner had I stopped than this man in his early-thirties came running out of the main building and knelt down by the side of my car. His shifty little eyes reminded me of a suave confidence trickster, but I told myself you can’t tell a book by its cover. How wrong I was! At first I felt sorry for him. Seeing tears streaming down his face I thought there must have been some ghastly accident. As I got out he introduced himself as Alfred Hitchcork, the Headmaster. ‘Please don’t be too hard on me!’ he begged. ‘I need this job to support my wife and our four-hundred children!’
For a moment I thought I’d misheard him. ‘Four hundred?’ I asked.
He corrected himself. ‘Four hundred and three. She gave birth to some triplets last night!’ I was about to remark that his poor wife must be exhausted when he asked me if I was married and had any children. I said yes. He said in that case I’d know how expensive it was bringing them up. I told him I only had two, not four hundred and three. He then asked me to imagine having to buy top-of-the-range designer label trainers for them all. Not just ordinary trainers, either. But those with the flashing lights on the soles. He said at night his house was lit up like the Blackpool Illuminations. And then there was the fact that they all supported Manchester United. Did I have any idea how much four hundred and three home and away kits cost him?
Telling him that I didn’t believe a word he was saying only produced a fresh torrent of tears. Worse still, the buffoon actually began kissing my shoes! Yes, I’m sorry! I realise calling people names is a highly unprofessional way for an OFSTED Inspector to behave. But I can’t help it. I’ve never been so disgusted in my life. When I asked him if he was a man or a mouse, he pulled a large wedge of cheese from his pocket and began nibbling at it. I ordered him to get a grip on himself and show me to his office. Then came my second shock. As we walked to the door a foul smell hit me. It was like raw sewage. I looked at the Headmaster who was still nibbling on his wedge of Cheddar. Had he just let off? If he had then it must have been a Silent-but-Deadly one because I hadn’t heard anything. I told him if that’s what cheese does to him he should see a doctor. He merely sniggered. I knew then that this would be no ordinary school.
I was right. More proof of this came when we walked down the corridor. As we turned a corner I noticed some suspicious looking teenagers standing around a large soft drinks dispensing machine. They had hoods pulled over their faces and one was holding a screwdriver. To me it looked like he was trying to lever the panel off so he could get at the money inside. Seeing I was watching them, the youths began to make rude gestures. But when I pointed this out to Hitchcork he seemed unperturbed.
‘Oh, don’t worry about them,’ he said. ‘They’re friends of Joe Starlin, the assistant school caretaker.’
‘Joe Starlin?’
Hitchcork looked at me. ‘Yes, do you know him?’
I shook my head. ‘No, it’s just that the name rang a bell.’
‘So it should, love,’ said Hitchcork. ‘Ringing the bell is one of his jobs.’
I had to explain to him that that wasn’t what I’d meant. I merely meant that the assistant school caretaker had the same name as the infamous communist dictator. At which point Hitchcork looked puzzled and asked, ‘What communist dictator?’
I expressed my surprise that Hitchcork, a teacher, had never heard of Joseph Stalin. ‘It’s clear, Mr Hitchcork,’ I said, ‘That history is not your subject.’ He ignored the sarcasm and delivered a tirade against the stupidity of learning a lot of useless facts about the past. ‘Who the hell,’ he asked me, ‘wants to know about the pyramids or the Great Freeze of London, eh?’
‘Surely you mean the Great Fire of London,’ I said.
“Whatever,” Hitchcork replied with a shrug of his shoulders. He then indicated that we’d reached his office. By now I’d gained the distinct impression that Hitchcork’s level of intelligence was much lower than that of most living creatures. Probably at the level of those single-celled organisms that live in ponds. Let me put it this way: if brains were dynamite this idiot didn’t have enough to blow his cap off. Yet as we entered his office I saw that the walls were plastered with diplomas and university degrees. Hitchcork could see I was impressed. He pointed to two of them. One said he was a fully qualified brain surgeon and the other was the Nobel Prize in Mathematics!
I asked him how many brains he’d operated on and he shrugged. ‘I’ve lost count.’ He then pointed to the diploma next to it.
‘Not bad, eh?’ said Hitchcork smugly. ‘The Nobel Prize in Arithmetic for someone who can’t even recite the seven times table.’
My head was beginning to swim. ‘I beg your pardon?’ I said.
Hitchcork explained that he could recite most of the others without having to count on his fingers. But that there was something about the number seven that just baffled him. I told him that there was just one slight problem with that award. There’s no such thing as a Nobel Prize in Mathematics!
‘Are you saying I’m a fraud?’ cried Hitchcork. I could tell he was getting hot under the collar because his shirt caught fire. So we stood there for a while trading insults. He gave me one of his for two of mine. Finally I remembered who I was and apologised for my unprofessional behaviour. Hitchcork said he’d forgive me if I gave him and his school a glowing report. I told him I couldn’t do that. ‘Ah, well, it was worth a try,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.
