LET'S face it, depending on the situation, lying can be a noble act. Who among us did not cheer when hundreds of Roman slaves jumped to their feet and shouted: "I am Spartacus"?
In 71BC, lie-detecting equipment was in its infancy – it usually involved the insertion of a red-hot poker – thus the emperor was unable to identify the leader of the revolt. Doubtless upset by their collective dishonesty, he had the fibbers crucif
ied the length of the Appian Way.
If truth be told, lies are the lubricant that ensures schools run smoothly. Teachers and pupils swap whoppers on a daily basis to help create a positive learning environment.
For example, pupils dissemble to avoid the consequences of their slothfulness. During a roll call of who has/has not done homework, Sir inevitably is invited to believe the plaintive cry: "I did it, but I left my jotter at home." If the kid were Pinocchio, his nose would have skewered Sir's left eyeball and punched an exit hole in his skull.
Tardy pupils returning to class after the midday break are prone to proffer the excuse they didn't hear the bell. These aurally-challenged adolescents are unaware that, by statute, the end-of-lunch bell must be loud enough to double as the "all-clear" signal to the local community who wish to venture to the shops or pick up some of the discarded fast food containers tossed into their gardens during the break.
A kid's lips move, a speech pattern is discernible, but the teenager insists: "I wasn't talking!" Oh dear, the poor old pedagogue is seeing and hearing things again. It must only be a matter of time before Sir is bundled off to a care home to begin his new life of colouring in scenes from a carnival while frantically devising strategies to avoid catching C diff.
When watching a child nonchalantly chew gum like a sheep chewing grass over a barbed wire fence, Sir is moved to tell the child to desist. Cue sly swallowing of Wrigley's spearmint and a well-nigh synchronised opening of the jaws to show that the teacher is, once more, guilty of misinterpreting the situation. Staring into the abyss – or rather the rapscallion's mouth that contains convincing evidence of the west of Scotland's deplorable dental hygiene – the teacher has little option but to back down. It may be a generalisation, but schools' management take a dim view of Sir sticking two fingers down the pupil's throat to bring up Exhibit A that would prove the miscreant is a liar.
To be honest, teachers lie too. In terms of truthfulness, the typical pupil report sits somewhere between a car salesman's CV and a politician's expenses sheet. "Could do better" isn't a cliché – it's a falsehood employed by teachers to fool parents into believing the kid alone is responsible for improving his lacklustre grades. When a teacher writes a referral regarding pupil indiscipline, it is considered good practice to exaggerate the child's misbehaviour, the embellishment providing something of a counterbalance to the understated version of events related to the school's management by malcontented pupils.
In the Animal Farm that is the secondary school, rectors and deputy headteachers are not immune to telling porkies. "I have a policy of zero tolerance of bad behaviour in my school," the head tells a meeting of disbelieving staff. If he were to utter this Jackanory story when wired up to a polygraph test machine, the needle would fly off the page.
At the launch of the annual wish-list – sorry, school improvement plan –the eloquence of a headmaster can be inspiring. Indeed, if one closes one's eyes, one can almost feel Obama is in the room. "It's not my vision, it's our vision," he says. Aye right!
Heaven help us all if teachers and kids decide to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
