Getting Found Out

One of the great things about sport is its cruel clarity: there is no such thing, for example, as a bad one-hundred-metre runner, or a hopeless centre-half who got lucky; in sport, you get found out. … There are, however, plenty of bad actors or musicians or writers making a decent living, people who happened to be in the right place at the right time, or knew the right people, or whose talents have been misunderstood or overestimated.

Nick Hornby, in whose Fever Pitch that passage appears, is, of course, right. But it’s not just sport in which you get found out. There are other parts of the world of work in which performance can be fairly easily measured.

The salesman, for instance. A good salesman is one who makes more sales. Yes, of course there’s more to business than sales, and no, I’m not saying that ‘a good salesman’ is the same thing as ‘a good person,’ and no, I’m not even saying that being ‘a good salesman’ is equivalent to ‘deserving’ (whatever that means) something. Nor am I saying that there’s no element of chance in being blessed with those skills – and, indeed, particularly for women, an appearance – which can make someone good at sales. But what I am saying, which I don’t think is very controversial, is that measuring the performance of a salesman is straightforward. Most of the time the ‘best’ salesmen are those who accrue the most sales. Easy.

The cutting edge of financial services seems rather like this too. Again, I’m not endorsing the morality of the City of London. I am saying that it’s relatively easy to measure the performance of a hedge fund manager. How much money did he make for his clients? That’s all that matters. Done. Measured. Easy.

When, as a schoolboy, I worked in a warehouse, that was easy to measure too. Did I turn up on time? Did the pallets get loaded onto the lorries? Were the boxes wrapped up properly, so they wouldn’t fall over when the lorry was half-full? Yes? Fine. Then call the agency back and say yeah, we’ll have that kid again. Was he a bit odd, bringing Frank Barlow’s biography of Edward the Confessor to read during lunch, or on overnight shifts where the antisocial hours were compensated for by longer periods of idleness? Sure. Did it matter? No. Nobody cared.

But not all jobs are like this. Some just don’t lend themselves very easily to measurement. Is a good author one who sells more books? Well, yes, obviously, and in my appallingly partial and philosophically naïve view no one deserves to be multimillionaires more than JK Rowling and Julia Donaldson. But equally the argument that Vincent van Gogh was a bad artist because he only sold one painting in his lifetime is not a particularly persuasive one, is it?

This is, of course, a dangerously seductive argument. We can kid ourselves that we are van Goghs, our talents underrated by a few key decision-makers. Most of us aren’t, of course.

But where does teaching sit on the spectrum of Art to Warehousing?

You already know what I think, don’t you?

Rob Coe doesn’t agree with me. He thinks that using test results – that is, pupils’ test results – is the best way to assess teacher effectiveness. And yes, I’m conceited enough to think that I know better than a Professor of Education.

You just can’t measure the performance of a teacher the way you can measure the performance of a salesman or a hedge fund manager. It doesn’t work. I’ve banged on about this before, as have many teachers more eloquent than I.

Hang on. What if you had two teachers. Both at the same school. Teach the same classes, because they share them. Every year the same. Several years on end. Then, surely, you can look at the pupils’ results and say ‘aha, look, there’s a pattern here. We’ve got hundreds of data points over several years. We can see that Mr Happy is better than Mr Grumpy.’ Can’t we?

No. We can’t. Look, I understand that accountability is important. Gone are the days, like it or not, at least in the Anglosphere, that the State would simply hand over a pot of money to a school and say ‘there you go, spend it wisely.’ Equally we’re nowhere near a situation whereby the operation of the free market in primary and secondary education would be politically palatable. Someone has to decide whether public money is being wasted or not: to do otherwise would be intolerable. I get it.

But just because there’s a problem, doesn’t mean there’s a solution.

In my first year of teaching, there were two sets of remarkable results. One was internal: the Third Form class (the fourth ‘stream’ of eight overall) which I taught did significantly worse than the set immediately below them. This was embarrassing for me, and I worried about it. Until, that summer, a (Physics-teaching) colleague showed me some dissertation he’d done for some educational qualification.

Now this colleague had taught the fifth ‘stream’. And there, in his portfolio, signed off by some senior figure in the school, was a boast about how much better his class had done than the set above, with figures to prove it. I did not have access to the data which might have revealed whether or not he was particularly good and I was particularly bad, but a couple of discreet inquiries revealed that this particular phenomenon had been replicated in some – but not all – other subjects too. Set Five had overperformed, and Set Four had underperformed.

All right, you might say, but a reasonable person looking at all the date would see that, right? Maybe. But what about the other set of results? I shared an A Level class with my Head of Department. Eight boys. Of the eight, four did better on my paper, and four did better on his.

Now this, in retrospect, was very odd. (At the time it was just a relief.) He had a decade’s teaching experience; I had none. He was, and is, an excellent historian and teacher. Why had he done no better than me? If he was asked, here’s what he could have said. He’d spent a lot of his time helping me, time which he couldn’t devote to that class. He’d made more ‘comparative’ points than he’d usually do, to help support those pupils who he knew had a novice teacher, and that had detracted from his delivering of his own side of the course. (He taught sixteenth-century Spain, while I taught sixteenth-century England, so his superior explanations of (say) religious doctrine will have helped pupils with my side of the course too.) He gave me the choice of papers to teach. And maybe, for that particular group of pupils, the paper I was teaching them was easier than the paper he was teaching them. It was the OCR ‘synoptic’ paper, the paper which was supposed to cover continuity, change & development over a century. They were loveable but essentially idle young gentlemen for whom getting a C grade in that enterprise was easier – because it involved more ‘blagging’ and less detail – than getting a C grade in the other paper, which was centred around a ‘great man.’

You and I both know that there are many, many school managers who would have considered these to be unconvincing excuses for his underperformance.

Then I moved schools, and taught AS for the first time. This was also the OCR A Level History paper. But this time, at the end of my first year, the pupils whom I’d shared with a colleague did significantly worse on my paper than they’d done on his.

Why was this?

Well, this colleague was a cleverer and more talented teacher than me. Yes, he was. That’s not false modesty. I’m amazing. He was better. But there was more to it than that. Because of course there was. He taught the English Revolution, while I taught the French Revolution. (A great pair of topics to teach together, by the way.) But that meant, with the preposterous old system of three AS exams, that there was an uneven timetable split: he saw them twice as often as I did, and taught them for two papers. (1629-49, & 1649-1660) So what? Well, so he had four lessons a week with them, and I only two: multiply that by two and he had eight lessons a week with those classes while I had four. This meant that I got another two Lower School classes to prepare lessons for, mark work of, and write reports for. (Yes, of course the school policy was that work should be marked once a fortnight at least, and no, of course it wasn’t more nuanced than that.)

Furthermore, the examination was structured thus. You might remember it. There were three separate papers, but they were all sat together, one after the other. Our pupils sat the English papers followed by the French paper, so by the time they came to approach the paper I’d taught them, they’d already been sweating and scribbling for nearly two hours. Anyone who has marked examinations will know that the last questions tend, all other things being equal, to be done worse.

