The Three Rs c.1800-2007

The Three Rs – that self-defeating triumvirate of reading, ‘riting and ‘rithmetic – have been read the last rites, ‘rit their last will and testament and faced their final reckoning following the news that standards in basic maths and English for seven-year-olds have shown no improvement while even fewer pupils reached the expected level in writing skills.

It is widely believed that the The Three Rs were fathered by Mayor of London Sir William Curtis whilst giving a speech on education⁽¹⁾ in the early 1800s. Despite making his fortune in the ships’ biscuit business he remained illiterate – believing that ‘reading’, ‘writing’ and ‘arithmetic’ all began with the letter ‘r’, and that ‘biscuit’ was spelt with a ‘z’ – although to be fair, he could calculate the annual diminution of his stock value due to weevils to six decimal places without the aid of an abacus.

Yet this slip of a poorly-educated, biscuit-and-weevil-coated tongue caught the public imagination and soon Victorians across the country were taking up Sir William’s battle cry and instilling the basic principles of education into workhouse orphans with the aid of the Three Arrgghs!: the ruler, the cane and the strap. Thankfully, the Victorians' successors - at least those of them who did not gain a disturbing amount of pleasure from beating the backsides of young boys - preferred a gentler path and soon generations of schoolchildren were being raised to believe in the importance of multiplication tables and understanding why the cat sat on the mat⁽²⁾.

By the 1960s, however, where once children were encouraged to calculate that two plus two equals four, now children were encouraged to talk about how they felt about the number two and what kind of flower it would be. Similarly, however and nonetheless furthermore grammar went out the f**king window as children were encouraged to express themselves without the need of orthodox syntax or punctuation.

By the new millennium (which only one in seven people could actually spell correctly) things had reached a parlous state. Some children could barely read the terms and conditions of their own Asbos, one in four boys didn’t don’t ain’t got the basic writing skills and many children lacked a grasp of straightforward fractions – several believing that the difference between an eighth and a quarter is about twenty quid.

Though many expressed satisfaction at this week's revelation by the Department of Children, Schools and Families that 80% of seven-year-olds had reached Level 2 in writing, few were aware that Level 2 involves holding a pencil without stabbing the child next to you. And so the full impact of the damage done by a lack of investment in state education by successive governments woolly-sandalled acid-drenched lefties in the 1960s came home to roost. With the realisation that most primary school children now prefer the three Ts – telly, texting and TWOCing – The Three Rs were excluded from school for the last time.

The Three Rs will be buried at St Gates Church of the Predictive Spellchecker, the service will be conducted by the Poet Laureate, Pam Ayres, and the congregation will sing Elvis Costello’s “Every Day I Write the Txt”.

The Three Rs are survived by the Three Degrees, the Three Amigos and the Three-Month Suspension from School.

⁽¹⁾ a feat unmatched even by Cecil Parkinson.
⁽²⁾ which was, of course, because the cat had failed to pass its eleven-plus and could therefore find no gainful employment.

The A-Level Examination 1951-2007

The Advanced or A-Level Examination, that measure of whether sixth-formers should be packing their trunks with medieval French text books and punting poles in preparation for a trip to Oxbridge⁽¹⁾ or buying new trunks for a BA in Media and Beach Studies at Bournemouth University (including modules on Summertime Special and the Semiology of Butlins), has passed away following a crash in its academic value which, tragically, rendered it of even less worth than a US sub-prime housing loan or the singing career of David Hasselhoff.

The Exam was born in 1951, the child of the Higher School Certificate⁽²⁾, and offered the chance for children from Prime Minister’s sons to coalminer’s daughters to spend two years studying a range of fascinating subjects including Mathematics, English, French, Biology, History, Physics and Politics before proceeding to university at tax-payers’ expense to spend three years studying duffel coats, alcohol, jazz, the opposite sex (or indeed, the same sex depending on preference) and the life-cycle of whatever that thing is that's growing on the plates piled up in the sink.

The Exam was held in high esteem as swotty teenagers from all backgrounds studied long into the night in order to gain an understanding of the world around them and win a place at a university far, far away in order to acquire knowledge, develop their personality in new surroundings and escape parents who kept saying things like, "If t’pit was good enough for your mother, it’s good enough for you, John-Thomas", or, "Tarquin, why oh why must you persist with this ridiculous fancy of going to university when you know your uncle Charles will give you a job in the City?"

Despite claims in the late 1960s and 70s that The Exam had become devalued, following evidence that several members of the Royal Family had actually managed to pass it, The Exam proved to be not only challenging yet popular with many teenagers but was also an enormous boost to Britain’s lucky gonk industry every summer.

By the 1980s, however, rumours were circulating that all was not well: despite The Exam's claim to be the "gold standard" in education, capable of identifying the very best of young students, the number of students gaining A-grade passes began to rise steadily year-on-year thanks to new modular courses including Watching Television, Getting Your Teacher To Fill It In For You and A-Level History (The History of the A-Level). Matters became even worse in the late 1990s and Noughties with increasing access to the internet leading to the most common answer to an A-level exam question being "HTTP Error 404 - File Directory Not Found".

