Privileges all round

Regular and frequent sufferers of this emumble will know I am a great fan of songs and, to be more precise, song lyrics.  This blog has been largely inspired by the little known “This Life” by the wonderful (and should be more famous) Kristina Train.  It is a beautiful song all about longing to live and lead an exciting and fulfilling life, then suddenly realising that that is exactly what she is doing.  She sings in the chorus

One day, I’ll call

That life I dreamed of

This life.

Poetic, eh? 

Anyway, its lines struck me when I was, to be honest, struggling to come up with a decent subject.  Attendance is, as ever, a prominent issue.  Recruitment, strategic planning, budgeting all highly pertinent right now.  Chances are though you’d turn away from this claptrap even sooner than usual.

So, what to write about?  It has been bothering me, in the midst of all these exciting projects I’m being invited into, in amongst all the great work I’ve been seeing, all the interesting discussions I have been privy to and the ability to look on in Christmas Eve-esque anticipation at some of the great things happening in education this moment.  Yeah, what to write about…

Then, like a (Kristina) train, it hit me.  Especially now, when the election (only mention, I promise) is reducing education to a we-care-more-than-they-do football, it seems only right that we spend time celebrating what we’ve actually built, and been privileged to be a part of.

I know it has its detractors, but I think the current educational landscape is incredibly exciting.  We have so much to celebrate that we didn’t have a few years ago, yet we never take the time to say how fortunate we are, to be both architects and beneficiaries of the new view.  The different styles of schools has been a previous topic of mine (http://badockshead.blogspot.co.uk/2013/06/whats-in-word.html) but I still believe it is an exciting state of affairs; yes, scary and potential confusing, but it has made schools of all styles and shapes thoughtfully consider what and, ultimately, who they really are. 

Never, in my time in education, have schools communicated, co-operated and collaborated so openly, and with such good effect.  It was always somewhere on our wish list, often a long way down, and more lip service was paid to it that real energy.  Yet that has changed, and it is a strong and privileged position to find oneself in.  We now collaborate on teaching, learning, assessment, staffing, training, you name it,  more effectively than we have ever done before, and with far greater effect.  If you asked some of the teachers in  my school to name another school that has had some impact in our own, I hope all staff could name at least three – hopefully our Trym partners, but possibly some of the local schools with whom we work and some further afield who may have shared a good idea. I don’t recall being in that situation before.

When I moved to Badock’s Wood in 2008, there was in the city a little half-soaked sentiment about schools working together.  It was underwhelming, and slightly embarrassing, sending me away from the table for a few years.  Now, however, there is genuine desire and passion to be collective leaders of a system, not individual silos within it.  The lip service has been replaced with action, the sentiment with strategy, and the heads talk as one.  It is fascinating, exciting and not a little humbling to play a part.

Only this evening, I have been to a meeting about our local teaching school alliance, and I was so pleased to be invited, but more than that, I was a little awestruck at the potential of what this team had already achieved, and how far we could potentially collaboratively go. 

However, the most amazing this is this: this is the landscape we have built for ourselves.  Yes, we have had to succumb to certain limitations, and pretend to follow certain rules, but ask yourself this about what we have created: who does it suit better, the politicians who will take credit for it or the children who will enjoy it? 

“Thing is, your life may be brilliant already” Andy Cope

And the impact back in our own schools is tangible and undeniable – we’re all reaping the benefits.  Far from waiting for a (hopefully decent) course to crop up, we can now get on the phone to another head and arrange CPD of far greater value for the very next week or even day.  Teachers now talk to colleagues in other schools like never before.  LSAs lead on subjects and projects in a way unthinkable 5 years ago, but that’s the landscape we’re building.

Our new curriculum, decried and bemoaned by many a Daily Mail reader, is, I’m not ashamed to admit it, wonderful.  We love it, all of us, from our youngest newest nursery children to our most cool year 6.  Why? Because we have professionally, collaboratively and with a great deal of tender loving flair created something deeply enjoyable and meaningful.

Those young nursery children make binoculars and then create tally charts of the birds they have spotted – yes, tally charts for three year olds.  Those most cool year 6 walk from their class to the suite with the earphones and headsets ready to get onto the web and compose music, using some of the most complex coding I have ever see.  In between, year 3 and 4 compose music using notes on staves, performing their compositions on a whole range of instruments, and year 1 and 2 are planning what they would grow in their garden … if they lived in Japan, or the Arctic, or wherever they took their place as a global citizen.

“Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.” Helen Keller

I consider myself unbelievably lucky that I am the person who gets to take pride in all this when I show more and more new parents around.  Furthermore, I am privileged (and I have deliberately used that word repeatedly) to be invited and involved in several discussions and projects at the minutes which are all about Badock’s Wood benefitting from exciting and purposeful collaboration. Times have never been so exciting, and we should grab every chance, savour every moment, and squeeze every drop out of it.

Otherwise, aren’t we just guilty of watching a potential “this life” float on by?

Thank you Kristina, I needed a good kick for this one, but what a kick.

Let me finish with a story I’ve always enjoyed.  Henrik Ibsen, a born worrier, was dining with his mate George Bernard Shaw.  Ibsen, as ever, was being all existential.  “But Shaw, what if there is no point; what if there is nothing more; what if life is a really all one huge joke?

“Better make it a good one,” replied Shaw.  Enough said.

That is, quite merrily and happily, all.

"Are you in a good mood or should we avoid you completely?" The Science of the good team

I really didn’t like him as a player.  I couldn’t abide him, even when he played for England.  It was never open dislike, it was begrudging, even deferential acknowledgement that my mighty Villa did not possess anyone with the passion, skill and determination as he did throughout a highly successful career.  Yes, I openly admit it: I used to hate Gary Neville. 

However, now he is a pundit and a columnist in the Telegraph (other Saturday sports pages are available, but “why” I don’t know) I have to confess I have an enormous amount of respect for him and his opinion.  I enjoy watching him as a pundit who doesn’t spare any punches – including in the direction of his beloved united.  Moreover, I love reading his take on the modern game, and his interpretation of how the game is developing. 

Recently, he has had much to say on the creation and sustenance of teams; what occurs when teams go through a massive change process, and how they re-attain their previous dizzy heights.  He manages to couple business phraseology (such as the old form – storm – norm – perform soundbite) with his encyclopaedic knowledge of the game and his own brand of northern philosophy.  Within these pieces, he has made some points that have really set me to thinking, because this is something that has been in the forefront of my mind for some time.

When I get asked, which I regularly do (because headteachers have very limited conversation skills) how things are going, I often give a trite or blasé answer (because I have even more limited conversational skills).  When asked this at the excellent PHAB conference last week (more of this later) I gave an answer very off the cuff but very earnest.  Gary Neville-esque you might say.  I said, waiting interminably for coffee “It is just about the best team I have put together so far.” 

I realised that this thought had been crystallizing in the crazy landscape of my mind for some time.  

Since January, I have been struck time and again by the ways in which a team forms and starts to take shape, and the habits and actions that occur when that team is starting to perform to the very best of its collective abilities.

Work teams are little different from sports teams in essence.  True enough, there are no shorts to worry about, and schools, by and large, don’t have a Portuguese physio ready to run on when someone hurts their interactive whiteboard dragging finger.  However, teams in all disciplines exhibit fairly similar traits, with subject specific nuances, in all walks of team life.

Successful teams, and their members, work well together without knowing it.  They come to each other’s aid without a request, and they complement one another’s skills and talents without worrying about its weaknesses.  Successful teams achieve great outcomes without asking “Who did that?” but by celebrating shared successes and saying quietly, almost in awe of itself, “We did that”. 

When I have reflected on this, stuck in a traffic Jam on my way back from #phab15 (yes, I’m getting there) I realised that our school has been full of these signs for some time now.  Even more than this, I felt more proud of the fact that I can’t really take credit for it, but it is the collective will of the core of this team that must take the plaudits. 

I reflected on a number of key incidents, which may, taken in isolation, not mean too much.  

However, look at them as a collective, as a series of events, actions and habits that take place on a daily, weekly and monthly basis.

I reflected on how, when a vulnerable child had a real moment recently, I was called to assist only to find 3 people already there, dealing with it with far greater skills and aplomb than I ever could.  Within a short space of time, a child who was swearing and spitting was sitting on the sofa reading a book to his teacher.

I reflected on how people came forward to volunteer to be guinea pigs for our new assessment system, thus putting their hand up for MORE work.  Furthermore, how some of my youngest team members are coming to ask would I mind terribly if they did a staff meeting.

