the primary head's blog

Let’s play a little game. Sounds like fun don’t it? First, let’s see if you’re tall enough to be admitted onto the ride:

Question:  Are you, or have you ever been, a teacher?

If the answer is ‘yes’ then please move onto the next question.

Question: Do you use Twitter for self-elected professional development?

If the answer is ‘yes’ then you may be a little too high-brow for this game.

If the answer is ‘no’ then please move onto the next question.

Question: Do you use Twitter believing yourself to be more cleverer and amusing than the average tweecher?

If the answer is ‘yes’ then OH BOY is this the game for you!

Are you ready?

Ok, here it is (this is so funny, clever and exciting I can hardly swipe straight!)

Question: What is the worst behaviour you’ve encountered where the student involved was not permanently excluded?

*sits back and waits for all the funny and outrageously unacceptable replies that are going to prove my point, if only I was actually declaring the point I was trying to make before posing my question.*

Answer: A pupil tried to burn down the curtains.

*snigger* OMG that’s unbelievable! And they weren’t expelled? That’s mental!

Answer: A child punched, spat, scratched, swore and stabbed me.

*splutters with indignation* And they weren’t chucked out on the spot?

Answer: A child lunged at me and then threw a chair at my privates.

*reaches for the ‘like’ button* This is exactly what I’m talking about!

Ahem… Excuse me for interjecting, but…

I can only presume that you are attempting to raise the tragic, and depressingly inevitable, point that there are indeed some incredibly damaged young people trying to cope within the education system. And, I can only imagine that your motivation in asking Twitter for examples of behaviour committed by young damaged human beings, was to highlight a simple point: damaged children are not getting enough support.

Obviously you’re not asking the question in order to suggest a contrary point of view that these children are beyond the compassion, empathy, hard work and behaviour management skills of regular teachers. You wouldn’t be suggesting that children should be expelled and excluded for matters that are out of their control to serve the convenience of trained professionals who would rather not try something beyond their normal routine. You certainly wouldn’t be trying to hint that leaders are spineless worms who care more about exclusion rates than developing a professional body who works tirelessly to support the damaged and disenfranchised.

Of course not.

It could be that, through your glib questioning, you are publicly lamenting the lack of specialist provision that may be able to support and nurture the individuals who have suffered – through no fault of their own – incredible trauma and tragedy that has rendered them unable to function in a socially acceptable way. It could be that you are trying to highlight the plight of these children through the probability of a teacher not being able to get through their 40 minute geography lesson that took them all of the weekend to plan. (Although that weekend was five years ago, but, you know, facts and direct instruction don’t require updating so there’s no reason why the teacher should have to do anything different.) Or possibly, you’re depressed that social mobility has not happened at quite the pace you thought it should have by now, and you’re irritated that your brethren have got to try and teach a plethora of poor and thick chavs who would rather spend the lesson mimicking their feeble voices rather than listening to them?

If that’s the case, I get it. I hate the fact that there is not enough specialist provision too. I agree that the future for these children does not look bright. I’m angry that thresholds have risen whilst early intervention provision has been squeezed to frighteningly low levels due to a case of ever decreasing funding. I concur that it’s a right pain in the Goves that poor people are going to remain poorer for longer despite the wonderful lessons we try and plan for them.

And, if that is why you asked the question, I’d really like your thoughts on this one, where are these children – who display socially unacceptable and disturbing behaviour – going to end up if we just exclude them? Somewhere? Nowhere? Or does it not matter as long as you get to teach the way you were promised you’d be able to when you graduated?

Judging by the snide and witty comments that accompanied some of the answers to your question I’d guess that none of your answerers care about the complexities your question raises. Well, they care that life in the classroom is harder for them with these kids in tow, but not so much that life itself is hard for the children that dare to ruin their day.

To those people I say: Oh I know their behaviour is scary. I know their attitude is aggressive. I know they can wear you down. I know it can sometimes feel unsafe and, of course, ‘what about the other children?’ All I can say is that if you dare to empathise you’ll be a step closer to understanding. And then, you might be able to do something that makes a tiny, almost insignificant, difference to the way you interact with them. And that might not make every minute of your time with them a disaster. It’s hard work but, sometimes, it works. Most of the time it won’t. Over time, it probably will. When it really doesn’t get better, they will get excluded. When this happens you’ll feel a great sadness instead of relief. Trust me, having been there: sadness feels better.

So, Mr Clever Question Master, develop your professionalism and go through all the responses to your question that sought to blame the child rather than admit their job was hard and let them know the real reason you set the question: To raise the issue of the difficulty of teaching complex human beings who have had a horrendous start in life. Clarify that you didn’t ask the question to give tired/knackered/incompetent teachers an easy ‘get out of detention free’ card by flippantly responding to your question under the delusion that it erased all professional accountability and compassion. Maybe, for some of the people that then hilariously insulted damaged children and/or the teachers who believe that this is a fight that can be won through pedagogy and classroom management, you could block them, permanently, for being unprofessional.