By 2007, with exam results showing that the percentage of A-level pass grades had risen for the 25th year in a row, the credibility of The Exam's claim to be "Advanced" was fatally wounded ... particularly as most of the A-level pass grades were obtained in the subject "Turning Up For Two Hours And, Like, Chatting About Big Brother". With statisticians projecting that at the current level of grade inflation everyone (including your cat) will have to have an A-level in future and an A***** with bar will be required just to be qualified to drink soup, A-level certificates were no longer worth the text message they were sent on and The Exam found itself facing deletion.

The Exam will be buried at the Nokia University of East Cheam Multi-Denominational Chapel and Chill-Out Zone. The service will be conducted by Professor Emeritus Dermot O’Leary and the congregation will sing hymn 412 Know Nothing by Travis from the Multiple Choice Book of Past Papers.

A-levels are survived by the Baccalaureate, the Pre-U⁽³⁾ and the new National Lottery Year 13 scratchcard.

⁽¹⁾ an ancient university town halfway between Oxford and Cambridge renowned for its alumni’s influence on British politics, light entertainment and Anglo-Russian relations for the last 800 years.
⁽²⁾ which our usual extensive research suggests could only be obtained at educational establishments at least 800 metres above sea-level.
⁽³⁾ a new university entrance system cooked up between Oxford, Cambridge and “Independent” Schools absolutely in no way designed to keep the non-U out of Oxford and Cambridge.

The Grammar School 1944-2007

Hundreds of middle class parents are today tearing up their 11-plus practice papers and bitterly lamenting the thousands they forked out for extra tuition in a desperate attempt to get their Nintendo DS-addicted Julian and Poppy through the 11-plus examination, following the announcement by Conservative Education spokesman David Willetts that the Grammar School has failed its final test and been condemned to the great Secondary Modern in the sky.

Though it could trace its origins back to Anglo-Saxon colleges of Latin grammar - where young Aelwulf, Leofric and Bede could learn exactly how to say that the slave of Caecilius was serving dormice at the orgy of the Emperor - the modern Grammar School was only born in 1944, following the passing of the Butler Education Act, which offered the children of domestic servants the chance not to follow in their fathers' footsteps.

In its early years the Grammar School was a popular child, with many friends on both the left and right of the political spectrum. Alongside its brothers, the Technical College and the Secondary Modern School, it promised to sweep away class divisions, granting a proper education to all and offering a real chance of advancement to any child. All this was to be achieved by the "11-plus" examination, under which each and every child at the age of 11 (that is, each and every child whose parents could not afford to opt out of the system and buy Nigel a nice place at Eton despite his inability to add two and two together without making "zebra") was categorised according to their ability to say 'what is to "hand" as "hat" is to "head"' and what time the 11.32 from St Pancras will be derailed by the 12.27 from Nottingham if both are travelling at 120mph. Soon children up and down Britain found themselves being divided up and allotted to their appropriate schools, with those who passed their 11-plus going on to Grammar Schools and those who didn't instead being offered a more vocational education at Secondary Moderns and Technical Colleges, which process left them completely untraumatised and in no way conscious of failure.

Despite this, the Grammar School had barely entered its teens when questions began to be raised about its fitness, as more and more people began to notice that larger and larger proportions of the pupils at Grammar School (by now usually referred to by their parents as "the clever ones") were middle-class while more and more of those at the other schools (by now usually referred to by the parents of the children at Grammar School as "the thickies") were working-class. Despite this, the Grammar School's fond parents in Westminster continued to dote upon it (and upon the votes of all those middle-class parents), even to the extent of lavishing money on it at its siblings expense. While the young Alan Bennetts of the Grammar School were enjoying after-school clubs where they discussed classical music recordings and enjoyed the attentions of fat, fond teachers with a liking for conducting lessons in French and quoting lines from "Now, Voyager", teenage children at London Secondary Moderns were sitting on chairs made for nine-year-olds and learning how to hit pieces of wood with a hammer.

Matters went from bad to worse as the 11-plus system itself came under fire, when it was found that the main test for whether a child on the borderline of passing should be sent to the Grammar or the Secondary Mod was to take him or her to the nearest WC and see if they referred to it as a lavatory or a toilet. With the frightening realisation that if the results of an IQ test really did reveal who would be the future rulers of the country then we could soon expect our sceptered isle to fall into the hands of the selection-of-biros-in-the-right-shirt-pocket geeks and weirdos from Mensa, the writing was on the wall for the Grammar School - in the form of a derogatory statement hastily scribbled by a pupil from a new rival, the Comprehensive School, which outrageously offered every child the same education irrespective of their background.

Nonetheless, the Grammar was to struggle on. While it soon found itself unwelcome in many parts across Britain, it still had many powerful friends. For decades it was able to rely on the support of thousands of parents eager to see Toby and Pippa do better than those children on the council estate they met at primary school while at the same time being reluctant to splash out thousands on public school fees. Even stauncher was the support the Grammar received from the Conservative Party. Yet all seemed doomed when, in 1997, the Labour Party swept to power and with it arrived an Education Secretary, David Blunkett, pledged to end all selection and break down class barriers - a goal he bizarrely attempted to achieve by mingling with the upper classes at parties held by The Spectator.