Oh, and did you notice? Better results for British history twice. Because pupils find it easier? I think so. There’s some familiarity with, say, Queen Elizabeth & Henry VIII, or even with the Civil War, which there isn’t with Philip II of Spain or the French Revolution.

I’ll give you one more example. For the last seven years I shared Upper Sixth Politics teaching with one other colleague. We did the Edexcel Route A stuff: UK Political Issues (him) and EU Political Issues (me).

My results in the A2 exams were significantly better than his. Because I was a better teacher? Cobblers. His paper was harder. Nowhere did it ever say so. But it was. To do well in EU Political Issues you just needed a far less sophisticated level of understanding than you did for UK Political Issues. Little factoids just went much further than they would on the other side of the course. This wasn’t because of the nature of the assessment: both papers were structurally identical, as were the generic mark schemes. My personal suspicion is that examiners just know much less about EU politics than UK politics, and consequently tend to over-reward the deployment of seemingly-obscure detail which are actually not remotely impressive for someone who has studied the subject for an academic year. (This isn’t my own idea though: a former colleague explained his exceptional results in the ‘Britain & Ireland 1798-1922’ A2 History paper in similar terms. The same examiners who marked ‘Russia & its Rulers 1855-1964’ also marked that paper, but – knowing much less about it – tended to over-reward, or reward structural soundness over academic argument, and the latter is rather easier to drill.)

Something which convinces me that this is true is that after my first year I decided to drop the EU and teach American government instead. I thought it’d be more approachable, and there are more textbooks. (No, in those days I wasn’t the inveterate textbook-hater I am now. This whole business helped to persuade me.) Instead, my results fell to just below my colleague’s. Why? Well, I’m not sure, but I think the overall standard expected in that paper was higher; and the existence of a textbook fostered the sort of lazy thinking & approach to the subject which was, in the end, my pupils’ downfall. So, after two years on the dark side, I came back, and the uneven results returned.

Well, if I’m right, can’t we factor this in when holding teachers to account?

Good luck with that.

No, seriously. I think that what I’ve written was true, on aggregate, for the pupils I taught. But of course it wasn’t true for all of them. That A Level ‘synoptic’ paper, which those pupils found relatively easy? Okay, but cleverer, more industrious, more erudite pupils often found it much harder, whereas they’d find the ‘great man’ paper easier to excel in. That wasn’t the class we had that year. But it’d be another class we’d have another year.

Do you think I’m making all this up? I hope not. But if you were a Deputy Head Academic, and I said this to you, after my pupils had got bad results … would you assume I was telling the truth? Or would you assume I was making excuses? The answer, of course, is that most likely you’d be influenced by two things. Did you rate me? (A prejudice you might well have formed without results in public examinations.) And did you have bosses who’d want chapter and verse on how you’d investigated anomalies in results, or not?

And if you think I’m not making this up, and that these influences are real … do you think you can distinguish real reasons for anomalous results from the excuses of substandard teachers? In every subject? Really?

And all this is before we even start the question of whether you can possibly compare results in coursework with results in examinations. I think most teachers would agree that these are not the same, though would find it impossible to produce a realistic, meaningful way to fairly compare outcomes in those two rather different types of assessment.

I know this is inconvenient. But just because there’s a problem doesn’t mean there’s a solution. I don’t want teachers booking computer suites, putting their feet up, telling pupils to research a topic on the internet instead of teaching it, and then saying afterwards, when those pupils get bad results, that those results are meaningless and that they can’t be judged by them. I really don’t.

But that doesn’t mean that I can pretend that exam results can tell us much about the effectiveness or otherwise of teaching. It’s just too complicated and too difficult. It might be satisfying or reassuring to think that, if only we get the right data and interpret it in the right way, we’ll be able to rank teachers from one to four hundred thousand. But we can’t, and pretending that we can is unlikely to make things better.


Times Tables Tests

The Government wants children to learn their times tables.

I’ve no problem with that. What I have a problem with is Whitehall’s corollary – that there should, therefore, be a national test, sat by every state-educated nine-year-old in the country.

I understand why. If the Department of Education orders schools to make sure that children learn their times tables, and just leaves it at that, then schools where teachers consider the drilling and testing of times tables to be tantamount to child abuse will ignore the instruction.

As national tests go, a times table test in the middle of Year Four appears fairly benign. One tremendous advantage is that the problem of ‘teaching to the test’ is – or ought to be – unlikely to be a factor (see what I did there?) in a times table test. The whole point is for children to learn them by heart. As I’ve seen observed on Edutwitter, the proposed timing would enable primary schools to put things right should results be unexpectedly low. Taking a class to a computer suite, having the children log on, and telling them to follow the instructions, which will require them to type in or click on a few numbers, seems like the sort of thing which a half-decent primary school should be able to manage without damaging their pupils’ mental health and/or wellbeing.

And yet I’m not convinced.

First of all, let’s not forget the wisdom of Goodhart’s Law. That’s the one which says that once a measure becomes a target it ceases to become a useful measure. Yes, it’s harder to see how this could apply with a times table test. But here’s one possibility, dreamt up in a few minutes by someone who has never taught in a primary school.

Cramming, unfortunately, works. You want kids to learn their times tables? Good, so do I. You don’t trust primary school teachers to make sure they do it? I understand. But those primary school teachers whom you don’t trust will not be wholeheartedly embracing this. You know what they’ll do? They’ll get results by intensive cramming in the run-up to the tests. And then, after a big sigh of relief once it’s all over, they’ll stop.

No, don’t shake your head and tell me how unprofessional that’d be. The whole point of the test is that you don’t trust these teachers to drill times tables properly. Your whole argument for spending public money on this is that, left to their own devices, they’ll not do things the way you want them done. That’s why you want the big stick of the State on your side.

There’s more.

This test is there to hold teachers to account. And the accountability will, I’m afraid, be cobblers; and it will be damaging. A Year Four teacher will be assessed on the performance of thirty pupils. Now as we’re talking about mathematics, I think it’s fair enough to observe that – never mind all the variables – a sample of thirty will be statistically meaningless.

But, of course, they won’t be treated as statistically meaningless. Neither by Ofsted, nor by head teachers (perhaps in fear of Ofsted). Teachers will prefer not to teach in Year Four. Some slightly wiser heads will observe that cramming times tables into nine-year-old heads is a far worse approach than taking the long view, and will therefore decide that more time should be spent in Years Three and Two on them as well. I agree with this. But how will this turn out with the high-stakes test at the end? You know as well as I do. A deputy head will be made responsible for ensuring that there are frequent times tables tests throughout the school. She will be made responsible for gathering and recording data. And she will be made responsible for intervening when pupil results fall below that which they ought to be. And in such a way the short Year Four test will cast its shadow over the school.

Thus far aficionados of political philosophy may have noticed that my argument has been based on Karl Popper’s Law of Unintended Consequences. But I’d also like to remind my readers of Frederic Bastiat, author of That Which Is Seen and That Which Is Not Seen.

