Tag Archives: education

Increasing Numbers Of Students Turning To Prostitution To Pay For Their Tuition

The Liverpool Echo has an article detailing how increasing numbers of students attending the city’s university are turning to prostitution. With the increase in university tuition fees some students are seeing escorting as a quick and easy way to make money, (http://www.liverpoolecho.co.uk/news/liverpool-news/liverpool-students-selling-sex-pay-6687922).

My book, Samantha tells the fictional story of how a young woman is forced into prostitution in the city of Liverpool. Can Sam’s love for Peter, a man she meets in a Liverpool night club, save her or will she end her days in the murky waters of Liverpool’s Albert Docks?

It should be stressed that the article in the Liverpool Echo deals with women who have entered the sex industry without coercion, although some commentators believe that economic circumstances (a lack of resources and opportunities) do constitute economic coercion (I.E. most people entering prostitution have no other alternative).

For Samantha please visit http://www.amazon.com/Samantha-K-Morris-ebook/dp/B00BL3CNHI

Top Portuguese Academic Writes Book Decrying The English

A leading Portuguese academic has written a book branding the English as dirty, drunken and promiscuous. According to The Telegraph he also labels his hosts (for he teaches in the UK) as “animals”. The book is, apparently only available in Portuguese, there being no plans to produce an English language edition, (I can’t for the life think why that might be)! In the event that the book is, in fact translated into my native tongue I would be fascinated to read what this gentleman has to say about my fellow countrymen and I. For the article please go to http://www.telegraph.co.uk/education/universityeducation/11095057/Top-Portuguese-academic-decries-filthy-English.html

Something Lurking

Lurking in the headmaster’s office, the unspeakable punishment which awaited we unruly boys and girls. A thing joked about, part of school mythology but, deep in our subconscious we half believed (feared) that it was real.

I can not recollect, at this distance in time, from whence this fantastical object which aroused such terror mingled with glee in the minds of we children came. Perhaps it was the headmaster himself who first mentioned the existence of the thing. Equally plausibly it may have been one of us children who invented the instrument of punishment in order to strike fear into the hearts of his fellow pupils.

“If you are very bad you will get the …”.

I smile, removed as I am in time from my school days, at the remembrance of the ultimate punishment. No one, to the best of my recollection ever experienced or admitted to having experienced the full force of the headmaster’s displeasure. I among others received the full force of his wrath expressed in tones which brooked no opposition. We stood outside his office not daring to speak for fear of arousing the fearsome power which lurked within.

What was it which inspired such dread? and dread it we did despite our protestations to one another that such a thing could not possibly exist. Was it the swish of the bamboo prior to it bringing out welts on our unhappy legs and arms?

Imagine the most homely of objects, a slipper. Grandfather sitting by the fire in carpet slippers drinking tea or maybe smoking a pipe. Warm red slippers, now there is nothing to alarm one in such a homely sceene. Ah, but wait a moment what if grandfather in a fit of anger at the misbehaviour of his grandchild where to remove one of those homely objects, bend the child over his knee and slipper him? Not such a benign object then.

In our case it was no ordinary slipper we boys and girls feared. It was a slipper of demonic proportions, one possessed of an inner life which would deliver a slippering never to be forgotten by it’s unfortunate recipient. We feared, my dear reader the electric slipper.

Now I have no idea whether the slipper plugged into the mains or whether it was operated by batteries, none the less the demon slipper was the talk of the dormatories, the malign presence, always lurking just out of sight but waiting to wreak a terrible vengeance on anyone who aroused the ire of the headmaster sufficiently.

Did I and my fellow students really believe in the existence of the electric slipper? It was, largely a school myth designed and perpetuated by we boys and girls to add a frisson of excitement to the relatively humdrum existence of school. However I well recall passing by the headmaster’s office as night fell and feeling a shiver at the thought that something terrible might, just possibly be lurking inside.

School Days

A row of basins, cold and clinical in their perfection of pure white. Carbolic, it’s scent floating down the years, pungent, smelling of boarding school.

The scent of freshly polished floors. Teachers scolding girls who trip along in high heels

“You will ruin the floor. Those shoes are unsuitable”.

Polish, carbolic, the smell of food wafting from the refectory.

An institution functioning like a well oiled machine? The bullying in dark corners. Teachers generally kind but lacking eyes in the back of their heads.

Baths in the communal bathroom, the scent of vim (now called jiff I think). Water running down plug holes, getting dry thence to bed.

Lights out. Children whispering.

“Who’s talking?” the voice of the house master booms. Silence,

“OK you can all stand outside in the corridor”.

We stand a sense of pride that no one told tales. Sometimes, shame to say one of we boys would crack and, pointing the finger at such and such would escape the corridor only to be ostracised by our peers for “being a grass”.

Sometimes happy, other times sad, oh distant school days.

School Days

Distance blurs memories. A small hut in the school playground. Me, alone listening to the rain. Half content in my solitude but fearing/hoping they will come.