Or, you could just save this in the ‘one where the Headteacher thinks I was wrong for asking the question in the first place’ file.  

I consider Ofsted to be something of an abusive relative. Like a crap Uncle who only visits every fourth Christmas but never fails to find some way of upsetting you. Sometimes this Uncle is an aggressive drunk; impervious to reason or logic and quick to violence should you look at him funny or fail to laugh at one of his jokes. Other times he takes on a passive/aggressive tact: smiling sweetly at the dinner party as you update everyone with the story of your life achievements so far before saying: ‘Well, I’m glad you consider yourself to be a success.’ Occasionally, even when you have done something truly incredible, he will be the one reminding you – and everyone else – of the time you wet yourself on the trampoline during your fifth birthday party. Yeah, it’s pretty safe to say, I don’t look forward to uncle Ofsted coming to stay.

As a result, I try not to think about it. I find this is the best strategy for focusing the mind on what really matters, not to mention the improvements to my sleep pattern. That is why I will never have any interest with Ofsted preparation. In my experience each inspector has been so different that any preparation, in hindsight, has been a total waste of time. It is also the reason why I refuse to lower myself, and my school, to their standards. As in, you won’t find an Ofsted category anywhere on my SEF. Why would I? Why would I use a word that an inspector can twist and use against me should the mood take them? I have my standards. How they compare with Ofsted’s is their concern and not mine.

You may think that I sound like a stroppy teenager. But, if you take Sean Harford at his word then it’s actually the correct approach. Focus on the right thing for your school and everything should be fine. Any visiting Ofsted Inspector will be able to see this, cross-reference it with the inspection handbook, and make their judgement accordingly. I say ‘their’ judgement because it is just that. It lives outside my concern. If it matches with mine, then hurrah! But by the time the report actually ‘goes live’ I will already be further along ‘my’ road and the report will be out of date.

Again, this is the right attitude, surely? I can’t imagine there are many Heads who, after receiving the highest accolades Ofsted has to offer, sit back in their chair and thinks ‘job done’. Likewise, if a report finds weakness, I’ll wager most Heads already knew about them and were already in the process of sorting them out.

So, if I’m so indifferent to Ofsted why do I actively dislike it?

Simple: when Ofsted goes wrong it can destroy decent schools and decent people.

Trust me, I have personal experience. Veteran blog readers (you fools!) will be aware that once upon a time I was visited by a rogue inspector who attempted to put my school in special measures. According to her, the school was inadequate in every single possible way. The draft report gleefully reported on a string of failures that, thankfully for me, were so inaccurate that I was able to overturn the report before it got published. Instead, I got given RI and was told to wait it out. A year later and a different team came in, judging the school to be good with a sprinkle of outstanding. And, guess what? During that year I didn’t do anything differently. Actually, that’s a lie. I did stop caring about Ofsted. But, I didn’t take on board any of the advice from the previous report. So, in that respect the Ofsted process had zero impact on school improvement.

But this monumental and embarrassing blunder is also not the reason why I dislike Ofsted.

I dislike it because of that rogue lead inspector. The first report she wrote was not only inaccurate but also contained sweeping statements that were rather personal about me. Had they had been published, the combination of the judgement and stinging rhetoric would, I honestly think, have finished me off. There would have been no way that I could have carried on in that school. Too many seeds of doubt would have been sewn. I dread to think what the local media would have done with it. If recent cases are anything to go by, I would have been subject to a one-sided front-page lynching. That is partly why I fought it. It was a desperate act to salvage my career and my sanity. Thankfully for me the lead inspector wasn’t just an unpleasant person, she was also rather stupid. It was quite easy to challenge the report and get it totally re-written.

The second report, that she was forced to write, was more accurate but was still relatively spiteful. I remember friends and colleagues at the time saying it was the worst sounding ‘RI’ report they’d ever read. But it was no longer newsworthy. People in the community read it, didn’t recognise the school it came from, and chucked it in the bin. Together we moved on, undisturbed.

But that experience has tainted me. It has made me eternally cynical about the way in which Inspectors conduct their visits and report their findings. If the process is genuinely about providing a consistent benchmark of standardised judgements about schools, and, identifying where improvements can be made then the Inspectors should carry this out without ‘fear or favour’. But, at present, some seem to relish the fear that they themselves wield a bit too much for my liking. These reports that seek to assassinate Headteachers are part of the reason Ofsted has become too high stakes and needs to change. All the new strategy plans in the world will not stop spiteful rhetoric, hell-bent on making a Head’s job impossible once the report has been published. All the pro-Ofsted propaganda on Twitter will not comfort a publicly humiliated Head.

