Zero Tolerance

Grey Owl The Old

Description

A school therapy dog put down as a cost-cutting measure. An Ofsted inspector who grades his sexual encounters on a clipboard. A Head of Humanities who spends every waking minute scouring the Norwegian Meteorology Service website, desperate for a hint of snow. A Deputy Head found naked, bound and gagged after the Year 11 Prom. A Chief Executive of the Local Education Authority waiting for a phone call as the only employee left in a once vast empire. A Secretary of State for Education with a cunning plan to solve the Social Care crisis.Welcome to the world of State Education in austerity England in 2019, a country riven by decline, distrust and division. When Karim, a fifteen year old Syrian refugee, arrives at Fairfield High School he thinks that he has escaped from hell. But then the Multi Academy Trust takes over

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 février 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838598297
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

About the Author
The Old Grey Owl has worked as an English teacher in Greater London since 1982 and has been Head of Department, Assistant Head Teacher, and Deputy Head Teacher in a variety of schools. The Owl also worked for over twenty-five years as a senior GCSE English moderator for one of the major examination boards.

The writer of three novels and several short stories, the Owl has adopted a secret identity to guarantee their freedom, in the face of a Non-Disclosure Agreement, to expose some of the most dubious developments in national school policy and leadership practices: free schools, forced academization, zero tolerance behaviour regimes, the narrowing of the curriculum and the widespread promotion of rote teaching. These developments represent a serious threat to democratic accountability and educational standards. They are done in the name of rigour, but threaten real learning by focusing on exam performance and compliance.

The Owl regularly blogs and tweets on education, politics and culture.

You can follow The Old Grey Owl on Twitter at @OldGreyOwl1 or via the blog https://growl.blog.

You can contact The Old Grey Owl at [e-mail]
Copyright © 2020 The Old Grey Owl

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.


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ISBN 978 1838598 297

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

This book is dedicated to two groups: the first, all of the teachers, support staff and students who have been bullied and mistreated in schools across the country and those who continue to suffer. The second, refugees across the world and those who struggle on their behalf against blinkered and intolerant governments. It does not have to be this way. Let’s campaign for ethical leadership.
Contents
About the Author

Book One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23

Book Two
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
8
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30

Book Three
1
2



Book One
1
The boy poked his head around the flap of the tent. Amidst the jumble of carrier bags, bin liners and sleeping bags, in the shady gloom, another figure could be seen, lying propped up against a rucksack.
“Hey, you wanna play football? We’re all playing.”
The figure on the ground said nothing and stared ahead of him.
The question was repeated, this time in Arabic. The boy looked up at him and slowly shook his head. From outside the tent other voices could be heard.
“Leave him. Come on, let’s play.”
He withdrew his head and closed the flap. Outside a group of boys had gathered.
“But what about him?”
“You tried. He don’t speak. He don’t do nothing.”
The speaker, a scrawny thirteen-year-old in a stained Ronaldo T-shirt that was too big for him, made a gesture with his finger, tapping his temple with it and turning it around.
“Come on.”
They ran off towards the scrubby patch of land they had found behind the latrines. The first boy looked back at the tent, shrugged his shoulders, and then ran to join the others.
Inside the tent, the boy lay back down on his sleeping bag, and closed his eyes.
*
That afternoon, after he had eaten some rice and vegetables doled out to those that had stood in the midday sun to queue, he did his regular walk around the camp. He had nearly covered every inch of it and soon he would start again at the beginning. He walked slowly and methodically, not making eye contact with anyone, listening out for the sound of young girls’ voices. He passed the remains of burnt-out fires, passed terrifying groups of older men, sitting around whittling wood with knives and smoking, shouting out blood-curdling curses about what they would do to anyone they got hold of.
Some days he caught a glimpse of a girl and his heart would begin to pound and his breath would come in shallow gasps. He would follow them until he could get a better view and then, always, when they turned, his face would fall and he would walk the other way to try a different trail. Once, he had been so convinced that he ran up to the girl in a crowd, shouting “Evana! Evana!” He grabbed her by the shoulder and the girl turned around, her face a picture of fear. It wasn’t her, of course.
He had put his hands up in apology but had to flee from the snarling of a suspicious mob. It had been the only time he had spoken since arriving. He ran straight back to his tent, and waited, his heart racing, listening to the sounds outside. When he thought the danger had passed, he carefully pulled out the photograph from the pocket of his rucksack, and lay back on the ground, studying it. He would find her, wherever she was.
*
The next day he found himself in a queue at the main administrative tent in the Jungle. When he got to the front, a tired-looking man asked, “Name?” without looking up.
He was silent.
The man stopped writing on his form and looked up at him.
“What’s your name?”
Again, there was silence. The man repeated the question, but this time as if he were talking to a simpleton.
He gave up and moved on to his next standard question.
“Your passport, please.”
It was handed over in silence. The official pored over it, filling in details on his form.
Later, in a smaller, more private room, the Syrian translator went through the whole story. Several times he left the room to talk to other officials. The final time, he came back, a broad smile on his face.
“I have good news for you, my friend. You are eligible for asylum in the United Kingdom. You are very lucky. A change of policy, you see. You will be transferred to a holding centre and then over the channel.”
“When? When will this be?”
“Oh, probably in about three days’ time. It’s all over for you, my friend, you’ve made it.”
The boy stared at him.
“No, I can’t go.”
The official stared back, his face quizzical.
“What do you mean, you can’t go? That is why you are here, surely? Everyone out there,” he jabbed a finger in the direction of the wall of the tent, “would give anything to be in your position. They risk their lives every night trying to get across illegally.”
He shook his head again.
“I can’t go. I can’t leave my sister.”
His mouth began to tremble and he crumbled. The months of fear and exhaustion and grief, that he had suppressed to enable him to survive, could not be held back any longer. He wept uncontrollably, his wiry body shaking and heaving.
Outside, the queue got longer and longer.
2
Barry Pugh peered at his reflection in the mirror. A firm square jaw, clean-shaven, with ice blue eyes staring determinedly from a face that retained a healthy tan from the expensive holiday he and Alison had enjoyed last month. Yes, he thought, with some satisfaction, that is the face of a man to be reckoned with.
He glanced at the clipboard hanging beside the mirror and then applied two squirts of Creed eau de cologne, one to either side of his neck. Then two squirts of Listerine into his mouth. Finally, after a preliminary rummage in his boxer shorts, two squirts of his stud delay spray, to help with his unfortunate problem. Had to be careful not to get those aerosols mixed up, he thought to himself with a smile. And people thought he was humourless! He reached over for the clipboard and with the attached Montblanc roller ball, he systematically ticked off all targets achieved.
He turned to go, then stopped and reached across to the other side of the mirror. Unhooking the blue cord, he ducked his head through the loop of the lanyard and arranged his Ofsted ID card so that it hung symmetrically between the lapels of a lush, deep pile white dressing gown. “Nearly forgot,” he muttered under his breath. He picked up a set of pink fur handcuffs and amended his checklist on the clipboard, ticking the boxes marked “Ofsted ID” and “Fur handcuffs (pink)”.
“Alison,” he called, as he marched into the corridor, “ready or not, here I come. Get the prayer book ready.”
3
Rick was running a little late so there was already a sizeable crowd milling around the foyer when he arrived. Most people had already signed in and were heading towards the conveyor belt croissants and coffee that were always laid on at these events. He joined the queue and scanned the room, looking simultaneously for a friendly face and for those he really should avoid ge