I pointed to another certificate – this one purported to be from NASA stating that he’d walked on the moon with Buzz Aldrin. It came with an obviously faked photograph of Hitchcork standing next to Aldrin as they posed by the lunar module.
At this Hitchcork looked annoyed. ‘Okay, Mrs Clever-Clogs,’ he cried. ‘Just what makes you think it’s a fake?’
‘Buzz Aldrin is wearing a spacesuit,’ I said, ‘but you’re not. In which case you’d have been dead as soon as you opened the hatch and climbed outside. Unless,’ I added sarcastically, ‘your brilliant mind worked out a way of extracting oxygen from a vacuum.’
There was a pause and then Hitchcork grinned. ‘I wanted to hire a spacesuit,” he confessed. ‘But it was too expensive. Actually, most pupils and their parents think they’re the real thing. In fact, the Sixth Form produced them for me.’ He paused to wipe some crumbs from his mouth. ‘They can do you some if you want.’
I shook my head and asked him if any of them were genuine
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘They’re all registered with the school.’
I told him I meant the awards on the wall, not the Sixth Formers. He just shrugged as he plonked himself down behind his desk. ‘I think a couple might be,’ he said. ‘But I can’t remember which ones.’ It was clear comparing Hitchcork’s brain to that of simple pond life might be overestimating him. “Hitchcork’s brain?” I suppressed the urge to giggle. It sounded like one of those dreadful sit-coms they have on the telly. I pulled myself together. Something about this place was having an adverse affect on me and I had a sudden vision of ending up a gibbering idiot like the Headmaster. Maybe there was some kind of pollution in the air. Maybe that smell hadn’t come from Hitchcork’s nether regions...
‘Are you all right?’ asked Hitchcork. ‘You look a little pale.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, sitting down and taking my notebook from my attaché case. First I asked him how long he’d been the Headmaster at Wallygrange. ‘About a year now,’ he said. I watched in amazement as he began taking his shoes and socks off. ‘I took over after the previous Headmaster was found in the science block dead as a doornail with his head in a bucket of sulphuric acid.’ At this point Hitchcork grunted as he lifted one leg and put his foot on the desk. Then, taking out a pair of industrial sized nail clippers, he began cutting his toenails. I ducked as one particularly large one missed me by about an inch and ricochet off the wall.
“I wouldn’t sit too close,” he said. “Last time my secretary nearly choked on one. She was yawning at the time and the clipping from my big toe went down her throat.’ I moved my chair back.
‘What did the coroner say?’ I asked.
Hitchcork looked puzzled. ‘You don’t call the coroner just because someone swallows a toenail,’ he said. ‘Not unless they’ve chocked on the bugger and kicked the bucket.’
‘I was talking about the headmaster who was found with his head in a bucket of sulphuric acid.’
‘Ah!’ cried Hitchcork. ‘Actually, his head wasn’t in the bucket. Well, it had been. But by the time they found him it had all but dissolved…apart from his left eye, that is. It was lying on the bottom staring up at them.’
‘His left eye?’ I croaked.
Hitchcork scratched his head. ‘Come to think of it, it could have been his right one. They both looked the same. Anyway, he’d also been severely beaten with a mop, had a carving knife in his back and his limbs had been chopped off with a chainsaw. The police suspected foul play and later arrested one of the science teachers, along with the caretaker, the cook, the cleaner…and pretty much anyone else they could lay their hands on.’
I told him that these were clearly not normal run-of-the-mill problems.
‘Correct,’ said Hitchcork, ‘but remember that Wallygrange is not your normal run-of-the-mill school. Because of this unfortunate incident, a number of parents wanted to remove their children. Fortunately the teaching staff refused to let them. Later, when the Head of PE exploded after drinking too much of that muscle building concoction they sell in health food shops, morale at the school sank to a new low. As a result of this, the School Governors decided that some new blood was needed. A few days later, the Deputy Head provided lots of it when he severed an artery whilst carving some graffiti in the staff washroom using a Stanley knife.’
I paused to take this in. ‘I see. And just what sort of graffiti was he carving?’
‘It was a naughty word.’
The incident, if true, intrigued me. In all my years I’d never heard of a deputy headmaster carving naughty words in a washroom. On the other hand, it could have been another of Hitchcork’s ridiculous stories. The medical profession have a term for it. The Munchausen Syndrome. It refers to a person who lives in a world of fantasy. A description that seemed to fit Hitchcork perfectly. ‘What naughty word?’ I asked.
Hitchcork looked worried. ‘If I tell you, you might order me to wash my mouth out with soap.’
‘I won’t do that.’