Look, I approve of children learning their times tables. I do. If my children aren’t made to learn them at school, I’ll make them learn them at home. But what will happen if they’re given this exalted status at school? Everything else will suffer. Yes, it will. There’s only a certain amount of time in the school day. So what are our pupils going to drop in order to learn their times tables well enough to satisfy all the ‘stakeholders’? There will most definitely be something. Good results in formal times tables tests will be that which is seen. Less exposure to literature, or the humanities, or the arts, or the performing arts, or sports, will be that which is not seen. There is always opportunity cost.

One more thing.

Who’s going to be preparing this test? It’ll be some outsourcing company, won’t it? Some educational version of Capita? Or a behemoth like Pearson?

Do you trust them not to mess it up?

No, really? Do you?

You think the programmes will always work? You think there won’t be glitches or gremlins which cut pupils off halfway through sitting the test? You think the results will always be accurately reported?

And, again, these are just the potential problems some bloke sitting at his computer while his children eat their cereal and play with their toys. All sorts of things could go wrong.

Yes, I know, that’s an argument against doing anything. But it’s a further reason not to go down this path given the unlikelihood of it making a significant difference. There’s always a temptation to think that if only we could set the right tests and hold teachers accountable for pupil performance in them then everything would improve. It is, I’m afraid, far more complicated than that.


On Wednesday afternoons, I teach a group of apprentices.

They’re extremely loveable and altogether rather impressive young people, aged between sixteen and twenty. And their English is pretty good. One of today’s topics was unreal conditionals, which gives you an idea of the level of the class.

What’s that you say? You don’t know what an unreal conditional is? Well, it’s when you postulate something which isn’t true, and probably couldn’t be true.

For example:

“If you’d read your emails, you’d know this.” (But you didn’t read your emails, so you don’t.)

Oh, and this is when it is correct to use “I were” or “s/he were” instead of “I was” or “s/he was.” So:

“If I were young again, I’d work harder at school.” Well, I’m sure you would, but you’re not going to be young again, are you?

“If Rudolf’s nose were blue, no one would have heard of him.” But it isn’t, it’s red, so he’s everyone’s favourite reindeer.


Having introduced this to the class, I got them to go around the table and make one up each, using the first person singular. So we had some “if I were rich, I’d buy a Porsche,” “if I were French, I’d eat snails,” and so on. Fine. All very successful. Well done.

And then, after they’d done that, I gave them cues, so that they’d use the second and third person, singular and plural. So, for instance, I’d say:

“Heidi [that’s the student’s name, though of course I’ve changed it]: Prince George, baby girl, Queenie.” And he said, correctly, “If Prince George were a girl, he’d be called Queenie.”

“Hermann: Eintracht Frankfurt, bust, upset.” And she replied, correctly, “If Eintracht Frankfurt were to go bust, we’d all be very upset.”

So they’d got it. Fine. And so I stepped back, and just gave them one cue.

“Angela: a flood.” Well, Angela had no problems with that one. “If there were a flood, we’d all be stuck here.” (She was right: the language school is near the river, and it’s on the top floor of the building.)

“Martin: Donald Trump.”

He nodded. He could handle this.

“If Donald Trump were President…”

The rest of the class looked at him and shook their heads.

He looked at me as though to ask what he’d got wrong. So I asked the class. “What did Martin get wrong?”

Well, they told him, he can’t use a conditional for Donald Trump being President, because he is the President.

I was expecting a wince of disappointment that he was the first in the class to get the form wrong. But that wasn’t what I got.


Anarchy in the classroom. Total anarchy. It was just like being back in school.

(What really amazes me about this is that he clearly knew enough about America to know either that Trump has coveted the Presidency for quite some time, or that he was a candidate, and yet had managed to miss the news for the last fifteen months.)

How Long Should Exams Be?

This is going to be a grotesquely ill-informed post, so if you like your educational disquisitions to be research-based … well, you probably wouldn’t be reading this to begin with, would you?

Last summer, the Department of Mathematics at Oxford University gave all of its finalists extra time to complete their examinations. Not a great deal of extra time – 105 minutes instead of 90 – but it apparently yielded the result for which its instigators had hoped, which was that women performed better.

For me this raises a very interesting question. What’s the ‘right’ length of time for an exam?

There are different models. Some exams appear to be designed so that time isn’t, for most candidates, much of a factor. I may be out of date, but for me recent experience of invigilating science exams tallies with my own more distant experience of sitting them: you get plenty of time to work out and fill in the answers, and most candidates are finished well before time is called. The principal test is whether you know your stuff well enough to answer the questions correctly.

Others – those in which the principal mode of assessment is the essay – are fiercely time-limited. To do well, candidates need to spend almost the entire time writing. The classic History exam requires an essay to be written in forty-five minutes. That’s not very long, and having more time is therefore immensely helpful. So, indeed, is being permitted to type rather than handwrite. More time would be an advantage for…

…well. For almost everyone? Probably not, actually. There’s a significant minority of candidates for whom examinations with more time would not help one little bit. These are the candidates who have just about enough factual knowledge, and who also have the knack of deploying a few facts in such a way that they appear to have been carefully selected from a vast bank of knowledge, rather than the only stuff the candidate knows.

(Much as I regret the decline of the traditional A Level in History I have to concede that it was particularly vulnerable to this sort of approach. I remember preparing for the European History paper back in 1998: a question on the Ottoman Empire was guaranteed, and it could only be one of three: why did it rise, why did it fall, and just how magnificent was Suleiman, really? I dashed off three plans and wrote a blinding essay, and I can still tell you that Roxelana was bad news. I have a sneaking suspicion that the most up-to-date scholarship probably has a more nuanced take.)

I remember Mathematics exams being closer to the first model than the second, but it appears that this isn’t true of Oxford finals: instead they appear to be more like some of those ‘maths challenge’ papers which schoolchildren can be entered for: they are (or have been), in the words of one of the dons quoted in the Press, more of a ‘time trial.’

There’s another model too. When Mrs Grumpy sat her state exams (in Law) in Germany, she had several hours – four or five – to complete a paper with one case study. “Here’s the situation: what’s your legal take on it?” I can see why this makes sense. The purpose of such a test is (presumably) to give candidates plenty of time to deliberate and give an exhaustive answer.

Now this works for a discipline like Law in a way that it wouldn’t for History. There’s no pressure to produce reams of writing, because (unlike in a History exam) actually there’s a limit to what a correct answer is. Only a few laws are relevant, and only a few interpretations of them and how they apply to the case are reasonable. You can (in theory – apparently no one ever does) get full marks by identifying every relevant law and explaining how they apply to the facts of the case. You are obviously expected to produce a detailed answer, but it isn’t the case that more is automatically better: in fact, going beyond what is relevant is worse.

