Hugh Reilly: Whoever thought up school awards was a prize plonker

Published on Tuesday 22 June 2010 19:37

LAST Saturday, after trekking the Taramachan ridge in the blistering sun for seven hours – minus hat or factor 50 sun cream – my head eerily resembled that of a befreckled Humpty Dumpty after a bright red face-painting session. But, as we Scots say, "There's always someone worse aff than yersel."

Thus I immediately thought of poor Frank McAveety whose face, on the embarrassment spectrum, was beyond beetroot when a microphone betrayed his belief he was on the judging panel of a beauty contest rather than a convener for a Holyrood committee. Call it crazy talk but my best guess is that Labour's lecherous MSP will not be receiving his usual invitation to dish out prizes to upper school boys and girls at the local secondary school's awards ceremony.

After much introspection while eating a midget gem, I declined the opportunity to attend this year's prize-giving jamboree at my son's school. The whooping and hollering that accompanies the recipient of a book token makes a Nuremburg rally look like an annual conference for Prozac addicts. Traditionally, the school celebrated outstanding achievement. However, thanks to social inclusion, the most absurd categories have been created to ensure that almost every child wins an accolade of some description. For example, honours are issued to those with best attendance, the Turner-up Prize, if you will. Yes, one can just imagine, in years to come, a moist-eyed grandfather pointing to the display cabinet and telling his grandson: "Ah goat that fur coming tae school." How inspiring.

The problem I have with attendance prizes is that the sick are seriously disadvantaged. A poor sod who, through no fault of his own, breaks his leg on the football field, finds himself out of the running. Yet, a selfish git with the flu who drags himself into school and infects hundreds of hitherto healthy innocents is rewarded for his disease-spreading endeavour.

Only slightly less patronising is the award for effort. In good schools, classroom teachers feel a certain awkwardness as they write down the names of three nominees when they know that perhaps 20 or so of the pupils are equally deserving of being put forward. In failing schools, staff write down the names of those kids who have offered the least verbal and physical abuse in the course of the academic year.

The final week of the school session is a time to say goodbye to a few teachers, or in the case of St Margaret's private school which entered liquidation, the entire staffroom. A common practice is to put round an envelope that solicits a monetary gift for the retiree. In my experience, such envelopes cause great vexation. A rule of thumb is to give cash to anyone earning less than me but to be a tad parsimonious with people leaving with large lump sums and pensions. For days, the envelope sits untouched in the staffroom as if it were an invitation to an after-dinner speech by Iain Gray. The first donor sets the standard. If a ragged-corduroy-trousered philanthropist tosses in a couple of pound coins, other donors rush to follow that lead before some bi-polar idiot ups the ante by lobbing in a crisp fiver.

Presentations to retiring staff are not to be missed. It's showbiz, folks, and first up is a line manager who eulogises the professionalism, dedication and steadfastness of the retiree. In many cases, it is a work of outstanding fiction that Stephen King could not hope to emulate. Next up is the star of the show, the education escapee. Most are demob happy and depart with a word of thanks and the odd anecdote. Unfortunately, some others indulge in making emotional speeches. I still have flashbacks of a female colleague fighting back the tears and whimpering: "Being here has been a chapter in my life; today, I write the last line." I laughed out loud in the mistaken belief she was trying out her material before appearing at The Stand Comedy Club amateur night. Her friends never forgave me. Enjoy your holidays. It'll soon be August.