‘Oh,’ said Hitchcork, sounding disappointed. ‘I was hoping you might. Anyway, the naughty word was “Poulet.”’
‘That’s not naughty,’ I said. ‘That’s French for “chicken.”’
‘It is?’ said Hitchcork. ‘Well, fancy that. Anyway, it was at this point that I was appointed.’
‘Yes, I heard about that,’ I said. ‘According to my information, the school governors only interviewed one applicant for the post…and that was you. Don’t you think that was a little irregular?’
Hitchcork seemed unperturbed. ‘I know what you’re implying, but it was all proper and above board. The Chairman of the Governors read through the various CV’s that were submitted and considered there was really only one person suitable for the job.’
‘I see. And who is the Chairman of the Governors?’
‘I am.’
I told him that it didn’t need Sherlock Holmes to work out that this all looked highly suspicious. At which point Hitchcork winked and told me that his choice had clearly been the right one. And why? Because in the space of one week he’d managed to turn the whole school around.
‘And how did you do that?’ I asked.
‘Well,’ said Hitchcork, ‘previously, the front entrance had been facing north. But, with some remarkable engineering ingenuity involving several bags of sugar and industrial fertilizer plus some sticks of dynamite, the main entrance is now facing south.’
I struggled to take this information in. Either he was an unmitigated liar or the greatest structural engineer since Isambard Kingdom Brunel! Looking at the fakes hanging on his walls I plumped for the former. On the other hand, from what I’d seen already I reckoned that anything was possible.
‘Take a gander at the school rules,’ said Hitchcork. He got up off the chair and walked towards the filing cabinet in the corner. As he did so he let out a resounding fart. Wafting his hand behind his huge posterior to disperse the cabbage like aroma, he turned to me and smiled.
‘My mother always says, “Wherever thou may be, let thy wind go free.”’
‘Your mother sounds like quite a character,’ I said, putting a tissue to my nose.
‘She is,’ said Hitchcork. ‘You’ll probably meet her. She’s one of the dinner ladies along with Her Grace the Duchess of Addlington’
I expressed my surprise. ‘The Duchess of Addlington?’
‘That’s right,’ said Hitchcork. ‘Your hearing’s pretty good. Not like my old man, he’s as deaf as a post. Anyway, Her Grace is a nice old bird. A bit toffee nosed. I have a lick of it now and then.’ He paused as if waiting for my reaction. ‘That was a joke,’ he said.
After reading it I threw the file on the desk in disgust. ‘These rules are totally ridiculous!’ I cried. ‘Not only that, they breach the pupil’s basic Human Rights. These rules are set out in such a way as to make it impossible not to break them. How on earth can any pupil be expected to abide by them and avoid paying a fine? You must be raking in a fortune! How much are you making a week from fines?’
‘About £2,800.’
‘And what happens to this money?’
Hitchcork shrugged. ‘The School Treasurer deals with all that.’
When I reminded Hitchcork that, apart from all his other jobs, he was the also the School Treasurer he winked. I had to restrain the urge to get up and hit him. ‘I really must insist that these rules are rescinded immediately.’ He looked puzzled.
‘Rescinded?’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I forgot I’m dealing with an illiterate oaf. Rescinded means removed...stopped. They are clearly illegal. We live in a democracy. These rules are more suited for a totalitarian dictatorship. Hitler and Mussolini would have used these rules. They are totally unacceptable in an English school. They’ll have to go.’
Hitchcork shook his head. ‘I asked the School Solicitor and he said they were perfectly legal.’
‘And who is the...?’ I stopped as Hitchcork pointed to one of the certificates on the wall. ‘In other words,’ I said, ‘You’re also the School Solicitor?’
He nodded.
‘I suppose,’ I asked sarcastically, ‘you’ll be telling us next you’re even the Chief Bottle Washer?’
He nodded.
By now I was totally exasperated. I asked him how the school dealt with matters of discipline. Hitchcork proceeded to inform me that he’d introduced a very effective system of detention. He then went on to describe in some detail how the offender’s hands and feet are tied together and then they’re gagged. Thus secured, a hood is placed over their heads before they’re sealed inside an airtight metal container which is then buried 900 metres underground. Hitchcork explained that the term for this form of detention is Behaviour Modification Using Deep Isolation or BMUDI. I asked him how many pupils are presently undergoing BMUDI.
‘Let me check,’ he said. He entered something on his computer and smiled. ‘At the moment there are only two. Hopefully, we’ll remember where we buried them!’ Seeing my look of horror he hastily added that that had been a joke. I wish I could have believed him. I made a note to inform the emergency services.
I then held up OFSTED’s information sheet about his school and pointed to some glaring discrepancies. For example, the Deputy Headmaster’s name was Alfred Hitchcork. Was he any relation?
‘Yes, that’s me,’ said Hitchcork.
