HEADMASTER’S BLOG NUMBER 28 – ICY THE FUTURE

So, Mr. Gove has spoken. I’ll summarise. From 2015, “Knowledge” will become the Everton of education. With a big fan base and a long history, it’s set to challenge the nouveau “Skills” (Chelsea?) for a Champions League place. Meanwhile, “Memory”, for so long languishing at the bottom of the lowest tier is set to do a Bradford and turn up at Wembley after years in the wilderness. “Coursework” and “Modules” are the Aston Villa and Newcastle of the new order (hanging on but it sure don’t look good). AS levels are QPR (they’ll still exist but won’t attract Premier League clientele). The option to switch allegiance to the IB (La Liga?) remains.

*************

My house backs onto the Prep School’s playing fields, and I have recently had the pleasure of watching carefree young Bromsgrovians gambol and pronk on the snow in scenes reminiscent of Breughel – assuming Breughel had moved to the Antarctic with a herd of springbok. Not really. To be honest, the view from my window looked more like something from Assassin’s Creed. People wary of Darwinism or prone to thinking Lord of the Flies was overly harsh on our little ones need only watch youngsters in the snow. The second a back is turned, the snowball onslaught begins: prolonged and ruthless. Some schools send parents twee Christmas cards of their pupils cheerfully enjoying the winter wonderland. No fear. All that’s missing with our lot is the Attenborough commentary as the pack takes down a fully grown adult.

*************

But the snow didn’t stop me getting in to work: I’m a trooper if nothing else. It’s a good ten metres from my front gate to the Mary Windsor entrance, which is more than enough for catastrophe to strike given that my performance on ice is not so much Torvill and Dean as a new born gnu. I wasn’t the only hero though. Let’s hear it for the Bromsgrove Support Staff who, with shovels and muscles, effected the biggest topographical clearance since Moses had a bash at the Red Sea. Note this, though. Last Friday, when Britain ceased to function, two sets of visitors turned up for full tours of the School. One from Budapest and the other from Berlin. All the Brits cancelled.

*************

I often feel compelled to remind myself how stupid I am. In such circumstances I read the late Christopher Hitchins. Barely a word the super brainy “Hitch” wrote or uttered failed to attract opprobrium and vitriol from some quarter or other. “You have to choose your future regrets” is one of his quieter meditations, however, and I was reminded of this as I looked at our architect’s drawings for the next phases of the Bromsgrove School site masterplan. At Easter we will start work on two new boarding facilities on the Housman campus, and then we will return to the main campus with all the verve of Donald Trump on Prozac. But one has to prioritise, and in doing so one knows that a particular year group will just miss out on this or that wonderful new facility. So, when looking ten years ahead (and that’s what we are doing), those future regrets amass strangely but inevitably beside the mountains of wonder and excitement.

HEADMASTER'S BLOG NUMBER 27 - VORSPRUNG DURCH NIGHTMARE

Happy new year to you all. Only one riff for the first blog of 2013, and don’t tell me some of you didn’t burn the turkey fretting about it.

Clearly the Bromsgrove Headmaster’s new car should have been a diesel Jaguar, shouldn’t it? Eco(ish) British trad, Indian wonga. A slosh of the hi-tech new world order with a twist of wistful yearning for briars and snuff-flecked lips. Elgar goes to Bollywood. In fact, let’s have that up in Latin above the South Gate.

“A little raga with your Finzi, Headmaster?” Don’t mind if I do.

But no. Oh no. You see, I don’t know anything about cars – absolute diddly, honestly - and I made the catastrophic mistake of reading reviews that dealt purely with quality as opposed to image. In other words, I did everything I’d want parents to do when choosing a School. I shunned the dinner party tittle tattle and did some hard core research. I also figured I had no need for a large car and duly looked at the next size down.

And instead of reading “Top Gear Magazine” (which, were it an educational guide, would say: “Oh I’m sure it’s a wonderful School, darling but, strictly entre nous, it’s not quite.. well you know, darling .. not quite .. how shall I say? .. Oh if only one could say “pleb”, darling, but one can’t anymore. More Taittinger, sweetie?”) I read “What Car.”

Never again. “What Car”. If “What Car” reviewed Bromsgrove School I believe it would say; “Brilliant. Go there.” But that honesty is not what one needs in a world where one’s self esteem is based entirely on the approval or otherwise of the chattering classes. I needed an image savvy lifestyle guru (i.e. a Fourth Former) to tell Mr. Laughing Stock point blank that slippered gents who are partial to a little Schubert while pootling down the motorway at 60 mph do NOT BUY...

A BMW 3 Series.

Dummkopf! Forget it’s an omnipresent motoring leitmotif (there are more of them on the roads than Mondeos, I’m told) that does 60 miles to the gallon. Forget too it’s a stolid, conservative staple back home in Munich. Forget even that it gets top marks in perishing “What Car” for just about everything. Remember only that in the UK it’s apparently been hijacked as the car of choice for every non-indicating, boy-racing, taste-bereft aspirational moron in the country. And now I’m one. How did this happen? Did all you BMW 3 series owners know this when you bought one? You thought you were getting Eton but let me tell you, chums, you’ve signed up for Grange Hill. (Apologies to younger readers for the arcane reference).

I discussed the matter with a Sixth Former who agreed the BMW was indeed a cracking car but was perceived in the UK as being the flash alternative for people who can’t afford genuine flash. He confirmed this was a PR catastrophe for a Headmaster on a moral crusade. So what should I do?

Well here’s the thing. Apparently, I wait. That’s right. I wait. Because, it seems, the BMW’s image is changing. The look-at-my-lifestyle aspirants are realising the car’s ubiquity has undermined their reason for buying it in the first place. And I am reliably informed by pupils who know these things that the next brand to be hijacked will be..... Audi. Oh yes. The auto-fashionistas tell me that if I can just hold on for a bit, Audis will start cutting me up on roundabouts and BMW drivers can get back to stopping for old ladies. So, if you’re smugly driving an Audi thinking you are the cuddly David Attenborough of motoring, you can wipe that smile off your face now. Troubled times ahead, my friends.

Anyway, since The Hobbit is on at the flicks, I’ll finish with a word from local lad JRR Tolkien, who said: “I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations, and always have done since I grew old and wary enough to detect its presence.” Shame.

Happy New Year!