dispatches from the school run

February 25

Welcome back, I hope your half-term break went exceedingly well and was packed with life enhancing experiences for your educationally nourished offspring.
Even if your half-term was not packed with life enhancing experiences for your educationally nourished offspring, I hope they were well briefed as to what information to impart to Teech and what to keep quiet.
Superkid is primed so that when he is asked what he did during the holiday, he will reveal the following:
1. I read Stig of the Dump to my mum and dad and enjoyed it.
2. I read a whole book of poems and found them very entertaining.
3. I did some great comprehension work.
4. I managed a two-hour walk with my dad. We saw eleven red kites and a large rabbit warren.
5. I went in to London with my mum and dad for a ‘family day out’ and we visited lots of places to do with the Great Fire of London before learning all about the Tower of London and HMS Belfast.

Superkid is primed so that when he is asked what he did during the holiday, he will not reveal the following:
1. I reached level five of Star Wars the Complete Saga on my Nintendo DS Lite due to repeated and prolonged game time when my parents did not mind me playing because it meant they could chat without interruption.
2. I found the Brain Training game for the DS Lite essentially boring and uninspiring, even though I am aware my parents want me to play it to offset the time I spend mastering Star Wars the Complete Saga. Don’t they realise it could never replace Star Wars the Complete Saga in my affections?
3. I stayed up very late on at least three nights. And by very late, I mean VERY late. This rendered me tired the next day and was again indicative of ill-disciplined parenting.
4. I ate an entire, adult-sized pizza during my visit to London. That’s not in the guide books is it!
5. I was allowed to attend an adults’ party at which fully matured women were present and clearly visible shaking their chests around in a provocative manner to background music. I was watching nearly as intently as my father.
Guess which list the class got to hear about.

Anyone who likes to take their sporting comment with an acerbic twist might enjoy visiting ‘That Was The Sporting Week’ on the Daily Mail website.
You can get to it via the sport page and it’s by me.

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February 14

A day of heightened emotions, tearful recriminations and childish hopes smashed against the rocks of cruel reality in an all-too harsh world.
But enough of the fact that I did not receive a card even though I am fully married and now out of my probation period.
For his part, Superkid had two personally selected valentines to deliver and was planning to do so anonymously by arriving early and distributing his wares before any classmates checked in.
He carried out the plan successfully enough but undid the good work somewhat by greeting the subjects of his desire at the classroom door with
the announcement: 'I've hidden a card in your draw, it's got a question mark in it but it's definitely from me.'
This did not seem to take the sheen off his day to any great degree, even though he came home with no cards of his own. I don't think it had occured
to him that he might receive, only give. So he was happy enough with proceedings.
If only adult life could deliver such simple satisfaction for him.
Undercoverdad rudely overheard A Certain Mother informing A Certain Other Mother: 'I don't naturally take to being pampered. I have to be forced into being pampered but then I tend to really enjoy it.'
It sounded like a tough job, but somebody would be charged with trying to deliver the goods that self same night.

February 11

Kids football eh?
It's not the kids at all, of course, it's the parents (not again, I hear you cry).
But when shocking stories filter through to the high-tec Undercoverdad international news hub of a friend offering to referee an Under 9s match when they were short, then being verbally attacked and physically intimidated by the father of a yob he had to book for a rash challenge - 'if you've got a problem with my Dwane, you've got a problem with me' was the gist of it - something is clearly awry.
Fortunately, these high-profile bust-ups appear to be the exception rather than the rule and thousands of games go on every weekend in a spirit of sportsmanship and good grace.
Superkid's Sunday morning match passed peacefully enough and standards of behaviour were high throughout - although it was rather embarrassing to hear him refusing to take his turn in goal, employing the reasoning 'I'm rubbish, you wouldn't want me in there.'
His claim was backed up by his team's helpful No 8, who added 'He's right, he is rubbish' so Superkid was spared the ignominy.
The truth is, of course, that virtually every six-year-old in the country is rubbish in goal and sees time spent between the posts as akin to a spell in borstal - some kind of punishment.
Anyway, Superkid's ruse paid off and he eluded the duty of donning gloves and manning the last line of defence.
A 2-2 draw from a half-time position of strength at two-up and a hard fought 1-0 defeat were the results of his morning's honest toil.
Although you're not telling me their centre forward wasn't at least 11. He had sideburns and a goatee beard.
And don't even ask about offside for the goal. Yards off.
Mind you, it can't have helped that our keeper was sitting cross-legged, lovingly fashioning a daisy chain in the back corner of his net when the winning shot came in.

February 8

Superkid has now officially reached the age of consent for employing that cherished bedtime delay tactic - laughing uproariously at a television programme you don't really understand.
We all remember giggling along to incomprehensible Monty Python sketches and chuckling knowingly at episodes of The Good Life which, in reality, were flying way over our heads.
'Oh, just let me stay down until the end of this mum, you know I love it' or 'I can't go up until I find out what happens' where staple stalling comments of the genre.
Hell, once I even managed to produce a prolonged bout of laughter during Hi Di Hi in my desperation to stay away from the duvet. Now that's commitment.
Combined with taking up a discreet viewing position in the lounge - hidden in a corner out of parental eyeline is a trusted ploy - the tactic can certainly work.
But it does hold pitfalls.
For example, I was instantly dismissed to my room for staging a gale of uncontrolled laughing during a harrowing edition of Panorama highlighting discomfort and woe among the innocent and elderly.
I'm sorry, the woman lost control of her electric chair on an unsuitable gradient. What can I say? Anyway, it happened more than a month ago.
Superkid is now tentatively trying it on during programmes such as 'I'm an ice-sculpting has-been please don't sack me' and the like.
It can be very entertaining watching him pull out all the stops simply to defer bed time by five minutes.
On the subject of television and school, here is your definitive guide to the Grange Hill years.
Top character of all time: Tucker Jenkins.
Top bird: Cathy Hargreaves.
Top bully: dead heat between Doyle (the original oik) and Gripper Stebson (effortlessly combining a brain the size of a marrowfat pea with sublime extortion and intimidation skills).
Top teacher: Bullet Baxter ('You're playing in that game Benny, or I'll crush your skull').
Top incident: Mr Bronson's wig floating off in the swimming pool.
Top quote: 'Shat yer marth Tucker, you're a nat jorb'.
Voting lines have already closed but you may still be charged for making alternative suggestions.