I told him that he couldn’t be the Headmaster and the deputy Headmaster at the same time. Nobody could. It just wasn’t physically possible. Hitchcork looked doubtful so I had to explain that the human body was incapable of being in two places at the same time. Maybe in a few hundred years we might have the technology to do that. But not right now. So, if he was ill or away at a conference, who was there to stand in for him? Hitchcork replied that the senior teacher would take charge. I asked Hitchcork who the senior teacher was.
‘That’s me again,’ announced Hitchcork with a big grin on his face.
‘Just let me get this straight,’ I said, “Are you saying that when you’re not here, the school is left without any form of leadership?”
Hitchcork laughed. ‘Good God, woman!’ he cried. ‘The teachers at Wallygrange don’t need any leadership. They know what they have to do. They have to teach the pupils, that’s their job. End of story.’
‘If we were to follow that logic,’ I told him, ‘then there’s no need for a Headmaster or a Deputy Headmaster. In other words, you’ve just talked yourself out of a job.’
Hitchcork replied that he was here as a precaution. Just in case there was ever any need for a leader. And anyway, he wasn’t about to give up a good paying job like this. There was clearly no arguing with a man like that, so I decided to drop the subject for the time being. I did, however, ask him why he was also the head of the school accounts department. He pointed to one of the diplomas. It was for a degree in Accountancy from the Chopastickee College in Peking.
‘Is that one of the genuine ones?’ I asked. ‘Because it looks slightly dodgy to me.’
Hitchcork refused to answer and merely tapped the side of his nose. I then asked him about his relationship with the pupils and their parents. Was he readily available for advice and consultation? Hitchcork assured me that his office was open for approximately eight seconds a day should pupils or parents wish to drop in for a quick chat.
‘Eight seconds?’ I said. ‘It would have to be quick. So just what do you do for the rest of the day?’
Hitchcork winked and tapped his nose. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’
‘Yes, Mr Hitchcork,’ I snapped. ‘And that’s precisely what I’m going to do.’
I then turned to the school curriculum. I asked Hitchcork to describe the range of subjects at Wallygrange. He began by telling me that there were an infinite range of opportunities open to the pupils. I laughed and said surely that was an exaggeration. This angered him.
‘Let me give you some idea of just how vast this range, is,’ he said. ‘Imagine counting every grain of sand on earth and then multiplying that number by eight hundred billion. And that’s just the number of abilities open to each pupil on the first day of term!’
‘You mean there’s more?’ I said.
He nodded. He then went on to claim that after that the number of opportunities quadrupled every second of the day. (Not counting holidays when this number was reduced by fifteen-point-eight percent). Hitchcork concluded by boasting that by the time the pupil left Wallygrange he or she would possess enough GCSE’s to fill the known universe ten times over. He concluded by telling me that not many schools could make that sort of claim! I told him that at least was something we could agree on. In fact, no other school would dare to make such an outrageous one.
‘Damn right!’ said Hitchcork, banging his fist on the desk. ‘And why? Because they know they’re not in our league.’
I jokingly remarked I wouldn’t be surprised if Hitchcork didn’t have a framed certificate on his wall declaring that his school produced the world’s most educated pupils. Whereupon Hitchcork told me that the Sixth Form were in the process of designing one. I was determined to show this man up for a liar, so I asked to see a list of the infinite number of subjects taught in his remarkable school. I added that I doubted there was enough paper to print it on, even if one recycled every scrap and stripped every forest on earth! By now I should have realised that Hitchcork had an answer for everything. He explained that the number of subjects taught at Wallygrange depended, not only on the size of the teaching staff, but also on their goodwill and cooperation.
‘Teachers are only human,’ he said. After thinking about it for a moment he added, ‘Well, most of them are.’
I asked him what he meant by that and he told that at least one of them had been cloned by the 6th Form. There may have been others, but he couldn’t be quite sure. Then he told me that there were times when the teachers preferred to stay in bed rather than come to school. Especially in winter when it was cold outside. Then there was the question of memory. Teachers sometimes forgot things. For example, they might sometimes forget what subject they’re supposed to teach. This might be due to old age. Apparently some of Hitchcork’s staff were well into their hundreds!
‘Anything else?’ I asked.
Hitchcork nodded and told me that the gooseberry wine often had a disastrous effect on the memory. When I looked puzzled he took a bottle out of his desk drawer and held it up. “One of our Sixth Formers, a lad called Wheek, makes a wine out of gooseberries. He’s brilliant at it, but then he should be. His father is a local brewer. Have you ever tried Wheek Beer?”
I told him I was a teetotaller.
‘A golf fanatic, eh?’ said Hitchcork.
I asked him what he was blabbering on about. ‘I meant,’ Hitchcork explained. ‘That you’re one of those people who count the tees on a golf course. A teetotaller.’
