Top 10 Places to Avoid This Summer Holidays

Teachers across the Northern Hemisphere are closing their stationery cupboards, and kicking their feet up on their cheap laminate classroom furniture to sit back sipping martinis. A peaceful silence rings through the empty corridors. The incessant nattering of playground banter is now a distant echo haunting the rooms and bed chambers of family homes. A final sip of the martini glass, and empty vodka bottles in the bottom drawer of the desk, signal it’s time for heading into the real world to make the most of this month long summer break.

One foot places itself down on the concrete pavement outside the school grounds, and it hits; it’s like school never ends. There are kids everywhere!

  1. Footpaths

Like a mob of un-herded cattle escaped from the top paddock, children struggle to have any special awareness when it comes to making space for other pedestrians on the sidewalk. No matter the width of the path, those kids will find a way of filling it. They travel in mobs to boost their self-esteem. If one of them drops behind the main group, or has to step off the pavement to make way for another passer-by, it could be months before they are restored to their original social rank within the gang. Unless you want to be responsible for a young person becoming a societal outcast, keep your feet on the kerb.

  1. Museums

Sure you like dinosaur bones. You’ve liked them since you were a kid – but that’s the very point. Kids love dinosaurs and they are now swarming the corridors of the museums. Yes, they’ve spent the last 11 months bundled up in classrooms learning how to read and write. But now they want to do some real learning to find out why diplodocuses didn’t eat meat; how many Romans stabbed Caesar in the back; and how many croutons in a Caesar salad.

  1. Buses

No one likes public transport at the best of times. But at least if you have the opportunity to catch a bus in the middle of the day, you will normally get a seat. Not during the holidays. The bus is usually the cheaper mode of transport for the penny-pinching youths. In some cases they even get a free ride. Meanwhile, you’re sitting there listening to, their over-amplified earbud headphones pumping out the latest facile drone from The Vamps; unmodulated melodrama from a bunch of teenagers; or the inane chanting of ‘Hail to the Bus Drive Man’ from the local day care group who are off to the Science Museum (which you were supposed to be avoiding, à la point 9)

If you’re really lucky you’ll witness some good old fashioned hoodlumism. I once witnessed a group of young girls verbally laying into a tramp who was sitting quietly at the back of the bus. It escalated into him shouting at them, “I fought for this country” and having to storm off the bus. It’s easy to have a go at a homeless war veteran when your parents are paying for your bus fare.

  1. Airfares

Business is business. Airlines over-inflate their prices during the peak travel period during summer holidays; so it’s best to sail or drive to your end destination. Also, next time you’re banging on about teachers having too many holidays, just remember they’re slowly bankrupting themselves buying hyper-inflated air travel. Spare a thought for this all too common first world problem as you sit in your four-weeks-annual-leave-per-year vinyl office chair. Life is cruel.

  1. Shopping Malls

In the immortal words of the Lano and Woodley song ‘Shoppin’ Town’ it says, “We hang around here every Thursday night, every Friday night and Saturday morning too. We stand around and think of smart-arsed things to do”. Guess what? It’s summer holidays (plus it is sale time at Westfield), so this is going to happen 24/7. There’s no ‘cooler’ place to be than the vast consumerist wasteland that is the hallowed halls of the global corporate overlords. You know that feeling of intimidation as you walk past ashen faced gangs of teens standing around and saying nothing as they leer at you with their vacant eyes – a penny for their thoughts would be a waste of your spare change, even if you’d just been to the 99p store and had copper-plated disc spilling from your purse.

  1. Children’s Hospitals

Visiting a sick child in hospital is a generous use of your time. But when the Sun’s shining and the rest of the family are anxiously waiting for the child to get the all clear, so they can set off on their holiday to Ghana, the concern for these little people is amplified. Normally they’re missing out on school, so there’s silver-lining. But when they’re missing out on making memories, it hits home. So maybe in this case do go to a children’s hospital. At least you may cheer a kid up, instead of them just getting in your way.

