The “streaming” and “setting” wheel has turned full circle for what seems the umpteenth time in my career. Recent press reports claim that “a national survey has confirmed” that one or other of these previously discredited theories is now in the vanguard of educational reform.

Richard Dick, our oleaginous headteacher, has pulled yet another media relations stunt. Last week he had the national press (in the guise of Sara McShane, his “poodle” journalist) reporting that we have both streamed and set our junior classes at Greenfield Academy for the past two years and that standards have consequently rocketed in S1 and S2. That’s a moot educational point if ever there was one.

Fortunately, few among the general public understand either of the terms, and Ms McShane certainly doesn’t. Consequently, last week’s headline proclaimed us to be leading educational practitioners because we are “an establishment enabling both streaming and setting practices at the same time, as well as allowing the full fruits of mixed ability teaching to flower where appropriate.”

This last is most evident in our bottom tier first year maths stream, where the ability is certainly mixed: six pupils at 5-14 level C, 15 at level B, six at level A and three rendered non-classified.

Talk about pulling the wool...

Tuesday

I am holding last-minute lunchtime revision sessions for my Higher classes as they prepare for their imminent Scottish Qualifications Authority examinations. So far, not a single pupil has turned up, but I’m hopeful of improved numbers the closer we get to judgment day.

Meanwhile, my third year class gave me serious cause for alarm today when they revealed the goings-on that had taken place during their Easter holiday Outward Bound mission with “Coarse Davie”, our libidinous and rudely-spoken prinicpal teacher of biology. It all began when I upbraided Simon Sheridan over an inappropriate answer he had given, calling him a jackass. It was a rather old-fashioned term (so I thought), but one which hit immediate resonance.

“Haw, surr!” guffawed Peter Taylor. “How d’ye know? Did Mr McManus tell ye, surr? Did he?”

I pleaded an ignorance which was absolute, whereupon Simon explained proudly that he had won the jackass competition during their idyllic country retreat.

“And what, pray tell, did that entail?” I enquired of our champion.

“Ah goat the highest number o’ cricket ba’s thrown at ma ba’s, sur,” he decreed proudly. “An ah didny cry wance!”

I was momentarily disadvantaged, so he carried on.

“Y’know, surr. Like they dae oan telly. Friday night! Jackass!”

I confessed further ignorance, only to be told that I have missed out on the televisual event of the century. This is a programme that seems to consist of puerile individuals offering themselves forward to experience a mixture of self-humiliation and physical agony, all in the name of a short period of fame. Not even 15 minutes of it.

Despite the programme’s stern warnings not to emulate any of the activities that are broadcast, it is evident that a cross-section of the lunatic fringe are intent upon disobeying such advice. Hence David McManus’s enthusiasm to kit his male charges with cricket boxes and initiate a competition which involved aiming cricket balls in the general direction of their groins, whether pitched from a distance or aimed from a rooftop vantage point with the victim prostrate below. A direct hit to the genitalia was accorded five points to the recipient (two to the thrower) with inner thighs scoring less profitably.

Apparently, Mr McManus called it “character building”. I view it with serious distaste, and shared my disapproval with 3S. Alas, they thought me a stick-in-the-mud compared with his dynamic and laugh-a-minute leadership. Is that what he trained five years to do?, I ask myself.

Wednesday

A slightly better turn-out for my lunchtime revision session had me filled with hope, but it transpired that Karen Porter and Brian Finlayson were intent only upon finding an isolated location to cement their recently announced romantic liaison. I had to break them up eventually.

Meanwhile, Mr Dick is jumping on yet another bandwaggon by encouraging staff to follow the suggestions of yet another research group. This one has proclaimed that “welcoming pupils into the classroom has a beneficial effect on discipline”. George Crumley, for one, went slightly red in the face when he read the latest rectorial outpourings in the staff newsletter.

“Good God almighty!” he exploded. “Listen to this. ‘Try standing at the door with a smile on your face and welcoming the students into your class by name.’ Has Dick gone off his head? Can you imagine trying that with the likes of Tony McManaman and Stephen Rose? They’d put two fingers in the air, and rightly so. The only way I’d be welcoming them into my classroom would be with a swift kick up the I” “Well, I don’t think it’s such a bad idea, George,” I countered. “It’s all about earning respect by treating them how you’d like to be treated yourself. Surely anything’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

He spluttered briefly, shook his head and left the room.

Thursday

Pay day, and a happy day it was, signalling the next phase of last year’s salary award! And although our current education minister wasn’t personally responsible for its generous level, I’m sure she condones its recognition of teachers’ inherent professionalism.

Of course, there are always some who let their professional guard down in spectacular fashion. As more details of his Easter trip emerge, it’s evident that Mr McManus is one who should shoulder an enormous burden of guilt whenever he opens a payslip.

The latest story emerged when 3S persuaded me to be distracted for a few moments half way through an interpretation exercise based on animals marking their territory by smell.

“Haw!” bellowed Peter McLeish. “Just like Big Davie, eh surr?”

“Big Davie who?” I queried artlessly. I should have known better.

“Big Davie McManus, surr. Like in the tent at night. He used tae come in wance we wur all in oar sleepin’ bags, jist after supper.”

“Did he indeed? Very interesting. Now if we could get back I” “And then he farted, surr. A big rasper, usually.”

“Peter,” I insisted. “I don’t want to know about I” “And then he’d get oot an zip the tent flap right up, surr. An left us tae stew - in his ain jooces! While he laughed like a drain.”

I stopped as the enormity of my colleague’s immaturity was brought home to me. To think he is now on pound;33,000 a year. For breaking wind in pupils’ tents. It beggars belief.

Friday

Mr Dick has decided to abandon Standard grade presentations. He says that he is following the lead given by some of the country’s top schools, for whose pupils Standard grades are an irrelevance on the way to their “proper” examinations, the Highers.

I think he’s off his head. He seems to have forgotten our Standard gradeHigher conversion rate is in the bottom quartile. Even if - as he predicts - “the Highers will be even easier in two years, and we’ll mop up the rest with Intermediate passes”, I still think he’s gone a bandwaggon too far. Time will tell, but I find it impossible to offer support on this.

Instead, I decided to give one of his more sensible initiatives a try this afternoon and resolved to welcome all of my pupils at the classroom door.

I must say it got a little frantic at one point as the queue of eager teenagers developed into something of a scrum around me while I shook hands with Simon Sheridan, Katie Ross and others and expressed the hope that they would enjoy today’s lesson. They seemed quite taken by the gesture and the subsequent lesson went very well indeed, apart from a few sniggers whenever I turned to the board (which I quelled instantly by turning straight back). Generally speaking, though, I deemed the experiment a success, for they were certainly quieter than usual for a Friday afternoon.

Of course, there was a reason for this, as I discovered at the end of the day, when Mr Greig asked me: “What are you doing with that sign on your back, Morris?”

“What?” I removed my jacket post-haste to discover a poster proclaiming “You’ve been JACKASSED” in bold black lettering, along with illustration to match.

“Little bastards,” I muttered to Gregor as I unstuck the decoration and mentally resolved to abandon any welcoming procedures at the classroom door, which had so clearly been the location of this particular crime.

Instead of shaking hands with them, maybe next time I’ll think about wringing necks instead.

John Mitchell