Could History exams be much longer? Three hours, say? I’m dubious. (This used to be an option, didn’t it? Instead of the hated Curriculum 2000 OCR History ‘Independent Investigation’ paper you could do an exam and write an essay instead. I never knew a school which actually did so.) With ‘positive marking’ the temptation to hurl everything you know at an examiner would be great, and the skill of carefully selecting facts to support an argument would be diluted. Asking a question for which candidates had three hours would be tricky. It’d either have to be on a very broad topic, or it’d have to demand very specialist knowledge. I suppose an eighteen-year-old who had studied the first half of the seventeenth century could spend three hours crafting an answer to “Why did the English Revolution happen?” but I don’t think we have time to teach the sort of knowledge which would be required to spend three hours answering a question on the reasons for the outcome of the (First) Civil War.

Tell you what, though, I wouldn’t mind the following experiment being piloted somewhere. Candidates get three hours, a traditional A Level essay, a computer (no, not one with an internet connection, you barbarian) and a limit of a thousand words. Let’s see if they can use all that time to tighten their arguments and hone their prose.


I find the Oxford Maths question really interesting. Because there is presumably nothing special about a ninety-minute paper, no very good reason why it has to be that long. It just is.

And it seems to discriminate against women. Make it another equally arbitrary length and women do better.

Or, if you prefer, make it another equally arbitrary length and men do worse.

Which is a ‘better’ test of mathematical ability? The race against the clock? Or longer deliberation? Not being a mathematician I don’t know. I can see both sides. What does the world want of its mathematics graduates? What do employers want? What do academics want? I don’t know. I suppose Oxford University is indifferent to the preferences of employers, who’ll want to employ their Maths BAs regardless of the nature of their Finals.

If girls do better with more time, is that genetic? Is it the consequence of socialisation? Or is it that we – teachers – are better at teaching boys, and worse at teaching girls, how to do well under time pressure?

I don’t know. I don’t even have suspicions. I’m stumped.

But I think it’s a problem. Or at least a bit of a problem. If different lengths of exam produce significantly different outcomes for boys and girls then deciding how long an exam should be is also deciding who is more likely to succeed at it.

So I’m not just stumped. I’m troubled. I see a problem without a solution.

Alpha Teaching

Germaine Greer famously wrote that women had “very little idea of how much men hate them.” That may well have been true in 1970 when The Female Eunuch was published, but in the twenty-first century the phenomenon must be very much diminished. Thanks to the internet we have learned a whole new vocabulary centred around different-coloured pills, purveyed by self-proclaimed men’s rights activists, pick-up artists, and practitioners of ‘Game’.

Much of it is very silly, and feminists have enjoyed themselves immensely by skewering it. Some of it is more intellectual: the oeuvre of Jordan Peterson, for instance, who manages to simultaneously appeal to some elements of the ‘men’s rights’ movement and to some elements of edutwitter. And, interestingly, there are some areas where feminists and some of their avowed enemies are in agreement. (For this intersection – see what I did there? – see Clarisse Thorn’s Confessions of a Pick-Up Artist Chaser, which is an entertaining and sympathetic and vigorously feminist take on the whole sorry business.)

And in those areas there are, I would tentatively suggest, lessons for teachers.

(Yes, I know. I always think there are lessons for teachers.)

What are these lessons?

I’m glad you asked.

No More Mr Nice Guy. Some teachers have a tendency to think that they ought to be respected and esteemed simply because they are teachers. They are adults with qualifications, and pupils ought therefore to defer to them.

Look, maybe this ought to be how it works. But it isn’t. You might think you ought to be entitled to their obedience. And maybe you can argue that you are, in some philosophical sense. But it won’t make any difference to what happens in the classroom.

Is this unfortunate? Yes, probably. But that’s the way the world is.

They Won’t Be Grateful. You really care about your pupils. You want the best for them. You care much more than other teachers, especially those you’ve come across saying ‘inappropriate’ things about them in the staffroom or on the internet. You work hard for them, sacrificing yourself in the process.

Sorry. They don’t appreciate it. Maybe they should. But they don’t. Is this unfortunate? Yes, probably. But that’s the way the world is.

Pupils will muck about in lessons and slack off if they can get away with it. If you’re expecting them not to just because you’re a good person, you need to adapt your expectations.

You can get upset about this. Or you can accept it and adapt. It’s up to you.

Hang on a minute, I hear you cry. There are schools which are showing this isn’t necessarily true, aren’t there? Especially among the new breed of free school. There, pupils are made to be obedient and deferential, and indeed to demonstrate their appreciation of their teachers, aren’t they?

Well. There are, of course, exceptions. And these schools are, as their leaders and teachers will tell you, exceptional. I’m not disparaging them: I thoroughly approve of what they’re doing. And I follow many of their teachers on Twitter, and I know that these are inspiring people, and that’s what makes the difference: without the charismatic leadership at the top, the disciplinary structures at those schools would be much less likely to work.

It’s All About Confidence. This is the most important thing of all. A teacher should stroll into the classroom the way Donald Trump strolls into his own hotel. If you don’t feel that confidence? Take the advice of every pick-up-artist coach and fake it. Pretend you do.

It gets easier with time. I was amused to see Jordan Peterson suggesting to young men that they should approach fifty young women and ask for their telephone numbers, just to inure them to the entire process including the inevitable rejections. (I dare his teacher fans to offer that advice to boys in their PSHE lessons.) Of course you’ll be nervous to begin with. You’ve just got to get over it.

Does this mean being arrogant? Well … not ideally, no, but if you take your confected confidence a bit too far and the pupils think you’re a bit full of yourself, then that’s better than not taking it far enough and them thinking you’re soft. Act like you deserve respect, rather than moping about how you don’t get it.

The Pupils Don’t Matter. The education of children is your life’s work, right? Wrong. You’re part of something far greater and far more important than them. You are part of an apostolic succession of teachers stretching back to the dawn of civilisation. Those Dark Age Irish monks who kept alive the flame of learning when it was extinguished in much of the rest of Europe didn’t do so in order to have you make something accessible to some fool who’d rather be playing Call of Duty.

Oh, you think they’ll like you better if they know that they are your priority? Congratulations, you’re like every Nice Guy who ever complained that he’d give up anything for a woman and yet found that it didn’t make her like him. Again, it doesn’t work like that. If your focus is them, you’re not interesting, and they won’t be interested in you or anything you have to say. So no, don’t make things ‘relevant’ to their lives. Their lives are tedious. Their lives are the level they can reach on FIFA 17 (or whatever the latest version is) or how many ‘likes’ they can get on Snap Chat. If they want someone to talk to about that, there are many people who’ll do it better than you.

Fortunately you’re in a better position than most would-be pick-up artists: you actually have something interesting to say.

Be Hard To Please. You think pupils should be praised a lot? You think it’s important to acknowledge good performance, and be demonstratively appreciative? In that case you’re the teacherly equivalent of the man whose preferred conversational gambit is to compliment his interlocutor’s looks. Say it too often, and it becomes meaningless noise.

I’d go further. A teacher should be difficult to please. Your approval is the prize. Don’t give it away too easily. If you appear to praise grudgingly and in moderation it will have rarity value, and that will enable you to use it sparingly and to achieve an effect.