Even at this darkest hour, The Grammar School somehow found strength to struggle on, quietly whispering to senior members of the Labour Party how badly its death would play in the Daily Mail and how well the children of those very same party members might do if they got to go to a nice selective school rather than the local "bog-standard" Comprehensive.

Yet how often the best laid plans gang agley. The Grammar School had sown the seeds of its own destruction. Even as the Government reneged on its promises to end selection, so it created a new rival for The Grammar: the Academy. Young and fresh, the Academy was unhindered by the Grammar's historical baggage. It was backed by rich and powerful businessmen, eager to indoctrinate the young give something back to the community. It was able to select its pupils in more under-the-counter ways, seeking "aptitude" where the Grammar had clung to "IQ" and even interviewed pupils to check their suitability where the Grammar had been increasingly forced to stick to the arid results of an exam. It was little surprise when the Academy won even the heart of the Conservative Party and, increasingly unloved, ever-more-confused and unable even to find the hidden four-letter-word in the sentence "Roger paid over the asking price for his peerage", The Grammar School sang the school song (in Latin) no more.

The Grammar School will be buried at St Cameron's Church of the Apostasy. The Reverend David Willetts will preside. The hymn will be the number that completes the sequence 12,12,13,15,18.

The Grammar School is survived by the Academy, the Faith School, the Public School, the Trust School and, just barely, by the Comprehensive School.

Open University Broadcasting 1971-2006

Open University Broadcasting made its last broadcast in the early hours of Saturday morning surrounded by friends and family including nightshift workers, insomniacs and party-goers on a come-down too addled to change the channel.

Conceived at the height of the Summer of Love by Harold Wilson as a “university of the air”, Open University Broadcasting was born on January 3rd 1971. It was a precocious and preternaturally gifted child – within seconds of its birth it uttered its first words: “Welcome to Maths M001: Problems in Practical Calculus.” Almost literally overnight, OU Broadcasting became a firm favourite of a new breed of students and lank-haired, kipper-tied, polyester-shirted hippies who were “totally blown away by the theme tune, man”.

Throughout the 70s, Open University Broadcasting gave thousands of sartorially-challenged misfits the opportunity to partake in higher education without suffering the embarrassment of actually leaving their homes. In a time when only three channels were available on UK televisions, and before the great cultural leap forward of 24-hour broadcasting, Open University Broadcasting provided square-eyed viewers with the chance to stay up past the national anthem and enjoy thrilling night-time programmes such as History H233: Italian Renaissance Cheesecloth Manufacturing, Biology B176: Asexual Reproduction in Milton Keynes and Polyesterology P034: The Semiology of the Tie in Post-Capitalist Society.

In the mid 70s OU Broadcasting became embroiled in controversy following its decision to broadcast in colour, partly due to the expense of the move but mainly due to the fact so many viewers were stricken blind by the combination of paisley shirts and kipper ties so hideous that no man could view them without risking insanity.

By the 1990s the advent of the internet and DVDs led socially-inept night owls to rely less on OU Broadcasting. Desperate attempts to sustain its academic career with scraps of work for Coast and Lenny’s Britain plunged OU Broadcasting into a deep depression. And it was this, in conjunction with 35 years of late-nights and early mornings, which caused producers to take the decision to pull the plug at 5.30 am on Saturday morning.

OU Broadcasting was buried in the early morning schedules of BBC2. It was predeceased by Intelligent Science Programming on British Television and is survived by ITV Play, The Hits, BBC News 24 and the Big Brother Live Feed.

Faith School Quotas 2006-2006

Many will be saddened to hear of the death of Faith School Quotas, killed whilst travelling in a government vehicle last night.

Born in the early part of 2006, throughout its short life Faith School Quotas cleaved to a simple creed of religious toleration and understanding, insisting that Faith Schools take up to 25% of their pupils from children of different religious backgrounds or no religious background at all. This creed was based on the, perhaps naive, idea that children whose parents belong to different faith groups should occasionally meet each other and perhaps learn something about each other beyond the fact that they are unbelievers who should be wiped from the face of the Earth by (a) the forces of righteousness, (b) the will of the appropriate God and (c) large amounts of explosives.

Tragically, Faith School Quotas died last night, after the government vehicle it was travelling in was involved in a major accident following the decision of its driver, Education Secretary Alan Johnson, to perform a sudden U-turn which resulted in him driving into a sea of religious intolerance. Police are currently interviewing Mr Johnson who it is believed may have been driving under the influence of the Labour leadership contest at the time of the accident.

The funeral will be held on Monday at St Dawkins Church of Unbelief and will be followed by a ceremony of remembrance in which the Archbishop of Canterbury, Cardinal Cormac Murphy O'Connor, the Chief Rabbi, several imams and a couple of Hare Krishna followers will dance upon the grave. Representatives of the Church of Scientology will be on hand to take a collection, then donate it to themselves.

Faith School Quotas are survived by ghettos, crusades, jihads and Old Firm football matches in Glasgow.