Now I visit schools and do the same thing for kids. With teenagers I talk about Dirty Angels and being in Ashes to Ashes and then I get them to make up their own stories. I've got different sessions for Key Stage One and Key Stage Two, but they come to the same thing: a lot of laughing, and a lot of shouting out of funny noises, and some silly stories about dogs and aliens and princesses. I've visited loads of schools now, and have received some glowing reports you can read on the Class Act website. But here are two stories which describe two of the more disastrous visits. Usually the sessions go amazingly, but the bad ones make for the best stories.
If you’d like to book me to visit your school, contact kate@classactagency.co.uk
Two stories about performing in Schools
6 am. I wake sweating. Tomorrow I’m spending the day at a primary school in Mitcham, telling them stories. 6 30 am. I’m desperately writing stories. I start one about a bitchy girl who likes too say: “I’m making a birthday list, and I’m crossing you off.” Then I return to bed, and hide under the duvet.
My wife says: “I don’t know why you put yourself through this.”
I groan. She knows why. I want to do stand-up comedy for children. I want to inspire them to enjoy their imaginations. I want to sell them my book.
4 pm. Mr Legon calls – the teacher who’s booked me at the school. “A parent complained about our last visiting author,” he says. “You must keep it clean. So it’s Thomas Cranmer school. That’s spelt C, R…”
“I know how to spell Cranmer,” I say. “Wasn’t that the guy they burned to death?”
“Dunno,” says Legon. “DON’T mention that to the kids.”
I’m thinking the school is named after him; his fate is no secret. And you’re a teacher, how come you’ve never been curious enough to find out?
“Can you also improvise a half hour story for school assembly?”
“How many kids is that?”
“500, if you include Reception.”
Oh God in heaven. “That’s fine.”
“And tell them about your book.”
7 pm. I’m rehearsing with my daughters. They devise a story about a poo, who gets lost down the toilet. His dream? To return to the bottom whence he came. It’s a twisted creation myth. It has Graham Greene echoes. It could be called The Turd Man. The hero could be Awesome Smells. It’s brilliant. It’s unusable.
9 am next morning. I’m sitting onstage, watching 500 children arrive. Oh God. I pray to Thomas Cranmer. Then I look at 500 beaming faces. I stand, and go for it. We improvise a story about a girl who rescues a kitten from a pond. Reception do kitten noises. The staff croak like frogs. Everyone laughs. It’s been educational. It’s been clean. Relieved, I wrap the session up, by discussing my novel. “The hero’s being bullied,” I explain. “If you’re bullied in real life, it’s awful. You must tell someone. But it might help you write your own stories. We care about people who suffer.” I begin the book: “My name is Colin Hitchin. They call me Colin Bitchin.”
Legon disappears. The fire alarm goes off. 500 children troop out. Then Legon reappears and summons me to the headmistress’s office. “We’re sending you home,” he says. “You said Bitchin.”
I leave, disappointed and unpaid. I’m thinking: is Bitchin a swear word? I’m thinking: lucky I didn’t tell them The Turd Man. The kids would have loved that. The staff would have burned me alive.
I’m sitting in a school gym, watching thirty thirteen year olds assemble. I’ve got one hour to teach them creativity. They don’t look like they want some. A boy to my right says: “His socks are well gay.” I consider saying: “Only the right one is gay. The left one is just confused,” but I ignore him. I’ve got rules which should get me through this alive: (1) Don’t punish every misdemeanour. Give attention to the ones who contribute. (2) Talk quietly, assume they want to hear. (3) Tell them, as soon as possible, that you’ve been on telly.
I scan the circle, and I see the various types. The class geeks have sat next to me. I’m grateful to them. There’s an ADD kid with a classroom attendant. He’s just shouted something about donkeys. There’s a pack of boys who are giving me balshy looks, like they’re the press corps facing an England manager. And there’s a cluster of girls, with their backs to me, who are whispering. I fear this group the most. I can’t hear what they’re saying. I’m thinking how come teachers do this every day? And why are they not given a hundred grand a year? I’m thinking: I hope we have some fun.
Beverley sidles over like a snail. She’s the teacher who’s booked me. “The one thing I would say,” she says, in a voice that’s as dismal as wet lettuce, “is some of the language in your book is rather adult.” “OK. Which words do you want me to avoid?” “You say Polly dresses like a crusty.” “Yes. It means she dresses like a traveller.” “But the children will think it’s sexual. It’s just we teach them not to swear, and to respect everyone’s individuality.” “Believe me,” I say, “I’m not trying to teach them to call each other crusties. I just want them to enjoy their imaginations.” She slithers off, leaving behind a trail of slime and distrust.
Another teacher is watching me from the edge of the room. In a modern school, it is always assumed that the guest is in danger of lunging at the pupils. This one walks to the middle of the room. “Now,” he says, commandingly. He’s the classroom tyrant type. He has a ramrod straight back. He’s desperately acting the part of alpha male, in case the pack bring him down. “We are very LUCKY to have our guest today.” I’m thinking you don’t sound that convinced. “AND,” he continues, “if ANYONE misbehaves, I will take down their names, and send them straight to Mrs Dawkins.” I’m thinking you’ve just told them that it’s all going to kick off, and, moreover, I won’t be able to handle it. “Please welcome our guest, Adrian Glover.”
I stand. I smile. I say: “Did anyone see Ashes to Ashes last night?”
|
