HEADMASTER’S TWENTIETH BLOG – CARRY ON BROMSGROVE

I went on Mumsnet for the first time last week. Not because I’m becoming a mum - no gags about the midriff please - but because I heard the site was a cornucopia of gossip from the chattering classes about independent schools. And it is. Oh boy it is. But where’s Bromsgrove? Mamans, I am sorry to report we are all but invisible. The only thing I could find about Bromsgrove School was a lady saying she “wouldn’t touch it with a barge poll” (sic). Now while I’m perfectly happy not to be touched by this good woman’s nautical election process, I was rather peeved to see so little in the way of scandalous and unfounded rumour. I felt quite left out. Come on mums. I’ll start you off:  “Bromsgrove’s been going downhill ever since Michelle Obama said it wasn’t right for her daughters....” 

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Last week I saw a revival of Billy No Buzz in the Pre-Prep. The actors were three. Age not number. Much as Aristotle defined the essence of great tragedy, I have applied my own rules to determine whether a Pre-Prep work is successful or not. My criteria for an outstanding production at this age are: no crying, no fighting and no falling off stage. I am delighted to report that the players adhered to the dramatic unities and that the morning was a triumph, darling.

Q. Who is the patron saint of actors?

A. St. John the too, too Divine.

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Only one person wrote in regarding the appalling grammatical error in the last blog. You’re a very polite audience.

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Eager to assuage my high brow longings, I followed Billy No Buzz with Pirates of the Curry Bean. The eleven- year- old Sid James and Charles Hawtrey doppelgangers confirmed that what happens to a child’s sense of humour between Billy No Buzz age and Pirates is akin to coating a snowflake in creosote. A vast and wonderfully talented cast revelled in dodgy puns, crude slapstick set ups and glitzy Busby Berkeley routines.  Sadly, I loved every minute.

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And then it was Birmingham Town Hall to hear Vivaldi, Bach and Handel. Four hundred people listened to our brilliant young soloists and mighty Choral Society. Coming so hard on the heels of our St. Paul’s performance, it was a fitting end to a historic musical term. As the final chords of Handel’s titanic Coronation Anthems faded in the great civic building, I thought of the Billy No Buzz cast. It will be their turn sooner than any of us would wish it.

Have a wonderful Easter.

HEADMASTER'S NINETEENTH BLOG - OUR DAY OUT

“I’m so bad at lying,” moaned the Upper Sixth former, rocking back and forth with his head in his hands.
Where was he? In my office about to be expelled? Regretting his two timing ways with a longstanding girlfriend? No. He was sat behind me in an IB lesson on Oligopolies and had just lost an exercise on game theory in which the object was to make as much dosh as possible for your business. The game had been won by a baby faced assassin at the back of the class whom I had previously considered to be a young lady of unimpeachable standing. Everything my lovingly wrought School Mission statement stood for had been usurped in the fifty minute lesson I had just witnessed. Not since Luke Skywalker discovered Darth Vader was his dad had anybody been so taken aback. We will return to this sorry state of affairs in a minute.

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An hour before Evensong at St. Paul’s Cathedral, I slipped quietly away (as in left the coffee shop rather than passed over the great divide), and wondered off to look at a couple of the City’s churches. On every corner of my walk I saw Old Bromsgrovians, many in their OB ties, strolling about the city waiting for the service to start. One was a girl – an international pupil - who had left last year, and another a gentleman who had last sung in Bromsgrove Chapel over sixty years ago. Later, inside the Cathedral and a few minutes before our Choir sounded the opening notes, I noticed these two OBs walking in together. They sat down next to one another. Soon the Choir had infused the cathedral with ethereal grace, and – looking at those two OBs – I could not help but be moved by how very, very far this great School has travelled.

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And then we all piled into the House of Lords. Well, not all of us. Digby, Lord Jones of Birmingham, had kindly provided a venue for the party animals in the congregation to raise awareness for Bromsgrove School Foundation. Actually, the reception almost never happened because Digby gave the coach driver some kamikaze instructions and his vehicle full of guests became wedged in the approach road to the Lords. Nonetheless, the battle weary revellers eventually escaped and found their way to a wonderful event that sought to impress on everybody why we need to widen access to our School. My sincere thanks to Digby, the governors and all who place inclusion and opportunity before arid social elitism. Thanks also to the kind lady serving the posh canapes who took my “I couldn’t eat another thing” to be the meaningless social nicety I intended.

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“But lying is bad,” I pleaded. “Come back to the light. Walk with me my child.”

I was told game theory wasn’t lying, so much as the study of mathematical models of conflict and cooperation between intelligent, rational decision-makers.

“But you’ve all been telling porkers to one another. How can this be righteous?”

Tomorrow’s business leaders left the classroom oblivious, and I approached the teacher who was awaiting my assessment.

“That was the most morally reprehensible lesson I’ve ever witnessed,” I said.

“Thank you Headmaster.”

It was as if I’d given him an ASBO.