That old saying, Spare the rod and spoil the child, is being bandied about a lot these days. No wonder. Today’s undisciplined youth are now the shock-troops of the consumer society. Their way of shopping - Shop ‘til you’re shot - can be likened to guerilla warfare.
Modus operandi: don hood, old trainers and call mates on smart phones. Distract demoralised police by throwing petrol bombs at police stations. Block roads by setting fire to furniture stores, or attract fire and ambulance services into cul-de-sacs on sink estates and pin them down.
While they’re all busy fending off bombs, bricks and fireworks, send wrecking crew to the centre of town. Kick in doors of favourite shops and acquire drugs, booze, new trainers, laptops, Raybans and Blackberries (but not books, apparently!). Later, meet up with old friends and exchange small amounts of money for stolen designer goods.
(Get caught; go to court; plead guilty and do six months. Upon release as stir-hardened felon, bask in the glory of enhanced street-cred. Sure beats the hell out of working for Tesco.)
Oh to be young again! The most exciting thing that happened to kids of my generation was finding unexploded ordinance on bomb sites. Can you believe that we were so honest and naive that we located the nearest bobby-on-the-beat or bicycle and informed him of the danger to society?
The other major difference between us and today’s youth is that we could read, write, do arithmetic and get jobs at Woolworth’s or down coal mines. This is because of teachers like Miss Jackson (OMG!), late of Kirkby Avenue Infant’s School, West End, Bentley, near Doncaster.
Miss Jackson was a spinster and it showed. She had breath that reeked of nicotine and pickled onions. Her cardigans had leather patches on the elbows and there were egg yolk stains on her old tweed skirt. But she was a dedicated teacher with attitude. She had no time for naughty boys and girls who dicked her around and wasted her time. She was there to teach and, by God, once taught by Miss Jackson, you stayed fricking taught.
Her modus operandi was also simple. After ‘Good morning Miss Jackson,’ she reached into her desk and took out a bamboo rod called ‘Cane’. When she said “Spelling”, we spelled. When we spelled correctly all was well. When we spelled incorrectly...You knew you’d got it wrong when she stopped you spelling and said, “Stand up”. You stood up until you spelled a word correctly. The last kid standing was not a sissy. ‘Cane’ reigned and no kid complained.
Thanks to Miss Jackson, by the time I was eleven I was reasonably literate, numerate and enjoyed French lessons. Although inept with a slide rule, I could spell logarithm and trigonometric. I had some lousy jobs but I was never out of work.
Had my parents seen me on television throwing rocks and stealing bottles of mineral water, (Duh!), the best thing I could have done was to emigrate. Had my mother clipped my ear for stupidity, I wouldn’t have reported her for breaching my rights. We were not often spoiled and the rod was never spared. It worked. We need to recruit lots of Miss Jacksons, patch their cardigans, fix them up with mouth washes and turn them loose.
Wrong! Wrong! We’ve got it all wrong. The kids know it. The parents know it. The teachers know it. Can someone please tell the bloody government?
Monday 22 August 2011
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