He sounded perfectly serious, so I assumed he actually thought there were people who went around golf courses counting tees. I told him that the term normally applied to people who didn’t touch alcohol.
‘Ah,’ said Hitchcork. ‘One of them are you? Well, Wheek Beer is nice but it’s not as potent as this gooseberry wine.’
“I’ll take your word for it,” I remarked, adding that the Sixth Form seemed to have a number of extra-curricular activities. Hitchcork took a swig from the bottle and belched. ‘They have a finger in everything,’ he said. ‘I’ve told them it’s unhygienic, but you know what teenagers are like. They just won’t listen to us old farts.’ He held the bottle out to me. ‘Are you sure you don’t want some? This stuff will strip the paint from a door.’
I shook my head.
Hitchcork shrugged and took another swig. In which case, he said, the relevant lessons had to be cancelled. On top of this, in order to teach all these subjects they also needed enough teachers to fill the known universe ten times over. And they were having trouble with that one.
I had another stab at sarcasm. ‘Ask your wife,’ I said. ‘Perhaps she could give birth to them.’ Hitchcork ignored this and continued swigging from the bottle. He explained that if a teacher did forget then the pupils were requested to remain at their desks until such time the teacher regained his/her memory. Failing that, until the bell rang. I said sarcastically. ‘That’s all right, then.’ But there was no response from Hitchcork who was just sitting there with a blank expression on his face. Then I noticed that he’d finished the bottle. ‘Are you all right, Mr Hitchcork?’ I asked.
‘Where am I?’ he said. ‘What’s more to the point…who am I?’
I told him that Wheek should forget the gooseberries and use Forget-Me-Nots instead.
OFSTED Inspector Marilyn Munroe. From a photo taken during her inspection.
THE WALLYGRANGE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BLOG
After reading the OFSTED report you’ve no doubt decided that the poor woman was clearly deranged. And I don’t blame you. The same thoughts went through my head when I read it. But, unlike you, I’m a headmaster and I don’t go by my feelings alone. So I asked myself some technical questions. Questions we teachers ask when faced with negative assessments of our professional standards. Questions like: don’t OFSTED have a system whereby they assess the mental state of their inspectors? Or do they have a recruitment policy that states they must give preference to candidates with mental health issues? I know we should be doing our bit to reintegrate these poor people into the community. But how can giving them a job with OFSTED help? Do they imagine that inspecting schools is therapeutic? But that’s my problem, not yours.
However, if you feel you must offer your support, please do so with a generous donation to the Wallygrange Headmaster’s Aid Fund. Remember that old saying: money speaks louder than words. And here’s what you’ve all been waiting for! Below are some extracts I’ve selected from the school blog. The extracts, which relate to 2010, are not dated because I’ve chosen only the most interesting ones. Well, let’s just say that after taking legal advice these were the only ones safe to print. But first, a word from our sponsors...
This blog is sponsored by the following Macclesfield firms:
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Welcome to the Wallygrange Grammar School Blog!
OFSTED and the Department of Education want to close us down! How dare they? They don’t give a damn about the children – they just want to get back at me. This is how ungrateful they are. I offered them a perfectly reasonable backhander and they turned it down. Can you believe that? I can’t. It’s clear these people have never worked in industry where backhanders are a way of life. Maybe they thought they were making quite enough money out of the poor taxpayers! In fact, if I was a taxpayer I’d be very angry indeed. All that money spent on hounding poor teachers who have enough on their plates without that lot breathing down their necks. Fortunately I have a very good accountant who’s shown me how to avoid paying taxes. So, let’s all support this blog and show OFSTED they can’t dictate to us Wallygrangers! Let’s show them we’re made of stronger stuff, (well, some of us are.)
This blog was intended for the staff of Wallygrange Grammar School. Initially we weren’t going to include the pupils or their parents. Why? Because we’d heard that other schools had had negative comments from ungrateful brats who thought they could insult their teachers! Well, things just don’t work that way. In reality it’s the other way round. Here at Wallygrange the only people who are allowed to hurl insults about are teachers. That’s what we’ve been trained to do. However, as a gesture of good will, the 6th Form suggested I open the blog to all and sundry. At which point the following discussion ensued...
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘I don’t mind two extra people reading it.’
‘What two extra people?’
‘All and Sundry. The last one sounds Indian.’
‘You’re serious, right?’ asked Tom Brown, the Head Prefect. ‘You’re actually telling us you don’t know what “all and sundry” means?’
‘I’m not that stupid.’ I said. ‘Or am I? That’s for me to know and you to find out. And good luck to you!’
Brown shook his head and pointed out that by making the blog available to a wider audience, we could show that OFSTED report up for what it really was.
‘And what’s that?’ I asked.