Last night in a staff meeting with most of the governors present, we had what to all intents and purposes was a contentious debate.  However, no-one left feeling disgruntled or offended.  Everyone left thinking “Okay, how do we improve on that then?”

During twilight training sessions recently, a whole gang of the team order take away, which they then shared, including with the trainers who said “Really? You got pizza?  Really?”

I thought about how I no longer need to set or impose the standard we have agreed on without discussing it; instead, two members of staff have told a new addition “He won’t stand for it you know, you need to put the effort in”.  Needless to say said person has put some hours in this week.  A lot.

Probably the most telling was how the entire team is worried – deliberate choice of word – about the team’s success, and keen to share, not take, any forthcoming plaudits.  We had a big visit today.  

After I shook hands and waved the visitor off, who was waiting for me?  Our NQT, the least experienced member of our team, who tried to gauge my feelings and the outcomes by trying to work out if it was thumbs up or down.  (It was a big thumbs up.) 

It was the same in the staffroom, where everyone – from our oldest teachers to our youngest LSAs and some teacher training students - wanted to know.  “Are you in a good mood or should we avoid you completely?” one asked, the one who takes my phone every Friday to fill in our twitter record of praise assemblies.  Everyone in the room smiled; they already knew the answer, but wanted to give me an entrée to make the announcement. 

Last week, when my deputy and I were at PHAB 15, a truly exciting and inspirational conference, and the first time we had left the baby with sitters, what reassured us the most was the unfailing willingness of the whole team to support the leaders-for-the-day, and do jobs and roles above and beyond the call in every sense imaginable.

Good teams also know when a member needs to be alone.  Several of our team – yours truly included - enjoy a headphone moment.  No-one takes umbrage at this, but we all appreciate that some of the members of the team need to return to the solace of their caves from time to time.

There are negative indicators however, but you have to take them as a kind of compliment.  You know you have a good team growing when you have someone who arrives and tries to take on the team – sometimes subconsciously – by challenging the team without any personal credibility, by putting themselves above the needs of the team.  Everyone, even the leaders, need to acknowledge that they play their part, not spurn their chance to do so.

The next level of building any team is the outcome; successful teams are magnetic, and the draw and attract more and more positive energy.  As a result, we have a growing army of volunteers with the amazing Buddies of Badock’s, a staff team that is as big as it has ever been, former colleagues attempting to return to the fold, and a school that continues to grow and grow.  The result is infectious.  And addictive.

So when we get big calls from big visits on big days like today, it is only right that the team takes the collective glory.  Every member of the team today deserves more than their fair quotient of glory in which to bask over the break, and I hope they love it.  Because in term 5 and 6, this team could achieve more than it ever has before.

That is … nearly all.

I just wanted to mention my last blog (http://badockshead.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/two-wrongs-dont-make-fat-bloke-write.html).  Many people have taken the time to ask me “Are you okay?” as a result of my last set of emumbling.  I am so sorry if it sounded negative or self-pitying, that was never my intention. My mum and dad always told me to say please and thank you, so:

Please don’t worry about me, I am having the time of my life with this team

&

Thank you so much for caring; it is appreciated.

And the petition still strolls on, by all accounts…

That is, with a lot of gratitude for our stunning team, all.

Two wrongs don't make a fat bloke write

This week I have been informed twice as to the exact nature of my popularity.  On one occasion, in a meeting to which I was not permitted, a parent told a colleague that “everyone hates that bloke, and loads of people are going to sign my petition to get rid of him”.   This is the same parent who shouted at me for sending children out in the rain, and told me loads of parents felt the same.  No-one else complained (largely because it never happened). 

On the second occasion, someone said to me “Mr Willis, lots of people moan about you, but you just give it to us straight”.  He then shook my hand.  Once again, this morning, in the rain, every parent said “good morning” or some such.  (Except one petition wielder.) 

Before you worry, it hasn’t caused me any lack of sleep, and I haven’t been panic eating, merely gluttonous.  Yet, please don’t think I’m being flippant, nor that I don’t consider the feelings and motivations of the persons involved.  However, I think this needs a little contextualisation and consideration.

Schools are deeply emotive subjects – that’s what makes them such special places to work and serve (and, let us not deny it, so stressful).  The adults left in charge of the learning of these amazing children are privileged, and it is only right that parents (after all, I’m one of them as well) have one eye and heartstring on this situation.  Also, schools are possibly one of the last few groups where the main customers forge a truly meaningful relationship.  Where else do you see someone with that regularity and frequency, and with whom you will share a deeply important part of your family’s life?