Did I believe that I would be collected by the teachers or was it a clever ruze to get the other pupils to go away, leave me to the rain and solitude?

Never part of the collective whole, the herd of boys and girls. I sought the solitary hut but yet was half in love with the clamour of the playground. To belong, to be part of the happy mass. Drawn to the multitude and yet repelled by it. Wanting to belong but knowing the difference, the chasm which separated us.

Where you happy my peers, shouting and playing in the great playground? I played also, pushing the big metal truck. It stopped suddenly, the sharp edge cut my right shin, the scar is with me still. Yes I played but, try as I might was never truly one of you. Did I want to be? Yes, no, perhaps. I am confused, bemused memories play tricks distance befuddles my recollection of the past.

Islamification Of Birmingham Schools

The Telegraph reports on the ongoing investigations in to whether Islamic radicals attempted to islamify Birmingham schools. The Office For Standards In Education (OFSTED) is investigating claims that teachers who voiced opposition to the alleged plans where passed over for promotion in favour of more compliant colleagues. Other allegations include pupils being suspended for holding hands and girls being treated as second class citizens with some teachers favouring boys over them. If true this is deeply worrying.

For the article please visit http://www.telegraph.co.uk/education/educationnews/10790441/Guide-to-school-Islamisation-by-ringleader-of-Trojan-Horse-plot.html

The School Library

Escape into tranquillity. The scent of books reassures, beckons me in. A world of wonder fills the shelves. Some volumes stand atop high bookcases, tantalisingly out of reach of a small boy. Poe, Hardy, so many authors call to me.

I sit, the only sound that of a clock ticking and the occasional turning of a page. Engrossed, safe from the hurly burly of the playground. Footsteps pass the door. I hold my breath, friend or foe? Will I be chased out to god’s fresh air?

Sometimes the footsteps pass, peace lays her gentle hand on me once moreand I return to my books. On other occasions the door opens and a friendly teacher enquires what I am reading. An exchange ensues, oh the delights of not being talked down to, discussing books man to man with a kind adult.

The dreaded voice

“go outside and get some fresh air. Play with your peers”.

Sadly the book is replaced and, casting a backward glance I exit the peaceful harbour to swim in a sea of children.

Torchlight

Torchlight, the playground deserted save for the solitary wanderer. The boy, alone or lonely? Traverses the track, his shoes the only sound disturbing the silence which wraps around him. Sometimes the silence is like an old friend, a comforter shielding him from banal chatter and the stupidity of crowds. On other occasions it is a thick blanket, suffocating, killing, stifling breath.

Entwined in darkness he goes his lonely light dimly illumines the darkness. Night is his realm, an escape from the banality of day but, sometimes the darkness oppresses, and, hurrying towards the lit windows he seeks sanctuary of a sort.

People Don’t Read Round Here

Over the festive season I fell into conversation with a lady. The conversation ranged far and wide and at one juncture touched on the subject of books. My partner at the dinner table remarked that she had only read 2 books, (I don’t recollect the title of both works but one of the books was “Flowers in the Attic”). My companion went on to ask me for recommendations regarding what she should read. I responded that literary tastes are highly personal matters (I return to Wuthering Heights again and again because it is, in my view a wonderful work of fiction while others find nothing of merit in it). I went on to describe how I’d enjoyed reading Kevin Cooper’s thriller Meido and recommended his book to my companion. At one point during the conversation another of those present said that “it isn’t like that round here” by which she meant that people don’t read books in this area.

The above conversation took place in a fairly typical suburb of Liverpool. I don’t like using the term but for want of anything better the area is “working class” comprised of (mainly) owner occupied houses inhabited by people engaged in occupations ranging from barmaids and cleaners to those employed in clerical work.

The implication that people living in a given area do not read books is, of course a sweeping generalisation. My grandfather who had never gone on to higher education and lived in a council house throughout his life spent many hours reading to me. I well recall the glass bookcase which stood in the spare bedroom chock full of books ranging from Enid Blyton’s Famous Five to works of poetry. It is, I believe largely due to my grandfather who was “working class” (oh how I hate to use that term as people are, at bottom individuals not social groups), that I gained my love of literature and went onto university to read history and politics.

Sadly there is among certain people a lack of aspiration which is exemplified by the view that people round here don’t read. This can, if we fail to take care become a self fulfilling prophecy (I.E. many homes contain few, if any books but are replete with wide screen televisions to which parents consign their children rather than spending precious time reading to them). A house full of books won’t guarantee happiness but it will assist in producing rounded individuals with a love of literature and a broad perspective on the world.

There are, fortunately organisations working to promote education among all people. Perhaps the most notable of these is The Workers’ Education Association which has, since 1903 been striving to uplift the aspirations, through education of all segments of society with particular emphasis on those of (that term again) “the working class”). All power to their elbo. For information on the WEA please visit http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Workers%27_Educational_Association.