‘Genuine,’ said Brown. ‘Yes, I know it was negative. In fact, it was downright insulting. But by hanging our dirty washing out, people will see we’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘No problemo,’ I replied. ‘I’m no stranger to that. My wife always hung our dirty washing out. Until she learned how to use the washing machine.’
‘We didn’t mean that sort of washing,’ said Brown. ‘It was purely a metaphor. You do know what a metaphor is?’
‘From the sound of it, it can’t be cleaned and has to be hung out dirty.’
‘I think you should just listen,’ said Brown. He went on to explain that by restricting access to the blog people might think were frightened of something. And he admitted that it would be a gamble, given the negative things that have been said us. That did it! I’m a gambling man and I told Brown to hell with it! We’d publish the blog warts and all!
‘They’re pretty big warts,’ said one of the 6th Formers.
‘So what?’ I replied, showing off my knowledge of history. ‘Old Cromwell had them.’
‘He means warts,’ said Flushman who had helped develop our atomic toilets.
‘Yes, we know Cromwell had warts,’ said Brown. ‘But what the fuck has that got to do with it?’
I gave him a smug look. ‘Even with warts he chopped the bishop’s head off!’
‘It was the king,’ said Brown. ‘And he didn’t chop it off himself, he got the Executioner to do it.’
Whatever!’ I cried. ‘The point is I’m the headmaster and we’ll do the blog my way!’
‘And what way is that?’ asked Brown.
‘The way you suggested we do it.’
So here we are. Alongside making announcements the traditional way, (sending out memos or starting rumours), I’ve decided to add IT. I’m referring here to “Information Technology,” not some monster from the nether regions. And those disgusting pupils or members of staff who thought “nether regions” meant a certain part of the anatomy should be thoroughly ashamed of themselves. Actually, to be fair, the idea for this came from our 6th Form who thought it might help tarnish the reputation of the school even further. When I pointed out that this might prove impossible, they suggested we might as well give it a try. After all, what have we got to win? Ah, the exuberance of youth! I was once just as keen as they are. I don’t exactly know when that was, but I’m almost sure it happened at some point or another.
Where was I? I’m afraid I’ve had a little nip of Wheek’s remarkable Gooseberry Wine. Literally, as those who’ve imbibed it will tell you, a truly mind bending experience. Or should that be mind breaking? I made just one stipulation: that the blog site we use is a free one. I’ll be perfectly frank about this: I’d rather see the funds allocated to this project end up my pocket. As I’m always pointing out to my pupils, it’s an expensive world out there.
As I stated above, I’ll be using the blog to announce any policy changes, indulge in the usual malicious tittle-tattle about pupils, parents and staff, post the yearly staff assessment reports, divulge any news...in short the sort of stuff I’m doing the old way. But we must move with the times lest we become extinct. Like that pet the Flintstones had. What was it? A Dino-something. And here’s something to cheer up the pupils in 4C. Following the malfunction of one of our nuclear powered toilets, (invented by the 6th Form), I’m happy to announce that young Charley Sharplin has almost totally recovered. According to his mother there are just a few bits of his body that continue to glow in the dark. However, she’s asked me to spare her son’s blushes by not mentioning what those bits are. And, as long as she doesn’t cancel her Direct Debit at the bank, I’ll keep my side of the bargain. Fair enough? I thought so.
Of course, the 6th Form also anticipated that non-members of WGS may come across this blog. In which case I’d better tell them something about myself. My name is Alfred Hitchcork, NUT, TA, and I’m the Headmaster of Wallygrange Grammar School. The school OFSTED branded as the “worst in the UK, if not in the entire world!” A ringing endorsement indeed. I was born a baby and obtained my many distinguished academic qualifications from an Internet Mail Order Firm. It has often been suggested by my detractors, (and there are lots of them), that the pupils of WGS are here merely to fill the Headmaster’s bank account. Whilst there’s some truth in that, we also strive to ensure that our pupils fulfil their full potential. Their potential to fill my bank account, that is! Am I joking? Well, that’s for my bank manager to know and you to find out. If you can.
Finally. here at Wallygrange Grammar School we believe in leading. For example, if we find a pupil is trying to pull a fast one, we’ll lead him up the garden path. If a pupil’s behaviour is good we will lead them astray. And, if we find that any of our pupils have a musical gift, then we’ll lead them a merry dance.
PS: For the sports minded I’ll be telling you how we sharpen the reflexes of our bowlers and batters by making them practice with live grenades! Once someone’s tossed you a Fragmentation Grenade with a four-second fuse fizzing away, the last thing you need is an LBW! (The grenades are surplus stock kindly donated by one of the parents who’s in the arms trade. Just in case some penny pincher thinks we’re using the school fees. As for myself, I’ve never been described as a penny pincher. Instead, they call me a pound pincher.)