Last year I felt invincible. I was in a strong position. I was leading a fantastic school and Ofsted probably weren’t going to come back for years. Now, I am in a new school. I love it. It’s a great school. But it’s in Ofsted’s sights. I feel vulnerable. I seem unable to take my own advice and ignore the shadow of Ofsted. I even considered buying a book about getting through an Ofsted, you know, just in case. But why? Why did I now care so much about Ofsted?

The answer is obvious: I like my job. I care about my new school. I know we’re going to do great things. I don’t want Ofsted to ruin it.

And that is what you do sometimes, Ofsted.

Like the Uncle nobody wants to end up sitting next to at the family reunion, you end up ruining the party, before making a swift exit, leaving someone else to pick up the pieces.

Like a TIE Fighter making the jump to light speed, the new Ofsted corporate strategy plan has blasted into the edu-stratosphere. The old strategy – whatever it was – has been erased and replaced by this sleek new document that is, I suppose, intended to be a physical manifestation of the ‘new hope’ crusade led by Sean Harford and Amanda Spielman. They are education’s answer to Obi-Wan and Luke Skywalker (or the Emperor and Darth Vader according to your point of view).

Bits of it even read like a job-description for a Jedi Knight: All Padawans considering application must be guided by the principle that they are a force for improvement and enjoy wearing brown cloaks. The ability to lift sunken spacecrafts out of lakes is desirable but not essential.

It’s one-page summary is a punchy affair. For example, Ofsted’s strategic approach can be described in just three words: Intelligent, Responsible and Focused.  BOOM! Got that? Ofsted ain’t messing about here boys and girls, these Bothans mean business. And as well as being guided by the magical Ofsted force they’ve got some pretty clear core values too: Independence, Accountability, Transparency, something about kids. These guys are facing into the wind and firing up the light sabres of judgement and nothing’s gonna stop them. I like it. They’ve even got priority workstreams and I haven’t a freakin’ clue what one of those is but I want one in my school development plan and I want it now!

As you explore these streams you see that the strategy plan is a very measured affair. This is a new, broad and balanced Ofsted. Less, ‘a long time ago in a galaxy far away from the real world’ and more, ‘one small step for the educators, one giant leap for the inspectors.’ Ofsted are focusing on their own validity; they want their reports to support as much as they judge. They even want to understand the consequence of their actions whilst championing children at every turn.

This is solid stuff.

Except for the fact that it lacks any solid foundations.

Maybe I’m naïve, but I don’t know what Ofsted are trying to achieve with this strategy. They haven’t thought to state a goal. Oh I know that I’m just a simple-minded headteacher working in the primary sector and that being Ofsted ain’t like dusting crops. But, I always thought having a clear aim was kind of the point of a strategic plan.

Let’s ask a few people a really simple question: What are you up to?

General Tarkin, Death Star commander: Just trying to blow up some planets.

Mothma, the leader of the rebel alliance: Just trying to blow up the Death Star.

Jabba the Hut, fat worm: Just trying to get this bikini clad girl to dance for me.

Princess Leia, one-time chained dancer of Jabba the Hut: Just trying to strangle this misogynistic slug.

Jar-Jar Binks, absolutely no idea: Just trying to destroy a franchise.

Amanda Spielman, Ofsted chief inspector: Just trying to work out some evaluation metrics around our system measures and accountability measures.

Now let me ask YOU a question, dear reader: which one of these answers do you understand the least?

While some of you are still googling ‘evaluation metrics’ let me clarify for everyone else that in the competition for coming up with a succinct goal, Ofsted are trailing behind Jar-Jar Binks! And Ofsted…that’s not cool.

Come on Ofsted, put some light into that sabre. Just tell us what you want to achieve! It can’t be that hard to put into words, surely? I’ll try and help. Feel free to pick from any of the following:

1. We want all our judgements to be accurate.
2. We want our advice to improve things for schools when we decide things aren’t good enough.
3. We want to see better outcomes the year after we’ve visited a school.
4. We want to see professionals strengthened not crushed.
5. We want to be welcomed.

I’m sure your strategy plan will help you achieve one, if not all, of these ambitions. And why would you not want to achieve them. They sound pretty good to me. If you could say just one of those things with honesty and integrity you’d be a really positive force for good: raising standards and improving lives.

But without a clear goal, written in large font at the top of your plan, you’re nothing more than a lost Jedi. You wield great power and influence but nobody knows what you want. OK, so we know what you stand for and how you want to go about your business, but, seriously, what is your business? And how will we know when you’ve done it?

I can’t believe you don’t have a single tangible goal that you’re all working on down at Ofsted HQ. I mean, if I don’t put a clear and measurable goal on top of my SDP your Lead Inspector would run me out of space. So why don’t you follow suit? I can’t believe it’s because you don’t want to be judged yourself. So, I’ll put it down to the fact that you couldn’t fit it on your strategy plan without it going over a single page of A4: we’ve all been there. I understand.

But, the truth still remains: I find your lack of goals disturbing.