Be Funny. Some people find this easier than others. But it can be learned: famously (or, at least, famously among political historians of the third quarter of the twentieth century) Harold Wilson was a classic Oxford-don-cum-civil-servant who had to explicitly learn to be funny. Teachers have an advantage here: we know what’s going to come up in our lessons, we can prepare jokes and asides and wisecracks, and (unlike the Prime Minister or the man on a date) we can hone them. Yes, of course your pupils should appreciate you for your commitment to them and your earnest desire that they should do well. But they won’t. Sorry. That’s just the way it is. Be funny and they’ll be more likely to pay attention.

Look, I don’t like it any more than you do, but that doesn’t make it untrue. But the choice, which I understand is between a blue pill and a red pill, is yours.

School Sport

When the One Great Scorer comes to mark against your name

He writes, not that you won or lost, but how you played the Game.


When I advertised last week’s blog post on Twitter, I was taken to task by one of my fellow historians, the estimable ‘History Lover,’ whom you can and should follow at the @mw_history ‘handle.’ She observed that my own liking for competitive team sports had influenced my judgment, which was based on emotion and not on reason.

I think she’s completely right about this. I always loved taking school teams. In fourteen years I coached three sports (rugby, football, and cricket) at a range of levels, from the 1st XI  to the under-fourteen ‘F’ XI; I’ve taken cricketers to Sri Lanka, footballers to Holland and rugby players to Italy. I’ve spent my Saturdays refereeing and umpiring, or standing on touchlines and boundaries, and stayed after school to run training sessions. I am as far from being a neutral authority on this as it’s possible to be.

Still, I think I can rationalise what is ultimately nothing more than my own personal prejudices, so here we go.

Let’s start with the obvious arguments. Health and physical fitness are important, and doing team sports is one way of fostering this.

Should schools find opportunities for pupils to engage in collaborative group work? Well, teachers have certainly been known to try to create such opportunities in their classrooms, either because they’re personally committed to the idea or because they’ve been told by some higher authority that it is important. The trouble is that in many subjects group work is essentially artificial, and so has a deservedly bad reputation.

Not so in sports: a well-worked set-piece (a scrum, say, or a line-out) is the very essence of effective collaboration. Each player’s role is clearly defined. Each player’s role is essential. And each player’s ability to perform that role is dependent on the other members of the team. In open play, individuals’ roles are less clearly delineated, and so flexibility and the ability to think on one’s feet are essential. They might look like muddied oafs, but rugby players arriving at a breakdown are making sophisticated calculations very quickly. Or at least the good ones are.

Are these ‘transferable skills’? Maybe not. That skills are domain-specific is a convincing one, and Nick Hornby includes a memorable example of it in his book Fever Pitch, when he contrasts Paul Gascoigne’s phenomenal sporting intelligence with his infamous lack of the most basic common sense.

For me, though, the answer to this is that we spend quite enough time on individual endeavours at school. We have to. That’s fine. I don’t object to it. I’d have hated to have been judged as a student of history on my ability to have collaborated with my peers. But sometimes we – people, that is, not schoolteachers or pupils – we are part of something bigger than ourselves, and a school curriculum should make space for developing that aspect of ourselves.

Playing team sports involves physical courage. It also involves self-sacrifice. The flannelled fool at the wicket is not just dealing with an opponent hurling a very hard projectile at him. He’s often, especially in schools cricket, balancing his own selfish interests – more time at the crease to bat, and a better average – with the interests of his team, which might require him to play rather differently.

Again, I’m happy to concede that this may not transfer. I don’t know. I’m inclined to think that someone who has learned to tackle opponents who are bigger and stronger than himself may well be more likely to stand up to a bully in another field of life. But of course I’ve no evidence one way or the other.

And playing team sports also involves learning to recognise each other’s contributions, and learning to lose with grace and dignity.

Does this always happen? No, obviously not. Most sports teams have members who are dismally lacking in the virtues I’ve just lauded. Sometimes they’re the better players, which is partly why they get away with it. And this can be particularly so in junior sport, where the players are young and inexperienced. Children need a lot of guidance before they can come to appreciate this.

But they often do come to appreciate it in the end. And – this is dreadfully progressive of me, I know, but I’m afraid I happen to believe it – they also need first-hand experience. My preaching the virtues of being a good loser will not, truth be told, persuade them. They need to see me refuse to indulge in any criticism of refereeing for weeks, terms and years on end. They need to see my colleagues do so too. Yes, they occasionally need us to explicitly say to them ‘look, sometimes referees get things wrong, but that’s life, and nobody’s trying to cheat you, and in your own interest, both long and short term, you should take the attitude that the referee is always right, and not look for the easiest excuse there is.’ But mostly they need to be shown that this is possible. (With certain sports, based on the way they are covered in the media, you’d be forgiven for thinking that criticising referees is an essential and inherent part of the game.)

And this is why I think schools are best placed to do it. We don’t always get it right. Certainly not. I’ve winced on sidelines before as senior members of staff have given v unsolicited verbal advice to referees; I’ve listened to a pastoral leader agree with his Third Form football team that biased refereeing decisions were the reason for a defeat. I’ve often thought that we – the Games departments of which I’ve always considered myself to be a part-time member – have placed too much emphasis on winning, and not enough on doing things the right way. But overall I think schools are in a far better position to encourage these values than sports clubs.

We, in schools, can and do get this wrong, and when we do we do not make the case for school sports. I have little sympathy for arguments based around ‘I was made to do team sport and I hated it.’ Yeah, well, tough. I was made to go to bed on time, and eat vegetables, and study Chemistry. But I do have a tremendous amount of sympathy for arguments based around ‘I was in my school team, but I was always an unused substitute,’ or ‘I was in a school team, and I spent the whole time being berated by my team-mates and my coach.’

So we’d have to get it right, and do it properly. Yes, of course I know we’re not going to make representing the school in team sport a compulsory part of the curriculum. But we should. This stuff is more important than knowing valencies.

What Should Be Mandatory?

Once upon a time, long long ago, back when I was at school myself, I was told that before the National Curriculum there were only two subjects which all English schools were required to teach to all pupils in compulsory education: Physical Education and Religious Studies. (Or, back in the good old days, Religious Instruction.)

A brief search on the internet neither confirms nor debunks this claim. I’d love to know whether it’s true or not. The justifications are obvious and, I think, fairly persuasive; so too are the claims made for Mathematics – a decent grasp of which is of course necessary to succeed in many other subjects.

I would keep Mathematics compulsory. Religious Studies? Yes. If children aren’t learning about religion in school it’s unlikely they’ll be learning about it anywhere else. An understanding of people’s religious beliefs is a fairly important element of understanding the world. And yes, the culture of much of the world has been suffused with religion for centuries: to try to understand it without understanding the underlying faith seems unreasonable. So RS can stay.

PE? Yes. Not just for the physical activity: it’d be nice for schools to be places where healthy bodies accompany healthy minds, but I don’t care about it so much that I want Cookery back on the curriculum. I do want pupils participating in team games though, and representing their school in sports fixtures. Definitely.

Thereafter, as far as I’m concerned, it gets a little murky.