PPS: Another popular source of income is money laundering. Let’s face it, there’s nothing worse than taking a £10 or £20 note from the cash dispenser only to find it’s grubby, (the note I mean, not the cash dispenser.) Not to mention all the dirty coins circulating around. Think of the germs. It’s a wonder most of us haven’t come down with MRSC, or whatever. So the 6th Form have developed a machine that washes dirty money. Coins come out sparkling clean and notes are ironed out on a steam press. For a nominal fee, of course! After all, we’re not doing this for the fun of it.
Alfred Hitchcork NUT TA.
Headmaster.
CHANGES TO THE SCHOOL RULES!
Will all pupils please be advised that the School Rules have been changed. Yet again. Yes, I know it’s a bind. But those are the rules. The new School Rules are below and will be in force - or not in force - until they're changed again.
Rule 1: Pupils are reminded to stay alert at all times. This is because the school rules are flexible and liable to be changed several times during the day. The Headmaster and his staff are also authorised to make up whatever rules they see fit and are under no obligation to make these rules known to the pupils.
Rule 1(b): This states that Rule 1 may, or may not be, in operation when the pupil arrives at school.
Rule 2: Pupils may be punished for breaking the School Rules or for not breaking them or for both. We would like to remind you that this will depend entirely on the whim of the Headmaster or any member of staff implementing this rule, (this includes the caretaker and his staff, cleaners and kitchen staff. And, yes, it also includes the Lollypop Lady outside and Mr Whoopee who parks his ice cream van outside the school gates in summer!)
Rule 3: Care of personal property. All personal property must be clearly marked as follows:
“PROPERTY OF MR ALFRED HITCHCORK, NUT, TA.”
This is especially important in the case of valuable items like jewellery and money. This can be done by attaching a simple luggage label to the jewellery. As for paper currency, simply write the words prominently on the reverse side. Small letters, please. We don’t want to deface Her Majesty’s banknotes! Property not marked will be confiscated. Marking items in this way makes it easier to locate the owner should the item be lost. The owner being me, that is. And I’m usually in my office or somewhere else. School uniforms do not need to be marked as they are exempt from this rule. After all, unless you’re really tall your uniform certainly won’t fit the Headmaster.
Rule 4: School Uniform must be worn at all times. However, please bear in mind that, at the discretion of the Headmaster and his staff, the nature of the school uniform may be changed at any time! Pupils found wearing the incorrect uniform will be fined.
Rule 5: Disciplinary action will be taken against any pupil who has problems understanding these rules.
Remember: Rules are necessary for the smooth running of this school.
Don Capone BA Hons.
Head of Respect.
FOR THE ATTENTION OF CLASS 3C
Please note that next week’s Food Technology lesson will be on deep-frying with lard and I’ll be demonstrating how you can deep-fry any sort of food – including fruit like apples, oranges and bananas. And I want no whinging about cholesterol.
Jamie Uliver.
Head of Food Technology.
The Duchess of Addlington and one of the pupils after an accident involving a bottle of milk.
GENERAL INFORMATION
Those of you wondering where the Headmaster is, Mr Hitchcork is presently in Las Vegas and will be returning to work next Monday. Previously when the Headmaster has been away it appears that some of the staff have been bunking off after morning assembly. Mr Hitchcork doesn’t mind the pupils doing it – after all, who wants to work in a school filled with noisy kids? But he expects his teaching staff to set a good example.
We recently received an email from our old friend Agbara Udemba asking for 7 million bars of our laxative chocolate, (the one derived from Wheek Gooseberry Wine.) It seems the residents of his country are suffering from an epidemic of chronic constipation and our 6th Form have promised to work overtime to fill the order.
Naomi Shorthand
School Secretary
PUPIL SAFETY
After the recent incident involving one of the Year 9 pupils, may I remind all pupils that the school toilet facilities are truly unique. Like the electron particle accelerator and the time machine, they were built by the 6th Form. Controlled by a powerful mainframe computer, each toilet cubicle is powered by a small nuclear reactor situated on the roof. The toilets use a patented steam powered vacuum-inertial-gravity system that is perfectly safe as long as the pupil remembers to follow the detailed 457-page instruction manual. As an added precaution – and in line with the safety regulations laid down by the British Nuclear Industry Security Regulations – special decontamination suits are available from the caretaker at a small fee. Please note that this is payable in advance. However, the School Nurse, Miss Dolly Mixtures, would like to remind pupils that if they’re suffering from acute diarrhoea – as sometimes happens after having a school lunch – then they must not wear a decontamination suit. If they do, they may not be able to get it off in time.
Albert Ironstine.