  1. Summer Camps

I spent the last two summers teaching English at a summer camp. Numerous people lead summer camps across America. It’s a great way to meet people from around the world and exchange culture. You get paid to do adventure sports, go swimming and generally have a swell time. But all the while there are the children. You never switch off. If you are the chosen one, they’ll come knocking on your door at 3am with soiled pyjama pants. Is this how you want to spend your summer? Giving these whipper-snappers the time of their life? Who’s going to pour cordial for you? The sun will be back behind the clouds by the time that happens.

  1. Beach

The Beach Boys warned us, “won’t be long until summer time is through”. Yet do you want to spend that summer at the seaside where you could get caught in the crossfire of a sand boondie fight; buried under a mermaid-shaped sandcastle while you sleep; or mauled by a baby covered in melted soft-serve? Choose wisely. But make sure you get in when there’s a window of opportunity otherwise it will be, as The Beach Boys also warned, “Summer’s gone, summer’s gone away, gone away”.

  1. Theme Parks

Theme parks are super-fun. But two hours in a queue to ride Space Mountain (and that’s using the fastpass) seems like an excessive use of time that could be spent reading Calvin and Hobbes comics on the beach. Plus you’ll be stuck in a queue making small talk with the same person you’ve been travelling with for the past five days, while being surrounded by ten-year-olds who forgot to relieve themselves before joining the line. If you’d visited the park during a school day you’d have had the place to yourself and probably be sitting in Sleeping Beauty’s castle by now, sipping bottles of Gurgleurp with Donald Duck.

  1. McDonalds

Further to Lano and Woodley’s previous lyrics, their song ‘Shoppin’ Town’ also insists, “We went to Maccas, and all went spaccas, chucked our pickles on the wall, and Peter MacNeil laughed so much he spewed”.

Alternatively you’ll be subjected to the gluttonous behaviour of Japanese teenagers having “potato parties”.

Perhaps even worse, the far corner of the restaurant will be occupied by thirty or more five-year-olds being catered to by a “fully trained party entertainer” as an over-indulged boy named Anthony enjoys his McDonalds’ birthday party.

As the ominous smell of rehydrated fried eggs enters your nasal passage, you’ll be reminded of all the great summers you spent as a kid eating fast food, hanging around in shopping centres, riding rollercoasters, body boarding down the beach, rollerblading in parks, getting stuck in trees, excitedly watching the city skyline from the bus window, caring for your friends, and building cubby houses from furniture. You didn’t notice the crowds back then. Maybe it’s time to get back to having, “fun, fun, fun, in the Sun, Sun, Sun”.

Film Review – Night at The Museum: Secret of the Tomb

Let’s talk about the parenting skills of Larry (Ben Stiller) in the film Night at the Museum: Secret of the Tomb.

His son Nick (Skyler Gisondo) is completing his final exams and about to apply to universities. So when Larry returns home at 3am from a work event, he finds his son holding a house party with over 30 of his mates. It’s a family film, so the debauchery extends to a few polite greetings when Larry enters and the consumption of non-alcoholic punch. But it is still 3am in the morning. You would think Larry should have at least sent his son to stay with his mother for the night, or kept tabs on his son earlier than 3am.

It doesn’t get much better once Larry shuts down the party. Instead of accepting a stern talking to from his father, Nick approaches the situation of cleaning up the apartment by asking his father to fund his gap year and saying, “Let’s call it a night. Let’s not even clean up, right. Let’s come back tomorrow. Let’s reboot the whole energy; the whole tone of this puppy. And we’ll kill it man.”

Far be it for me to tell Larry how to raise his child, but you would think this might be a good time to cut Nick’s allowance off and ground him for a couple of months until his exams are complete. Instead Larry suggests that Nick clean up the mess and they’ll finish the conversation tomorrow.

He doesn’t finish the conversation tomorrow. He takes his son with him on a work trip to London to assist in returning the tablet of Ahkmenrah to its rightful place at the British Museum. Obviously Larry and company didn’t do much research about how the British Museum historically garnered its worldly collection of artefacts, otherwise he’d have questioned why the rightful place for an Ancient Egyptian magical rock was in a class cabinet in the middle of London.

Then, as if the makers of this film haven’t demonstrated enough average parenting skills, the film begins to depict a substantial amount of untruths about the British Museum. These incorrect facts are not just a couple of under-researched history notes, but substantial redesigns to the layout of the museum and the addition of a number of items that do not appear in the museum. The most notable being the inclusion of dinosaur bones, which are housed at the Natural History Museum, not the British Museum.