Even with English I’m unconvinced. To suggest that English Literature doesn’t deserve to be a compulsory subject for pupils up to the age of sixteen is tantamount to welcoming the barbarian hordes’ sacking of Rome. But what is so special about literature? Or rather, what is so special about literature when compared with art, or music, both of which almost all schools are happy to see their pupils drop at thirteen years of age? Are the works of Shakespeare more important than the works of Beethoven or Michaelangelo? Why?

Is it because English is the ‘arts’ equivalent of Mathematics, essential for so many other subjects? I wonder. I’ll grudgingly concede that it ought to be. But when English teachers tell me that it’s everyone’s job to teach good English usage, and that they’re not going to spend time on grammar when there’s Lord of the Flies to be taught … well. I wonder if English is all that deserving of its spot on the top table, and I wonder if a daily History lesson for every pupil from eleven to sixteen might do that job just as well.

At school I had to take three separate sciences to GCSE. At the time I thought this was unreasonable: I’d far rather have taken Latin and Geography than Physics and Chemistry. In retrospect … well, I think I was probably right. What’s the justification for making science a compulsory subject? The answer I give pupils making similar complaints is that dropping a science really is closing a door: a thirteen-year-old who drops Chemistry and Physics isn’t going to pick it up again, and will be ineligible for a large number of university courses. Still, this isn’t unique to the sciences: I dropped Latin twenty-five years ago, and I’m therefore not eligible to take a master’s degree in History at Goethe University in Frankfurt.

What about foreign languages? I don’t know. I can see both sides. There’s obviously value in learning one, or more than one. And I’ve been in Frankfurt long enough to cringe when my fellow Anglophones stroll into a café and ask for something in English. (You’re in Germany, after all, not somewhere with an obscure or incomprehensible language like Mongolia or even Hungary, and you’re only asking for a cappuccino (ein cappuccino) and a croissant (yep, that’s right, ein croissant). Come on!) But let’s be realistic. There’s a reason why the English are so bad at learning foreign languages: it’s just not necessary. There is also no obvious contender for the language to be studied.

I taught in a selective independent school in the south-east. Most of the pupils came from the sort of metropolitan middle-class backgrounds which oozed ‘cultural capital.’ And yet I stood and supervised them queueing at the Burger King outlet at the Calais terminal of the Channel Tunnel and seen them, just like their fathers in Frankfurt, fail even to try that most basic staple of classroom vocabulary, asking for food & drink in a café.

I’m inclined to think that this is a bad thing. I don’t think forcing every child to learn a language to the age of sixteen will fix it. But I’m inclined to think that a basic background in a language, even if that’s all it is, is well worth having. There’s such a vast difference between being able to just about communicate in a language and not being able to, and a basic background is a far better position to start from for someone who needs to actually learn that language.

All right then, what about History? I don’t think anyone will be surprised to learn that History teachers – at least all the History teachers I’ve spoken to about this – are appalling hypocrites on this issue. We are inclined to think that of course History should be a compulsory subject, while being secretly relieved that it isn’t. Yes, it’d be nice to have a proper five-year curriculum (as was originally intended, by the way, and only abandoned at the last minute, at least according to David Cannadine’s The Right Sort of History) but then it’s also nice to have classes full of pupils who positively opted for the subject. I am, of course, hopelessly prejudiced on this matter, and will probably have to write a separate blog post on why history ought to be compulsory.

Does this mean Geography has to go? No. I don’t think so. I’m almost inclined to think that Geography should be compulsory too. I could try to explain why, but Mark Enser did it better than I could. Go have a read.

I have one more subject to consider. No, not Computer Science or Design Technology: sure, I like to pontificate on things I know nothing about, but as I’m not actually Prime Minister and Secretary of State for Education just yet I don’t have to pretend to know anything about them. I’m open to persuasion, but I’ll confess to ignorance of those curriculum areas.

I’ll end, however, with a controversial one. Drama ought to be compulsory.



I once had a drama teacher tell me that our jobs were similar, really: we were both in the business of trying to get children to understand why people did what they did. I think he had a point. If emotional intelligence & empathy can be taught at all, surely drama is the medium. Never mind all the twenty-first-century-skills drivel: if there’s one thing we know people will continue to need to be able to do, it’s to perform in front of others. Drama teaches you to play a role, something else which the silliest futurologists don’t think is going away. You want to speak in public? Well? Of course you do. Drama will help you. And if you want proper, meaningful group work? Drama. (Yes, there are one-man plays, but they aren’t going to be put on in schools.) Everyone has to do their bit in drama, or you let everyone else down; a play is simultaneously immensely collaborative while offering no hiding place for the individual. And, of course, there’s the study of plays themselves, which are as important a part of our heritage as other works of art. You want preparation for life? Do drama.

So what am I making compulsory? Maths can stay. Religious Studies. Sport. History. A language. Geography, maybe. And drama. Yes, that’s it. You think Chemistry should be on the list? Tell me why.

Elsa Dresses & Education

I have a son. He’ll be three next month. And one of his favourite items of clothing is his Elsa dress.

I am alarmed to find that this is another front in the culture war. But does it have any relationship to education (which is, after all, what this weblog is supposed to be about)?

I think it does.

What does my son’s liking for the Elsa dress say about him?

I’d say not very much at all, I’m afraid. Because I don’t know why he likes it.

Is it because it used to belong to his sister? Possibly. We over-use the term ‘role model’ in education, but I think it’s fair to say that an older sibling is a role model for a younger sibling. He saw her wearing it, back in the days when it fitted her: maybe he thinks that’s what you do.

Is it because it used to belong to his sister, and she loved wearing it, so he learned that Wearing The Elsa Dress was something to aspire to? Possibly.

Is it because one of his sister’s friends used to put it on every time she came to our house, demonstrating that this really was an important item of clothing? Possibly.

Is it because he happens to love the colour? He doesn’t have any other clothes that colour. Possibly.

Is it because he’s genderqueer? Possibly. There are genderqueer people in the world; if he’s one of them, then in future we may accord some significance to his choice of dressing-up regalia. (And we might be right to do so, and we might not.)

Would he like to wear it if he didn’t have an elder sister? Possibly. It’s a counterfactual. I don’t know. My guess is not, because he wouldn’t have been introduced to it, but it’s only a guess: he might have enjoyed dressing up in dresses at nursery, or at other children’s houses, or he might have walked past shops and decided he really wanted his very own dress.

Would he like to wear it if this was another period in time? I don’t know. In the Victorian age it was common, at least among the posh, for young boys to wear dresses. Marianne Grabrucker’s Typisch Mädchen (which goes by the title There’s a Good Girl in its English translation) includes a tantalising reference to a photograph of the young Bismarck in a dress, and a caustic comment from the author about how that seems not to have diminished his manhood; a little disappointingly a brief google image search does not yield such an image, but it produces plenty of examples of boys in dresses from that era.