Head of Science
PUPIL SAFETY (2)
In his capacity as the School Road Safety Officer, the Headmaster has suggested that during the autumn and winter, pupils wear the special one-piece vulcanised suit he has developed, (with the aid of the 6th Form.) These vulcanised rubber suits are modelled on the chemical warfare suits made for the army and constructed from old tyres taken from tractors and JCB’s. They are extremely hard wearing and can be easily cleaned with a garden hose. During autumn and winter the main roads are particularly dangerous due to fog and ice. The vulcanised suit will protect pupils from serious injury. One of our Year 7 pupils tested the suit by walking across the motorway in thick fog. He was struck by 25 vehicles of different shapes and sizes as he was bounced along the road. And, after all that, he only sustained a few minor cuts and bruises! The vulcanised suits branded under the “Rubber-Dubber” designer label cost £250.25 plus VAT. Optional extras include “breathing holes” to allow air to circulate and plug holes in the soles so that sweat can be drained. Easy terms can be arranged.
“KEEP YOUR CHILD SAFE IN A RUBBER-DUBBER!”
F. Nitindale.
School Nurse.
DRESS CODE
To celebrate “Blue Peter” week, pupils will wear a bright canary yellow shirt with a plastic “stick-on” tie. These are made from empty bleach bottles, (the economy brand from Sainsbury’s), and attached to the shirt with Blue Tack. The ties can be purchased from the 6th Form and cost £7.99 each, plus VAT.
Naomi Shorthand.
School Secretary.
INFORMATION URGENTLY REQUIRED!
Last Thursday, the 7th June, at or about 2.16 pm a woman walking her dog reported seeing a body lying near some empty bottles in the wood close to Wallygrange Grammar School. The body was that of a bearded man in his late 40’s. His appearance was described as scruffy and he appeared to have been living rough. The woman was a doctor and when she examined the man she found him to be dead. Unfortunately she was unable to get a signal on her mobile phone due to some form of atmospheric disturbance in the area. As a result it took her nearly 20 minutes to locate the nearest telephone. When officers arrived at the scene an hour later the body had gone. On examination the bottles were found to have contained Wheek Gooseberry Wine, a popular beverage especially amongst the homeless. If any staff or pupils have any information or saw anything suspicious in the wood would they contact their local police. We urgently require any information that can help lead us to the whereabouts of this body.
Detective Inspector Jack Clauseau, Cheshire CID.
IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER!
Following a recent project regarding deep frying fruit in lard, the local education committee have contacted me to make it clear that they strongly disapprove of this practice. I told them that this was a private school, the property of the Headmaster, Alfred Hitchcork NUT TA and it was none of their business how we deep fry fruit or any other substance. They informed me that they were getting in touch with their legal department. ‘Why?’ I joked. ‘Do they want to learn how to deep fry as well?’
Alfred Hitchcork NUT TA.
Headmaster.
ADVICE ON HELPING THE POLICE WITH THEIR ENQUIRIES
My advice is don’t. If the Cheshire CID are incompetent enough to lose a corpse, why should we do their work for them? Let me tell you how incompetent the Old Bill are. Last year they arrested me for smoking grass. The Magistrates threw it out telling the Plod that if someone wants to mow the lawn and then smoke the cuttings they can do so and good luck to them!
Naomi Shorthand.
School Secretary.
RECENT PUBIC INFESTATION
A number of pupils have asked me the same question so I just want to make it clear. These are not like the ones you find at the seaside. And you can’t eat them.
F. Nitindale.
School Nurse.
SUMMER HOLIDAYS
Please note that the four pupils who asked if they could come to school during the summer holidays and continue with their lessons have been referred to a psychiatrist at Macclesfield General Hospital. So let’s have no more of this nonsense!
Alfred Hitchcork NUT TA.
Headmaster.
A FEW WORDS ABOUT YOUR TEACHING STAFF
Please remember that your lessons depend entirely on the goodwill and cooperation of the teaching staff. Apart from the one partially cloned by the 6th Form, teachers are only human. Because of this there may be days when they just want to lie in bed rather than come to school, (I know the feeling all too well.) In which case they won’t be here. On the other hand some pupils may also prefer to stay in bed rather than come to school. Let me remind then that if they do, then their parents are liable to face long prison sentences. Another problem is that sometimes teachers forget things. They may even forget what subject they’re teaching or even forget to breathe! This could be due to the following factors:
Death from natural or unnatural causes.
Plain stupidity.
Drinking Wheek Gooseberry Wine.
Old age.
Accident.
Accidental death can occur when the senior caretaker, Mr McNarb is out hunting vermin. The usual sign is a hole appearing in the window followed almost immediately by hole in the teacher. Remain calm and do not – under any circumstances – stand up. Whilst in your seats you’re out of the line of fire. So, if your teacher does forget or suddenly drops dead, pupils are advised to remain in their seats until the bell rings.
Alfred Hitchcork NUT TA.
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