So it is a relationship – no other way of putting it.  Any relationship involves tension and compromise.  Any relationship contains someone or something that causes friction.  The more deeply you travel into that relationship, and the more comfortable you become with it, the easier it is to spot those causes of friction.  Furthermore, it also becomes easier to vent your frustrations or air any tensions.

So, having been head of our school for some years now (it’s coming up to 7 years) I’ve forged thousands of relationships, and have enjoyed all but a very few of them.  More often than not, those that are not satisfactory are those where I have to be the person in the relationship to say no, or to deliver unwanted news, or to make the decisions that will not be universally popular. 

Because of our familiarity, because of the fact that people see me every day (if I’m here) and because I often have to make those difficult calls and decisions, people will rail against it.  People always complain when they feel comfortable enough to do so.  The key word there is comfortable; how did that comfort come about?  It is due to the closeness and proximity of the people within that relationship.

Just ask yourself:  do you think I honestly get up in the morning hell bent on refusing applications for holidays which are, by their very nature, against the law?  Do you honestly think that, as I’m brushing my teeth each morning, I am looking forward with relish to refusing full time nursery places?  For one second, do you honestly think I enjoy having to tell parents that their four year old has …. (insert own horror story – mine was when, as a parent, the teacher had to tell me that my son had been playing cats and dogs and had accidentally bitten his best friend). 

Of course not.  However, sadly, they are part of my job.  Sometimes, people think that my answers are unfair; but isn’t that just the nature of a relationship?  Sometimes I have to make decisions based on nothing more than the rule of the law and the principles and guidelines I am expected to follow.  I dare say that, to those whom it affects negatively, there may quite understandably be an aspect of “why me?”

However, every organisation needs someone to make the decisions.  Every large group of people needs someone who says “no”, with rational justification, otherwise such organisations falter.  It bothers me intensely that I have to say no to some deserving families and children over certain aspects of their schooling and life, but it is my role, my responsibility, and conversely part of the enormously privilege it is to be the head. 

Yet that’s just the big stuff.  Sometimes we have to say no because we’re trying to achieve something much bigger and greater on behalf of every one in the community.  Sometimes, when we have to say “it’s not good enough” it sounds like we’re enacting a harsh throw back to the 1970s.  Actually, we’re saying so much more.  We’re saying that we value your contributions as a member of our community, but is this the best you can do, right here, right now?  Is this the best you you can be?  As with all other decisions, it may sound harsh, but it is irrevocably rooted in a spirit of support and empowerment.

Equally, as old fashioned and as disciplinarian as it sounds, sometimes it is an adult’s job (by which I mean moral role, not paid employment) to make decisions on behalf of children, e.g., eat yer greens.  Guess what – sometimes, kids don’t like that.

So, sadly, unless there is a serendipitous break out of bonhomie, there will always be tension, which will lead to my popularity rating always hovering between 0 and 0.5 on the 0-100 scale.  Such are the compromises you make when you sign on the dotted line.  And then there’s the stuff that gets put on facebook about you, which people think you don’t see and that it doesn’t matter…

A word of caution to this tale – if parents want outstanding schools and leaders, then they need to love them just a little bit more.  Three big headship have recently gone up in Bristol, and, if my sources are correct, they had one applicant.  Not one each; one.   Equally, we have gone from having in excess of 100 applications for teaching jobs to being grateful for 15.  This job is being made  no easier by external pressures.  Do you really want to be one of those?

Let me not finish this sounding like a moaner; regular followers will know that’s not my style.  Look at it like this: if you’ve got a problem, my door is so open it doesn’t even exist. Come and see me.  Talk to me (and I mean talk) and, if you still feel disenchanted, then I would be enormously disappointed.  However, I will not bend on the standards we have set ourselves, however high they may be.  Although individuals will not like that, and that is completely within their right, they must remember that there are hundreds of parents who do agree with us, and who not only want us to keep high standards, but expect and demand it.  All I’m asking is don’t isolate yourself on the sidelines – come and be a part of what we’re doing.