But is he more likely to wear it because neither his mother nor I nor indeed anyone else who sees him in it has disparaged his wearing it? Possibly. But quite possibly not. I have, after all, attempted to dissuade him from doing all sorts of things without success. Does it make a difference that the wizened elderly lady in the corner shop which was a convenient seven-minute walk from our house in a sleepy village used to make a big fuss of him in his Elsa dress, instead of asking why he was wearing girls’ clothes? Possibly. But quite possibly not. She used to be even more delighted when he said ‘please’ or ‘thank you’, and I’m afraid his performance of these basic social graces remains far from perfect.

Will this change as he gets older? Will he get less keen on wearing his dress? I expect so. Is that because that’s what happens to most boys? Is it because he’ll develop more of a gender identity than he has now? Is it because his gender expression will be more heavily policed? I don’t know.

Are there some boys who’d love to wear dresses but don’t because people around them would be (or have been) cruel to them were they to do so (or when they did so)? Yes. And I think that’s very sad indeed. How many of them are there? I don’t know.

Are there some boys who love to wear dresses now, but will, if you like, ‘grow out of it’? Yes. And I think that’s natural and normal and to be expected.

Do you know? Really? No, of course you don’t.

Is my son in touch with his feminine side? Maybe. He likes to wear a dress. He likes to carefully look after his favourite toy owl. He likes to point at the television screen and ask for ‘Sofia’. (Sofia the First, since you ask. He’s a fan.)

Are you building an image of who he is? Of course you are. It’s not the image his family has of him though. They’ve noticed that he likes to play with toy diggers, lorries, and cement mixers. Such a boy, they nod, and they observe approvingly – and correctly – that he throws and kicks with greater dexterity than his sister. And so he is given diggers and lorries and cement mixers and footballs at Christmas, and he enjoys playing with them.

So who is he? And it’s all very well saying ‘well, all of it’ – sure, okay. But which parts are essentially him, and which parts have been carefully socially constructed? Are the uncles and aunts who give him footballs skewing who he is? Or, by allowing him to wear dresses (which, under other circumstances, he wouldn’t do) am I? There might be good answers to these questions, but I doubt it.

And yet there is a school of thought that says that teaching should be child-centred.

What child?

No, seriously, what child? I know my son. And yet, at the same time, I don’t really know him, do I? I can’t answer any of the above questions with any confidence. If I ask his teachers to try to tailor his learning to who he is, or to adapt their approach to his attributes, I’m asking them to do something which I fear might be impossible. Better to just decide what to put before all our children, and do it as best we can, without pretending that we somehow know what will appeal to them.

Because we don’t know who they are. Not really. They’re children. They’re growing. They’ll change. Some of who they appear to be is essential. Some of it isn’t. We don’t know which is which. So we may as well follow the advice of that celebrated teacher Helga Hufflepuff. In the words of the Sorting Hat:

“I’ll teach the lot. And treat them just the same.”


*Yes, I know, I’m using masculine pronouns for him. I’m an intolerable reactionary running-dog who’ll be shot when the Revolution comes. See if I care.

The Trouble With Textbooks: Below the Sixth Form

I thought I had more to say about the use of textbooks in my previous post. It turns out that most of what I dislike about the use of textbooks in the Sixth Form applies to younger pupils too.

I have, I’m afraid, always used textbooks for GCSE teaching. I don’t have a particularly good reason for doing so: I think most of my criticisms of A Level textbooks apply to GCSE too. I’ve just never got around to providing a comprehensive set of alternative materials.

Except … it’s not that ‘I just never got around to it.’ I use one of the market-leading textbooks with the name of the examination board prominently displayed on it because it’s the easiest thing to do. In the independent sector the idea that textbooks are somehow dodgy is not as widespread as it appears to be elsewhere: pupils, and fee-paying parents, expect there to be a textbook for each subject, and “we use the book which is specifically designed for this particular GCSE” is the path of least resistance. It’s the one I’ve been issued with by my various Heads of Department, so I use it. I’m not proud of this. I’ve picked my battles. This wasn’t one of them. Perhaps it should have been.

For younger pupils, there’s a different problem.

There is always a temptation to see pupils who aren’t going to be publicly examined at the end of the year as the least important. This is perhaps particularly true for subjects like History, in which the curriculum isn’t ‘spiral’ and which is optional at GCSE. It is therefore especially tempting to plan a lesson with such a class by opening the textbook at the next page.

And so, like it or not, the textbook determines the curriculum. It doesn’t have to, I know, but in these circumstances, too often, it does. I don’t know a Second World War textbook which gives due treatment to the politics of 1940 and the Norway Debate, which must be one of the greatest Parliamentary set-pieces even in the long and distinguished history of the House of Commons. There is a terrific ten-minute section in Distant War, the second episode of The World At War, in which the likes of Rab Butler, Bob Boothby and Jock Colville tell the story. And it’s completely wasted on twenty-first century pupils. They don’t understand it, not even the clever, erudite ones, not really. Because they haven’t been taught the political context. So I can show them this, one of David Low’s greatest cartoons, and they’ve no idea what it’s about.

Okay. But then I can just fill in the gaps, can’t I? Teach what the textbook doesn’t contain? Isn’t that my job?

Yeah. Sure. Of course. And I do. And there comes a point when I’m producing so much that the textbook is superfluous.

I could, of course, go on. It is perhaps unreasonable to criticise a textbook for missing material. I might think that a textbook encompassing the prescribed Key Stage Three National Curriculum topics (‘the Industrial Revolution c.1750-1900,’ ‘the Second World War,’ & ‘the Holocaust’) ought to include a passing reference to D-Day, but I understand that of course not every single event between the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745 (why don’t we ever teach this in schools, by the way?) and the Nuremberg Trials can be covered. Sure. I get that.

And there can be, will be, and must be disagreement among history teachers about what should appear in the curriculum. It’s bad enough that the examination boards get to determine this for pupils above the age of thirteen or fourteen. Textbook publishers shouldn’t get to do it for younger children.

It’s easy, for instance, to complain about fatuous chapter headings like “were the Victorians racist?,” a question which appears in the aforementioned textbook, and which is developed with reference to the slave trade and Mary Seacole. And I do complain about it.

(For me, I think ‘Were the Victorians racist?’ is quite an interesting question. Who were ‘the Victorians’? Are we including black & brown Victorians among their number, for instance? It’d be quite easy to find some naked racism to kick off with, but then things get complicated, don’t they? Let’s talk about Disraeli, and Bhownaggree, and Naoroji. Then let’s ask how important their electoral successes were. (Did any imperialists vote for Bhownaggree? You would have thought so. He won 50% of the vote in Bethnal Green. (What was a Tory doing winning Bethnal Green twice?!) Did they simultaneously believe white men to be superior to, and therefore fit to rule over, brown men in India, and that a brown man was fit to rule over white men in Westminster?) The whole Mary Seacole story doesn’t really work any more, because ‘she was written out of history’ is clearly not true: she’s a staple of the school curriculum. Isn’t it interesting how her star fell and then rose again? Needless to say none of this is covered in textbooks either.)

This is just a case for better textbooks?

No. It isn’t. Don’t we trust ourselves? History teachers should be making these decisions. You might disagree with my priorities. You might think that Disraeli deserves less attention than Brunel or that the British Empire deserves less attention than the spinning jenny. Let’s have the argument. Let’s not, though, contract it out to a publisher.