The British Museum has dedicated an entire page of its website to clearing up some of the confusion. The most damning point made relates to Sir Lancelot being an entirely fictional character. Yet in this film, Lancelot is portrayed as an armoured Downton Abbey dropout – a most racial generalisation. It’s no wonder he aims to sabotage the entire operation.

The redemption, for what is actually quite a comedic jaunt, is the concluding scenes with Larry and Nick, where the son explains that he’s going to Ibiza to pursue his career as a DJ. They both state their love for each other, hug and walk off into the snow. It’s heart-warming to know that when you’re losing direction in life, you can always convince your parents you’ll find meaning by DJ-ing a seedy nightclub until 6am on a Spanish island.

Kid #8 – Walk of Shame

The eighth kid I hated was a boy who hated the world. He had good reason. His parents were divorced; he had been left with his father and step-mother, who was nicer to him than his biological mother; he was quite unbearable to look at and had a ratty acne-ridden sort of appearance; and his grubby white shirt, with the usual blue school crest on it, would often be bright pink because some nitwit at home had run it through the washing machine with bleach – It was a real Cinderella story.

It was easy to be sympathetic to his situation, because he was clearly so useless. His father and step-mother would come in asking for advice on what to do with him because he was so lacking in intellect and causing them grief at home also. So it’s probably fair to say I didn’t hate him.

But the one thing he often did that got under my skin was making personal snide remarks (often in cahoots with kid #2) about myself or other staff members.

Now of course this is not beyond the realm of what children do. We have all been inclined in our youth to hone in on the physical, personal and professional lives of our teachers.

There was a teacher at my primary school whose longer surname had been abbreviated to “Mr Hazy” (despite him being a teacher with perfect clarity of thought). It was such a concreted part of our vernacular that students would go home referring to him by this less than complimentary name, thus causing our parents to adopt the same name for him. On a Year Five overnight farm stay, my father, who was joining us on the trip, entered the classroom first thing that morning and announced, “Is Mr Hazy here yet? Has anyone seen Mr Hazy?”.

Luckily most 10 year olds are reasonably self-absorbed so I don’t know that anyone noticed.

Another teacher in high school was doing relief teaching for our Japanese teacher who was on prolonged absence. He suffered from being a newly graduated teacher who could easily have passed himself off for a Year 10 student. (When I first graduated at the age of 23, the same fate awaited me, with an older staff member suggesting I grow a beard to help the ageing process). Unlike our usual Japanese teacher, it was unclear whether he had even been to Japan, and the lessons were usually somewhat of a shambles. But despite his limited foreign language skills and youthful appearance, it was his perambulation that drew the eye of our pubescent jeering.

The man would walk with such urgency that the top part of his body always seemed to proceed his feet and legs, making it look as though he could topple over at any moment. If he’d been anywhere near the BBC studio lot during the early 1970’s they’d have fast-tracked him to the Ministry of Silly Walks. Such was the man’s gait that even when he was stationery he’d appear somewhat prostrated.

And of course there were plenty of others…

The teacher we thought looked like an ape; the one someone hit with a basketball, making her nose bleed; the one who walked into a lamppost; the one who looked like a bikie; and the one who we spied smoking cigarettes on school camp, which we thought was as criminal as if he’d shot an opiate into his veins in front of a school assembly.

So it is only fair that those of us with lofty dreams, of altruistically educating the masses, have our own physicality and nuances subjected to the scrutinising ire of the teenage market.

My moment of scrutiny finally came under the watchful eye of the eighth hated child and his stooges as I walked across the semi-deserted playground, as once my own Japanese teacher had. When I began to cross the quadrangle towards the science block, a strange thing happened to my usually standard walking pattern. I felt my legs locking around the knees, my spine tightened and my anal sphincter began to spasm.

Then the abuse came, “He walks like he’s constipated.”

That is all I remember. But it is imprinted on my brain because of how vile his voice was when he said it. Also the smugness with which he imparted it to his friends. But most of all the accuracy.