Come and look at the hundreds of books that are left on my desk every week (as I write this blog they contain persuasive arguments about lunchtimes and national graffiti, year 7 level algebraic equations, geometry and journalistic writing).  Come and watch a praise assembly (when I’m not doing it, if you’d rather, but the kids fall out with me every time I miss one – just FYI).  Come and join in Making Moves at the Children’s Centre.  Come and see our amazing new EYFS outdoor space.  Come and look at our displays, at the playpod, at the zone, at acorn class.  Come and look at the effect our decisions have on the lives of the children of Southmead, and the families and community we are enormous proud and privileged to serve.  Above all, come and do it with us.  No-one can aspire-achieve-enjoy alone.

Therefore, holding out the olive branch of conciliation, that is all.

Whilst in the midst of the tempest...

My office was as dark as a cave, the light above me blocked by the conditions.  All around us, the wind hurled and threw a thousand upturned litter bins our way.  I garbed myself in a futile attempt to block out the conditions, and headed for the playground.

All doors were open; all barriers removed; my simple task was to usher people in safe and warm, complete in the knowledge that they were not late, but their endeavours to reach us through the storm were welcomed, and we were thankful.

I looked up at the trees, usually proud and straight sentinels above our playground, suddenly struggling in vain to remain upright.  The plants and the bins clung to each other in an attempt to stay safe in a tumultuous ocean of gales.   The moon was a ghostly galleon... no wait, that's the Highwayman. The sky turned a duller and duller black, and the lights within looked like welcoming beacons.    Even the playpod looked as if it were apologetically clinging to its moorings.

And then, the rain began.  Small rivers, at first, the torrent that was to follow sending out its vanguard of smaller arsenals as frontriders.  Then the storm swelled.  Then the rain truly began.  The umbrella in my hand felt as much use as a teapot made of chocolate; to use it would be like using a teaspoon to defend yourself against an angry dragon.

Yet I did not feel despondent or upset.  Soggy, yes, as my trousers turned a deeper shade and my socks retreated to warmer climes.  No, I felt fine actually.  Three things were almost exclusively responsible for my bright humours in dark times.

Firstly, not a single child - or for that matter, adult or preschool age sibling - ignored me as they came running in, wellies permitting.  Every single one said a cheery (albeit breakneck paced) "morning", or a "thank you" or even a "aaarrrggghhh I'm soaked mind!".  One was good enough to point out that my glasses were wet.  Bless them.  I really had not noticed.

The adults were all good-natured and encouraging, despite the fact that they had the return journey to look forward to.   There were plenty of camaraderie-laden "Alright?"s and "How's it going?"s and more than one encouragement for me to join the kids indoors.

A school community sharing an experience of adversity, however it is presented, often shows the strength of said community, and isn't it great?

Secondly, in among the PE kits and book bags there were some of the most bizarre objects.  Yet they went on to demonstrate that, whatever the weather, our children are committed to their new topics and their learning.  Several of the older girls were carrying additions to their amazing displays about their topic of China (Why is it always made in China? for those of you who want the topic question).  Another child was carrying in a pile of their grandad's vinyl, which, as you can imagine, got me very excited.  Why?  For key stage 1's topic on "Why were the 1960s called swinging?".

Then, whilst in the midst of the tempest, one girl tried to show me the homework she had done of her own choice not for the current topic (Where did Stonehenge come from?) but for the topic they will be starting next week (How Many Bristols are there around the World?).

Our children know that, despite the conditions being against us, learning will continue.

The third thing was nothing to do with curriculum or community or even the weather.  It was something so simple it was unbelievable, and deeply touching.  There I stood, drenched, dithering and desperate to return to the sanctuary of my desk and my coffee, when a year 6 boy walked past me, parka hood worn high and face almost invisible.  As he reached me, out shot his hand in front of me.  In that hand: a cream egg.

I cannot tell you how quickly the clouds receded and the sun shone, all metaphorically of course.  As far as I was concerned, I could have been brandishing said teaspoon in front of an utterly irate dragon at that moment and nothing would really have mattered.  The cream egg went on to sit on the corner of my desk, winking at me throughout that morning's governor meetings, and the rain outside the window (which abated, bringing freezing wind in its place) could do nothing to dampen my spirits, or my almost dry trousers.

When all is cold and bleak on the outside, our children and our community make everything on the inside feel that little bit more warm and special.  May 2015 continue in a similar vein of friendship, and not in weather.

