"Damn girl...
Damn you're a sexy chick...
Damn girl..."
You don't recognise it? I'm now informed, courtesy of my sick, phat Year 9 tutor group (honestly, these are accolades now) that these are the lyrics to David Guetta's current tune. Eloquent chap, that David. I hope he doesn't mind that I changed yous to you're; if he'd been in my English class as a child...
Anyway, I digress. How was "sexy chick" an unexpected feature of a GCSE lesson today?
During a 30 minute lesson on the poem "Vultures" by Chinua Achebe, written and presented by a small group of students in the class, I heard the distinctive vibrations of an illicit mobile phone - still switched on in someone's pocket. Three buzzes later and I identified the sinner; he had turned a beautiful autumnal russet.
With just one twitch of my eyebrow, I convinced the culprit to hand me the phone and the lesson ensued. Yoda would be delighted.
No less than three minutes later, the ruddy unit was vibrating again... only this time, yes, that's right: "Damn girl... Damn you're a sexy chick... Damn girl." The culprit is a boy - I thought it an interesting choice of ringtone.
Looking at the phonescreen brought me much delight as it indicated that his friend, in the room next door, was the one calling him. Also a boy. Quick as a flash, I darted next door - phone still squealing out lyrics - and asked the bloke in question what he was doing ringing X in my room, declaring that he was a "sexy chick."
Suffice to say, after a ribbing from more than fifty of their peers, I don't think they'll be using their phones in class again.
13/10/2009
12/10/2009
Reading: like giving a baby a dummy...
What is it about reading that pacifies even the most demonic, hyperactive, impatient, chatty, immature, e-numbered class?
You spend the first fifteen minutes of the hour getting the darlings into your room: reminding them that they should be sat in their chairs; encouraging them to remove their jackets; lending out cheap, Tesco biros to the sweeties who don't have their own (despite the fact it is the first lesson of the day); getting them to put their gum in the bin - and watching them spit, miss and moan as they pick it off the carpet; and then standing there, patience waning, as you wait for them to stop chatting...
... and that part reminds me of seaside pier games. You know the ones: you have a rubber hammer and you hit the frogs or hamsters or moles as they pop up like Year Sevens who have downed three cans of Redbull at lunchtime - with a couple of bags of Skittles for good measure. Each time you thump one back into its hole, another two bounce up to take its place...
Anyway, fifteen minutes in. The one astute child (who shines out like a teacher's pet in a detention hall) reminds you of the page you got to last lesson and the reading begins.
Calmness descends.
Whatever happens (firebell, a drop in from the head teacher, the arrival of Ofsted),
don't
stop
reading.
Your life - and your sanity - depends on it.
You spend the first fifteen minutes of the hour getting the darlings into your room: reminding them that they should be sat in their chairs; encouraging them to remove their jackets; lending out cheap, Tesco biros to the sweeties who don't have their own (despite the fact it is the first lesson of the day); getting them to put their gum in the bin - and watching them spit, miss and moan as they pick it off the carpet; and then standing there, patience waning, as you wait for them to stop chatting...
... and that part reminds me of seaside pier games. You know the ones: you have a rubber hammer and you hit the frogs or hamsters or moles as they pop up like Year Sevens who have downed three cans of Redbull at lunchtime - with a couple of bags of Skittles for good measure. Each time you thump one back into its hole, another two bounce up to take its place...
Anyway, fifteen minutes in. The one astute child (who shines out like a teacher's pet in a detention hall) reminds you of the page you got to last lesson and the reading begins.
Calmness descends.
Whatever happens (firebell, a drop in from the head teacher, the arrival of Ofsted),
don't
stop
reading.
Your life - and your sanity - depends on it.
10/10/2009
And, action...
The context: three of my students borrowed my room after school to film their drama homework. Loving the dedication on a Friday afternoon.
Child: I'm playing Jack the Ripper.
Me: You do know who Jack the Ripper was, don't you?
Child: Oh yes, he violated women and then cut their intestines out. Usually prostitutes.
Me: Oh, good, just as long as you're clear.
He then proceeded to skip around the room, wearing a black hoodie, looking more like something out of "In the Night Garden" than the infamous Whitechapel criminal. Bless.
Child: I'm playing Jack the Ripper.
Me: You do know who Jack the Ripper was, don't you?
Child: Oh yes, he violated women and then cut their intestines out. Usually prostitutes.
Me: Oh, good, just as long as you're clear.
He then proceeded to skip around the room, wearing a black hoodie, looking more like something out of "In the Night Garden" than the infamous Whitechapel criminal. Bless.
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