There’s a lot of going to primary school going on in my house of a morning. My younger son hasn’t started yet; he’ll go in September. The older one is in year 1. Their mum is a trainee teacher, at a different primary school in the area. I have very little idea what goes on there, though. She is too exhausted when she gets home, physically and emotionally drained, and busy preparing for the next day, to talk about it much. Ask my boy what he has done at school that day and the reply is generally, “I can’t remember” or “Nothing much”.
So this will be an interesting eye-opener for me, as well as for the people taking part. Blackrod primary school, outside Bolton in north-west England, has some new pupils. “Oh my God,” say the assembled children collectively when Class 6M comes in and turns out to be some of their parents, in school uniform. They’re here to find out what it’s like to go to primary school today.
The kids and their parents in Blackrod are a bit different from the ones in our neighbourhood in Brent, north-west London. The Blackrock pupils are mainly white British and have English as a first language, even if it sounds different. The curriculum is the same, however, all about the three Ts: testing, testing and testing.
And 6M aren’t being let off; they’ll be doing Sats at the end of the process and are straight in with a maths test – bad news for legal secretary Julia, 47, who was never much good at maths. Soon her hand is up and she’s asking: “Can I go to the toilet?” I’d give her a sticker for the “to the” instead of just asking to go toilet; but it’s soon clear it’s not about going toilet; she’s gone for a cry. “I feel so stupid,” she sobs.
“Don’t be daft,” says Mrs Mead, the teacher assigned to 6M. “This is part of the journey for us.”
Mrs Mead is lovely, warm and strong. In fact, everything about Blackrod seems nice. The head has been there for more than 30 years, but he’s open to new ideas, as well as to letting the cameras in. “If you don’t take risks with anything, men would still be in a cave,” he says. Very true, Mr Flintstone … only messing, Mr Dryburgh. And he stresses the importance of music, drama and art.
The grounds look lovely, there’s a horse in the field (not many of them where we are, and if there was, nobody would know what it was) and the sun is always shining – in Greater Manchester! I’d say Blackrod was an outstanding school and Ofsted agrees. (Obviously, being a parent in 2018, I can’t just look at a school and make up my own mind; I have to look at the bloody Ofsted report). Would this programme maybe have been more interesting in a more challenging environment?
Even the kids at Blackrod are pleasant, or else have been well trained for media. It’s not important to fit in, says one, you can just be yourself. They look out for each other, don’t even mind having their parents around.
Apart from all the testing, primary school seems nicer now than it was, certainly for Julia. Turns out maths wasn’t the only issue for her. “I was scared to go to school,” she says. “Because I knew that my whole day would be hell.” There’s some of that going on, dredging up demons from the past; it’s therapy, as well as finding out what her daughter Asha gets up to during the day.
For Mark, 53, an engineer, the demons are PE demons. He didn’t like it then; he doesn’t like it now. Nor does his son, Robert. Impending sports day is giving them the cold sweats, but they’re going to give it a go, for the team. Blackrod seems to me to be about right on competition as well – it doesn’t deny it, encourages it even, but winning isn’t everything; there are points for taking part as well.
Mark is good at maths; he gets into the spirit of the place by helping Julia out. Rubbish at running, maybe, but he’s caring, patient and protective. Certainly protective of his two sons, both of whom are autistic.
There’s always one to spoil everything – or to make it, from a television point of view. We have had the good news, the journeys, the tears. But every school drama – every school documentary, even – needs a bad boy, too.
Stand up Jonny. A 36-year-old decorator, Jonny is soon sneaking off for a crafty cigarette, swearing, and he’s not happy about all the rules and regulations. “There’s less rules in prison,” he moans, and he may well know. Send him to Mr Dryburgh. Also required: a little extra English.
