MY WORST LESSON

This is an extract from “Classroom Confidential” which will be released on August 21st.

My first lesson was a total disaster. I’ve had bad lessons, every teacher has, but this was one of the worst. It was definitely among the top three worst lessons of all time. Just writing these sentences has given me sweaty palms and an unpleasant feeling in my gut.

I had been informed first thing by the head of drama that I was needed to teach her “rather tricky” year 9 group as she was away on a course. She looked at me and uttered the ominous words,

‘You’re going to need your wits about you’.

This is teacher code for ‘you are about to descend into the depths of hell and an hour in this group’s company will make a tour of Afghanistan seem delightful in comparison’.

Year 9 is frequently the worst year group to teach drama to, for a couple of reasons. They’re thirteen- and fourteen-year olds, so they’re in the full unpleasant flush of adolescence. They’re awkward, moody and crippled by insecurity. The last thing they want to do is get up in front of their peers and perform.

Secondly, many of them won’t be doing drama for GCSE so they have no emotional investment in the lessons. It’s the most toxic of all combinations.

You can mitigate this if you have a connection with the group and you’ve been teaching them for the last three years. In that case, if you’re very lucky, you might just be able to make the lesson bearable for everyone concerned.

I, of course, had never even met this class before. The odds were not in my favour. Ahead of the lesson, I also received an email saying the venue had been changed so that it was no longer in a drama studio. The first time I would encounter these kids wasn’t even going to be on home territory. I read down the email and my heart sank even further. It was going to be held in the gym. That’s when I knew I was completely screwed.

When I entered the gym, any last vestiges of hope quickly evaporated. The door was unlocked and the kids had managed to enter before me. This is a disaster for any teacher trying to establish their authority. One way of doing this is demanding the kids line up outside the classroom in a quiet and orderly fashion. They will then enter the room, calm, ready to work, and you are far more likely to have a productive lesson with them. That option had been removed from me.

As I entered the gym and looked around, I realised that this entire experience was going to be horrific for everyone concerned. But mainly for me. The group was scattered across the room and it looked like they were enjoying an extension to their break time. They were drinking fizzy drinks, eating crisps and chasing each other round the gym. This was already shaping up to be a disaster.

I inhaled a huge gulp of air deep into my lungs in an effort to create a voice that sounded calm and authoritative. It ended up coming out sounding more like an emasculated squeak.

The kids were taking out the gym equipment, including the pommel horse and the monkey bars. From appearing to be an uncooperative rabble, they seemed to be working well as a group. The apparatus was gradually and effectively being built in front of my eyes. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

I realised that I would not be teaching a drama lesson. I would be attempting to stop a PE lesson and it was thirty kids against one teacher. The worst thing was, I didn’t know who the well-behaved kids were, I didn’t understand the group dynamics, I didn’t even know their names.

One thing I didn’t notice, which makes sense in hindsight, was that every young boy seemed to be swigging a giant can of Monster. Monster is an ‘energy drink’ that you can easily buy in any newsagent or corner shop. The term ‘energy drink’ is a euphemism. What it really means is that every can has a caffeine level equivalent to about three shots of espresso. That doesn’t sound like a lot. But imagine you gave a three-shot espresso to a fourteen year-old boy and then asked him to behave normally. What would happen? You’re right. He would behave like a grade A lunatic.

Now imagine ten of them on this jet fuel and the other five drinking regular fizzy drinks. You might as well go out in Hackney and try to teach drama to a group of meth heads in the park.

The apparatus was now fully built. It was tall. Very tall. The height of the gym was around 30 feet and the apparatus almost reached the ceiling. I looked up to see some of the more intrepid members of the class climbing ladders so that they could begin swinging across the monkey bars.

‘Year 9,’ I squeaked, ‘under no circumstances are you to climb the apparatus.’

I shouldn’t have bothered. It was like trying to explain to Genghis Khan and his Mongol hordes that his planned invasion of your village needs to be postponed as now is not a good time. And, in my case, the Mongol hordes were all off their tits on Monster.

‘Year 9,’ I shrieked as my voice went completely prepubescent, ‘stop that immediately.’

Before long, the kids, showing remarkable athleticism, were swinging across the monkey bars confidently and expertly. I stood below watching them, utterly aghast. My teaching career was already in the gutter and now it was rapidly descending into the sewer. The kids, on the other hand, were all having a wonderful time and probably getting a very good workout too.

However, I was meant to be teaching a lesson on theatrical mime and there was no one in the room who was doing anything connected to that particular activity. I then noticed that while the kids had put out the apparatus fairly confidently, they hadn’t included any safety equipment. Of course they hadn’t. They were fourteen years old and high on liquid crack. They all felt immortal. I’m sure if you mainlined that stuff into me at fourteen years old, my response would have been exactly the same. I found myself pacing up and down as I struggled to decide what to do. Do I exert my authority and demand they come down from the apparatus or do I cave in and start putting out mats so they wouldn’t hurt themselves?

I put out the mats.

I was completely out of my depth and had resigned myself to the fact that my teaching career was finished and I was going to end up being a recruitment consultant like everybody I went to school with. At least I would have access to all the cheap cocaine a boy could dream of.

I looked around and saw a small group of well-behaved kids sitting on the floor reading books. Naturally, they had all grabbed a mat. I couldn’t blame them. If everyone else was taking out gymnastic equipment, why not them? I went up to the geekiest kid with glasses, who looked like he still hadn’t entered puberty and was reading Harry Potter, asked him to get the deputy head teacher immediately. Without a word, he nodded his head and ran out the door. Even he understood that things had plummeted to a point where if someone didn’t get hurt it would be a miracle. I watched him go, along with my professional life.

When the deputy head, Mr Turner, finally appeared, he went apoplectic with fury. He was a short, bespectacled man with silver hair and a rather sizeable gut straining to be released from the confines of his shirt. The moment he saw the carnage, his eyes bulged in furious incomprehension and his head went the colour of a very angry pimple. This was a man who looked to be losing his battle with blood pressure and, if anything, I was hastening his demise.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he exploded.

At that moment, the kids all stopped what they were doing and looked around. They had not expected to see Mr Turner staring at them, barely able to control his fury. Sheepishly, they got down from the equipment.

‘I want you all sitting on the floor. Now!’ he barked.

‘Sir, we’re not Year 2,’ piped up one of the ring leaders.

‘No, you’re not, because Year 2 is much better behaved than you. I trust Year 2 to be able to participate in a drama lesson. I expect Year 2 to sit and be able to follow instructions, which, with the exception of a small minority, none of you can do.

I’ve seen some disgusting sights in my time as a teacher, but this ranks up there as the very, very worst,’

Mr Turner said, growing angrier and angrier with every word.

I must admit that when he said the words ‘this ranks up there as the very, very worst’, I couldn’t help but wince. First, because those are very harsh words to use and second, I knew he meant them. I felt my face become ablaze with embarrassment and shame and looked down at the ground. I felt the tears start welling up behind my eyes. If this wasn’t the end then it certainly felt like it. How could someone fail so many times in such a short space of time?

Mr Turner turned round, looked at me and said,

‘Mr Foster, I’ll be seeing you in my office at 4 p.m.’

I nodded my head wearily, told the kids to put the equipment away and slowly trudged towards the drama studio to teach the rest of my lessons. I didn’t feel like teaching my lessons. I felt like going home, getting into bed, pulling the duvet over me and not leaving my room for the rest of the year. But I couldn’t do that.

It was only the first period, and I still needed to teach four other classes that day. What was left of my self-esteem had been utterly eviscerated and it wasn’t even break time.