I wasn’t constipated, nor was I suffering from diarrhoea. But due to the eternal pressure of being a graduate teacher and the relentless buffoonery of the human beings I had been directed to teach, I was definitely developing a psychosomatic case of irritable bowel syndrome.

Luckily I arrived at the science building and hid around the corner before letting one rip.

So although this child’s nastiness of this child was probably projections of his own insecurity; If we met again in a seedy night club (where for arguments sake I might be a toilet attendant), I doubt I’d pass him a hand towel.

Kid #7 – Psychopathic Tendencies

The seventh kid I hated stormed off at the end of the day and told me to “go fuck myself”. When we called her mother to raise our concern about the language, the mother responded by saying “You’re shitting me!”

I didn’t always hate this child. She was one of the ones on the brink of puberty who entered her first year of secondary as a somewhat academically challenged girl, sitting quietly and allowing the desert winds to swirl pleasantly through the vacant cavity beneath her cranium. She had a couple of friends, but went mostly unnoticed by the other students.

Under the surface her hormones were bubbling away ready to kick into overdrive. When it finally happened she became the most nasty, most disliked, most distrusted member of her cohort. She wasn’t a bully. She was just extremely frustrated.

It didn’t help that Kid #6 would continually remind her of her obesity problem. Nor did it help that other students would regularly take her special chocolate scented stationery. Nor did it help that the other little maggots in the room would use that stationery to write notes about her obesity problem and how this had led to the purchase (and near consumption) of the chocolate scented stationery with which they were writing.

She would get her own back by pushing and shoving the other students; calling them names; and avoiding school all together with heaven knows how many sick days.

It was one of these “sick day” that led to a single event which would change my whole perspective on the psychopathic tendencies of children.

The sick day fell on the same day there was a class essay. So when the young lass and a couple of her compatriots returned to the classroom the following day, they were asked to complete the essay. In an attempt to give them a fair go at completing it I placed the three of them in the adjoining classroom so it would be quieter and less distracting for them. There was a door joining the two classrooms and I hovered between the two classrooms making sure that both sets of students were on task; and for the most part trusting that the three who were completing the essay would get on with things.

The class finished, the students handed me their essays and everyone went home for the day as it was the last period.

The following morning the teacher who usually taught in the adjoining room was raging in the English office that all of her lollies had been taken from the top drawer of her desk. Further to that she had a few blades in her bottom drawer that had fallen out of pencil sharpeners. And these had been used to slash the interactive whiteboard. At first I didn’t realise what had happened. But then it dawned on me that it was this child (the one I hated) and I hadn’t realised because obviously the drawers were shut each time I returned to the room. But more importantly the board was always behind me as I entered the classroom, and when I exited the room I was too preoccupied making sure the students in the next room were on task to notice. Additionally the interactive whiteboard had never been used because no one in the school knew how to use it anyway. In hindsight I think there was probably more concern over the lollies and the girl’s ever-expanding waistline.

What surprised me the most was one of the deputy’s reaction that it was somehow my fault. That I shouldn’t have trusted the child to work independently on their work. I assumed that at the worst she might have eaten some crayons. But mostly I assumed that she’d be too busy writing the essay to have performed such an attention seeking stunt. More the fool me. I now don’t trust most students as far as I can throw them. And in her case I’d be lucky to lift her off the ground in the first place.

So although it was probably a cry for help that went somewhat un-addressed by the school counselling services, if we met again I doubt I’d offer her a piece of cake.

Kid #6 – The best use for contraband paper planes

The sixth kid I hated had migrated from Wales to the Australian desert. He had a penchant for being annoying; making paper aeroplanes; and being a smart aleck who had no friends.

When you first travel to a remote desert town in Australia, there is a realisation that however much expense and time you spent to get there, the same amount is also required to leave the place. The heat, the flies and the loneliness smack you across the face often leading the toughest of men and women to enter the foetal position and start bawling. At first you want to leave, but you know you must stay if only because you would have wasted all that effort getting there in the first place. Those who stay for a lifetime are remarkable people. The rest of us come and go for a few years at a time then return to the big cities.

Coming from one of the Australian capital cities to a desert town is hard enough. So arriving in the desert from another country on the opposite side of the world must be near fatal.

