FOR probationer teachers, the chances of securing a permanent post are on a par with Susan Boyle replacing Penélope Cruz as the face of L'Oreal.
For many, the next career move appears to be joining the reserve army of the unemployed. However, instead of auctioning a kidney on eBay to pay the overdue rent on a scabies-infested bed-sit, education's greenhorns should consider the merits of foll
owing a pathway into an alternative profession that could utilise their teaching skills.
For example, former teacher Ross Martin has made a new beginning by becoming the leader of the Centre for Scottish Public Policy, a think tank patronised by Eric Joyce, the nation's most expensive MP.
Looking out for Eric was highly remunerative for Ross Martin; he received £8,000 for his policy advice. Not bad for a man who, in 1999, as a New Labour candidate, lost Falkirk West to Dennis Canavan, writing himself into Scottish political history by losing by the largest number of votes of any runner-up in the 73 constituencies.
If political consultancy is not their bag, probationers should consider a career in espionage. A few weeks ago, MI5 took out space in the situations vacant page of a national newspaper in an attempt to recruit teachers as operational intelligence officers. The job involves developing contacts with sources who could give leads on security threats. Classroom teachers have great experience in this type of covert action. A good practitioner cultivates a web of informers willing to rat on their peers for a paltry praise card or a prime position in the dinner hall queue.
As the handler of such supergrasses, Sir can safely leave the classroom to collect jotters – or, better, make small talk in the corridor with the comely female art teacher – in the knowledge that any misbehaviour will get back to him via his snitch.
I must admit Reilly: Ace of Spies appeals to me. As a kid, I always won games of I-Spy against my brother on day trips to Saltcoats, a somewhat diminished feat on account of the contest taking place inside the car boot, a callous strategy my dad devised to quell cries of "Are we nearly there yet?"
Being a Bond type, on striking up a conversation in a wine bar with a cruising divorcee, I could utter those seductive words: "The name's Reilly, Shug Reilly."
Of course, any biopic of my life as a spook would need to reflect my secondary school existence: Chalkfinger, The Spy Who Bored Me and Licence To Teach.
I can relate to Bond's troubles. Roger Moore, whose range of movement and emotions scarily resemble the living statue bloke on the Royal Mile, had several nasty encounters with Jaws, an adversary with enormous orthodontic braces that gave hint of a West of Scotland upbringing.
Many of my enemies have dental scaffolding and, I tell you truly, it's no fun being verbally abused by a lisping motormouth.
It's easy to see why I could be in the sights of British intelligence. Like Sean Connery, I'm urbane, bald and middle-aged. But the cloak and dagger world of spying is not the preserve of men and, according to my deep throat contact, female teachers are being actively targeted by Westminster's undercover organisation. As experts in staff room intelligence gathering – or salacious gossip, to use an espionage term – these infatuated schoolmistress Mata Haris use their charms to garner information regarding the marital status of the handsome, fortysomething, male supply teacher who has reignited flames of passion in their previously cold, dead hearts.
Feminists in the profession (and there are one or two) will be reassured that female teachers selected by MI5 will not be some sort of tokenistic Charlie's Angels bimbos.
Let's be realistic, the chances of finding three stunningly, beautiful women in a staff room is as likely as discovering a correctly filled-in House of Commons expenses form.