February 5

Just think about it. How many of your classmates at school were remotely bearable?
In a class of 30, you might have known 10 decent folk.
Granted, Undercoverdad was privileged to be part of the legendary Form 2B, so the numbers are thrown off kilter somewhat.
Anyway, the high incidence of quality humans present in the 2B population was dramatically offset by the 'higher band' Form 2A - entirely peopled by misfits, freaks, dorks and gumbies.
Yes, they had memorised every variant of every freakin' latin verb known to ancient civilisation, but could they do their own flies up?
No, they couldn't.
While you were out busily trying to consume your own body weight in cheap farm cider on the railway embankment, they were relaxing at home with a laminated logarithm chart and a set of lovingly sharpened HB pencils. All exactly the same length.
The point is, these people - the 2A population if you will - are, by and large, all still out there in the world.
They are quite legally producing kids, working and pestering their local government offices for rebates over renewal rubbishing.
The percentages are still roughly the same.
Same number of Form 2B kids, same number of Form 2A.
What is more, David Attenborough and Ben Fogle have proved irrefutably, beyond doubt and for sure that the Form 2A kids who you knew will now be cohabiting and procreating with the Form 2A kids who I knew.
They will have been drawn together by some cosmic mating force - either that or there was no-one left to dance with at the local disco - and are now producing a mutant strain of Form 2A ultra-dork.
So the issue is only going to get more pressing for Superkid and his generation.
It is already one of the most irksome problems troubling genetic scientists and migration experts today and is one of the reasons why Chinese people are under such pressure to produce the right sort of kid at the right time and in the right order.
Or something.
All I'm saying is please don't be unduly perturbed when you walk in and out of school every morning and virtually nobody says hello to you.
It's just a matter percentages.

February 1

Superkid's class are deep into a heavy and demanding rehearsal schedule which will result in a dance routine to be showcased at the leisure centre this month.
In front of your actual, factual public.
Their contribution will be part of a dance festival for which there may even be printed programmes and some level of discretionary entrance fee.
So far so good, is the feedback from Superkid - although he does express some areas of concern.
Apparently, one of the routines is set to the Scissor Sisters track 'I don't want to dance' - a title which a couple of the more truculent steppers are taking a little too literally.
Something to do with not wanting to embarrass themselves in front of their friends.
Come on guys, you're six. You've got years of not wanting to embarrass yourselves in front of your friends to look forward to.
Six is an age when anything goes, make the most of it.
Needless to say, there are no such concerns with Superkid, who is insisting on embelishing the finale courtesy of a 'Mark Ramprakash on Strictly Come Dancing' full knee slide with imploring, outstretched arms.
Undercoverdad has suggested that Teech might not be too impressed at this blatant display of attention seeking, especially if Superkid happens to overshoot on the slide and ends up in the front row of the crowd.
But Superkid appears adamant that the added flourish is going in, so the festival may well be worth a look for that reason alone.
Dance tuition was not always this rewarding and flexible, of course.
Not if you were bundled off to a convent school at the age of four. One of five boys in an academic population of hundreds (strains of wistful violin, possibly a movement by an angst-ridden Russian composer).
Of course there were some benefits. Sixth-form girls seemed ever-keen to have you sitting on their knee at morning break for a start.
But compulsory ballet was not one of those benefits.
Walking hand in hand across the yard to the dance hall was bad enough, even before Miss Jones began driving the ranks of clod-hoppers through her merciless drills and practice steps.
I tell you, that lady made the sergeant from Full Metal Jacket look like Charles Hawtrey. I even have an image of Miss Jones aggressively brandishing a large bamboo stick, but that may simply be the subject of an unhealthy recurring daydream. I can't be sure.
My best friend at the time was called Timothy. At the time, I was called Timothy.
So there we were. Two Timothys in the back row of a ballet class full of girls.
Cruel Miss Jones was not prepared to put up with this state of affairs, as you can doubtless imagine.
Having her prim and proper class of young ladies sullied by the inclusion of two clumsy, poorly co-ordinated youths was bad enough (Youths, what am I saying? Christ, we were still virtually toddlers!).
Anyway, she certainly wasn't going to put up with the Two Timothys skulking about in the safe anonymity of the back row.
Every week the Two Timothys would shuffle to their chosen place, hidden away from view near the rear wall.
And every week, Miss Jones would emit the same shrill command 'Front row, centre, boys - front row, centre'.
Amid much sniggering and nudging from the budding Pavlovas, the Two Timothys would have to make their way forward until they were positioned directly under Miss Jones' harsh glare.
Needless to say, the Two Timothys would then spend the rest of the session working their way to the back row again.
The effects of all this mental torture were particularly dispiriting and would certainly not have been accepted in the current educational climate of molly-coddling and encouragement.
Despite hours of selfless toil and what I fondly regarded as a pleasing turn of foot, ballet was covered by one, damning line in my end of term report.
'Timothy's elevation could be lighter'.