The Trouble With Textbooks: A Levels

This is a very good, very interesting piece about textbooks, and I agree with most of it. Nonetheless when it comes to textbooks I’m not a fan. Definitely not for History. For Politics some form of textbook is probably inevitable. As for EFL … that’s another matter, but in the long run I expect to use textbooks less and less.

So what do I disagree with? I don’t think PowerPoint, or interactive whiteboards, are better than textbooks, and I don’t approve of the ‘skills agenda’ which alleges that subject-centred textbooks are bad. I don’t dislike textbooks because I think there should be more differentiation. Costs? No. After teachers, books are the most important thing in a school, more important even than a field which can be used for rugby in the winter and cricket in the summer. And I think it’s fair enough to say that teachers have enough to do without being required to make their own resources.

Even so I’m not on Team Textbook.

I would, for instance, say that textbooks are boring. At least A Level History textbooks are. Not because they’re too academic. Because they’re not academic enough.

Now there are, of course, plenty of dismally tedious history books. But for most periods of history there are also well-written but scholarly books written by serious academics for the general reader. Thomas Asbridge’s The First Crusade. Dan Jones’ The Hollow Crown. When I taught British India I wanted to use Denis Judd’s The Lion and the Tiger and Alex von Tunzelmann’s Indian Summer but was overruled by the sort of head of department who insisted on Access to History textbooks instead. But in a different school under a different boss I used Paul Johnson’s biography of Napoleon alongside Vincent Cronin’s to teach that subject.

Now these books were much better-written and much more enjoyable to read than a textbook. They don’t have flowcharts or boxes or diagrams purporting to explain historical causation. They depend on careful written explanation instead.

(Is there a case for flowcharts? Not for me. But when I’m Prime Minister, Secretary of State for Education, Chief Executive of Ofsted and Head Master of Eton College I won’t try to stop you using them. This, though, is surely what the whiteboard is for? Or, if you must, the wretched interactive whiteboard?)

Schoolchildren can’t handle proper books? Cobblers. If you want them to read textbooks you’re talking about approximately as many words in total anyway. Is it monstrous elitism of me to suggest that a student of A Level History ought to be able to read Mark Kishlansky’s A Monarchy Transformed? Well … possibly, I suppose, but pupils doing GCSE English will read works of similar length and sophistication. If a teenager can handle Ishiguro or Austen or Dickens then she can cope with Kishlansky. And anyway, A Level History requires students to use proper works of history to do their coursework.

But these works don’t address the specification!

No, they don’t, and that’s okay.

Sure, there may be the odd section of a published specification which isn’t sufficiently covered in a book which isn’t written for the purpose of preparing pupils to sit public examinations. Okay. Teachers will cope. They can prepare a couple of pages on the importance of the silver penny if our friends at the QCA say it’s an essential part of the Norman Conquest but Marc Morris doesn’t devote enough attention to it. The same is true of meeting the particular demands of one examination board’s mark scheme. A textbook might look like it can do this, but really the only way to do it is for pupils to get lots of practice in writing essays (or document questions) and, unfortunately, for teachers to show them how to do so in such a way that their answers appease the examiners. A textbook can only give instructions, and if pupils found those instructions easy to follow then teachers wouldn’t have to teach exam technique, would we?

Why else are A Level textbooks bad?

Well, I’m traditional enough to think that there isn’t a definitive version of the past. Textbooks give the impression that there is. Yes, sure, I can tell my pupils that this isn’t true. But if – as increasingly they tend to – a textbook has a little stamp on it indicating that it contains All You Need To Know to sit a certain exam set by a certain board, they will inevitably treat it as such.

It’s my job to stop that from happening? Yeah. Okay. I agree. And in that case my method is to not use a textbook.

Now A Level Politics is a rather different and in a way more difficult subject to approach. There aren’t equivalents of those history books which broadly cover the syllabus area. There are, though, plenty of dismal websites with oversimplified and misleading accounts of these instead. And because everyone studying A Level Politics studies the same material in the Lower Sixth there are lots of bad ‘model answers’ to the standard questions. (There are, after all, not that many aspects of the constitution which lend themselves to essay questions. You can’t do it without considering the question of whether it should be codified, and so there are some truly dreadful answers to that old chestnut floating around in cyberspace. I know, because I’ve had all of them handed in to me, masquerading as the work of some feckless wastrel who thinks I can’t tell that he isn’t the author.)

But the existing textbooks are, I’m afraid, nearly as bad. They are over-simplified and, as such, they are misleading. Just try reading an A Level Politics textbook’s attempt at explaining Common Law, which is routinely and inaccurately described as ‘judge-made’ law which emerges from judicial decisions. Now this isn’t just wrong. It’s damagingly wrong. The common law – the basis of the English legal system – is rather more complicated than that. It is not, I don’t think, beyond the grasp of a sixth-former. But it has to be properly explained.

If it’s not properly explained, then either pupils pick up misconceptions, or they just learn to regurgitate exactly what the box in the textbook says.

Now most of the time that’ll be good enough to get them through their public examination. And I get that there’s sometimes a place for learning things off by heart. I learned je vous prie d’agréer, Madame, l’expression de mes sentiments distingués well before I understood its exact meaning, and I could recite the reigns of the English monarchs well before I knew that Stephen wasn’t exactly king from 1135 to 1154 in the same way that his predecessor had been king from 1100 to 1135. And I’m glad I did. But there’s a crucial difference here, which is that what I learned was correct. I might not have had a full understanding of it. But it wasn’t wrong.

So instead I’ve written my own materials. I started with PowerPoints, but they have their own problems, which I will explore in another post. Now I have every corner of the syllabus covered. Each section has its own associated multiple-choice test, so my pupils have to read it: they can’t shrug and look up Idlers’ Notes online and hope that’ll do.

Usefully, I can be a lot nimbler than an education publisher. Once my stuff is done, I can easily keep it up to date: every time something changes, I can make the relevant amendments, and in September next year’s version is totally up-to-date. (This has been particularly useful in Politics in the last few years.)

Now look. Isn’t this just a problem with the textbooks themselves, rather than the principle of the textbook? What I’m saying here is that textbooks are fine as long as I write them, am I not?

Well, yeah, maybe. And I suppose that there is an element of conceit here. I do think I can do better than the professionals. And if someone wants to offer me a large contract to write the definitive A Level Politics textbook I’ve got a slightly-dated (I stopped updating it last year, when my successor told me that he’d prefer to use a board-endorsed book) exemplar for you to take a look at.

But seriously. I don’t claim to be cleverer or better-informed than the publishers. I certainly don’t claim to know more about the publishing market. Obviously not. There’s no shortage of people who do understand the Common Law and would be quite capable of writing a couple of pages about it. But let’s not kid ourselves. The market isn’t perfect, but textbooks have existed for a long time, there is a fair amount of competition, information isn’t all that asymmetrical – so the textbooks which exist probably do represent what most teachers actually want.

But it’s not what I want.