The same must be true for children. Except in addition to everything else, none of this was their decision. The young child residing in my Year Eight English class told me he’d been torn away from his friends back home, without consultation and that this was making him very upset. This may have been true, but was no excuse for his inane attention seeking, swearing and general rough housing with the other boys and girls. He was also putting the sop story on pretty thick for someone who acted like the Big Cheese.

He looked like trouble when you saw him. His eyes smiled with malicious thoughts; you could see his nostrils flaring slightly ready to snarl; and the side of his top lip twitched upward to display his nonchalance towards institutionalised education. He was a weedy kid with a weedy attitude to match. His acts of rebellion were an endless source of amusement for the other children in class, however no one wanted to be his friend, because he was unpredictable and would usually drag everyone down around him if he got caught out over a misdemeanour.

There was no one incident with this child that stands out as the cause of my hatred for him. He was mostly just an ongoing annoyance to myself and most of the other staff. So one particular day I finally snapped. He and his enemies were flying paper planes around the room. It was amateur hour in terms of the handicraft and the scene looked like something out a 1980’s high school sitcom. I added the final paper aeroplane to the pile on my desk and without explanation told the class to line up at the door. We then proceeded to the courtyard, where due to the frosted window panes, no other staff member or student would be able to see what was about to unfold.

I lined the students along one wall, with my Year 8 fooligan on the other. I then distributed one paper aeroplane to each child (29 planes in total. I am very patient when I want to be. And had waited to collect the exact amount). The origami firing squad were poised to attack when one student pointed out, “What happens if one goes in his eye?”. It was a valid point so I took an empty box, from by the photocopier, and placed it on the boy’s head.

“Fire”.

There’s nothing more satisfying than the war-cry of children gaining sweet revenge in a punishment that fits the crime. The paper aircrafts glided through the air hitting every part of the victim’s body and creating no damage at all. They didn’t even damage his ego – although I had suspected this would be the case all along. He was a resilient child in that regard. I wouldn’t have unleashed an attack if I didn’t think he could take the hit.

The class reconvened and all A4 papers remained in their original flat form from thence forth.

However word of the events on the battlefield leaked out to the Year 9 and 10 English classes, who were soon requesting their own airborne conflict. I denied any knowledge of the previous raid, but learnt a very valuable lesson that day. When a child’s behaviour escalates, you are welcome to escalate the situation further yourself by turning the class against him, but inevitably the scoundrel wins because they have access to a larger artillery.

I ultimately came to a disciplinary deadlock with this child where both of us could see the funnier side of things, but if we ever met again I doubt I would fold paper cranes with him.

How to silence the noisy kids

“There’s no low level disruption. There’s just disruption.”

These were the wise words from a learned teacher who had been around the traps by the time I worked with her. It’s a point well taken for most teachers; or for that matter anyone who enjoys calmness and tranquillity.

Many a teacher has probably been on the verge of self-diagnosed tinnitus only to find it was the clicking of a pen. The banging of a chair leg causes a sweat to break on an educator’s forehead. The rattle of a pencil pot causes one to lose focus completely.

Some days a student will chat, and chat and chat. Constantly. They’ve been asked to stop numerous times and don’t. They’ve been handed punishments, discipline and dirty looks. Some teachers have even been driven to use sticky tape to bind their students mouths shut (although using a stapler would probably produce a more satisfactory result).

Still the student persists. It’s like a jackhammer of nonsensical whistling, muttering, asides, interruptions and nosiness that beats on the concrete shell of the adult’s delicate brain and slowly unravels years of teaching practice, careful lesson planning and sensible thought process, into a resolute hum of white noise, which leads to the supposed leader of the class questioning their very existence within this universe.

At this point it’s best to shut your eyes.

Don’t respond.

Don’t say a thing.

Take a deep breath in.

Give a deep breath out.

Take a deep breath in.

Give a deep breath out.

Open your eyes.

You are calm.

Ask everyone else to stop and join you in being calm.

Sit in silence for at least one and a half minutes.

Unless a student sets fire to a desk, do not talk.

Sit completely still and they will follow.

If after two minutes this hasn’t worked, then you’re screwed.