And yes, as soon as I could politely herd out the governors, the cream egg went down in one.  Thank you Big Man.

From in front of the radiator, that is all.

Like a hug at a festival; Christmas in all its glory

As we embark upon this 4^th Christmas blog – or blessay as we dubbed it a few years past – you may be interested to know that its inspiration hailed from a very different source to that of its predecessors.  Usually, I start thinking about this piece roughly a week after completing my November blog, and then I scrabble around for fitting topics and subject matter, before trying to crowbar in some contemporary references alongside a few historical festive staples. Not so this year.

I’m sure many of you will know that the song “White Christmas” is from the film Holiday Inn, where Bing Crosby sings it longingly from a sun dripped Californian beach.  Similarly, readers of blessay number 1 (http://badockshead.blogspot.co.uk/2011/12/whilst-heads-of-other-educational-or.html) will recall my pub quiz fact that Noddy Holder wrote Slade’s festive smash on John Lennon’s "Imagine" piano in the middle of a New York heatwave in July.  The inspiration for this blog hit me on a sunny Saturday in June, and I knew it the second it happened.

My family and I are devoted attendees of the 80s Let’s Rock Bristol festival.  I love a festival, especially one where I can take my kids and teach them something important (like the words to all of Go West’s hits).  We had arrived on the Friday, pitched camp and started rocking.  Then on the Saturday, after a bleary eyed start, we dragged our deck chairs and our illicit moonshine and set up our selves for the day as we always do – strategically placed at the start of the second bank so we’re easy for the kids to find and close to the amenities … by which I mean bar. 

The sun shone high in a sky of the deepest blue, and the atmosphere was electric with anticipation.  We were moments away from the arrival of the first act, and we couldn’t slap on the sun cream fast enough.  The place was abuzz with open hearted joy, and I for one couldn’t wait.

The first few acts came and went (Dr and the Medics, Jackie Graham and Sonia, since you asked) and although I sang along word perfect to “You’ll never stop me from loving you” I was gripped by something else happening.  Where we had chosen to make our festival pitch was right next to a thoroughfare that split the festival in two, and stretched from the entry points across the park to the amenities… by which I mean the bar.

This thoroughfare took on an entirely new meaning as people came in: it became a place of hugging.  I sat transfixed watching people running towards each other and hugging.  There seemed to be no rules, no plan, no holding back and no decorum whatsoever.  More than one couple did the whole “try to go to the side and headbutt each other” manoeuvre, but no-one cared.  There was no ill will, no animosity, and not a single person refused said hug. 

There was just joy.  A bloke behind me said “It’s just like Christmas!” and I thought to myself, there’s a blog in that…..

Because, you see, a hug at a festival is a strange but magnificent beast.  It transcends so many things that it is an irresistible force all of its own design.  I watched, open jawed, as I saw young and old, tall and short, goth and go-go (I’ll explain in a second) practically sprint up to one another, and envelope them in an embrace that could, in one or two cases, have broken ribs.

A festival hug transcends age.  It doesn’t matter how old or young you are; you can still participate in any way.

A festival hug transcends time.  Whether you were with that person this morning for breakfast or you haven’t seen them in an age, a hug at a festival confirms and reaffirms that deep felt friendship that has been there all along.

A festival hug transcends culture.  You don’t have to be trendy or cutting edge, and it isn’t just for the nerdy.  It’s about laying your feelings open and unashamedly on the line.

A festival hug, and here’s the real funny one, transcends musical tastes.  The apocryphal tale of the Brighton beach fight between mods and rockers was all well and good, but don’t the authorities normally take the brunt of festival go-ers combined ire?  I saw a bloke who was all of 6 foot 4, without his destroy platform heels, dressed head-to-toe in black leather, complete with make up, hugged by a lady of about 4’11’’ (in both directions) wearing a rara skirt, a glitter wig and a Frankie says t-shirt.  Did he shy away?  No, he reciprocated, and what a sight they made. 

The main thing, however, is what it conveys.  In those many hugs, I saw a thousand messages portrayed loud and clear.  They said things like:

·         I’ve missed you;

·         It’s great to see you;

·         It’s great to share this experience with you;

·         I can’t believe you’re here;

·         I can’t believe I’m here – in these shoes….and this hat….;

·         This place just got even better because you’re here;

·         You mean so much to me.

And it continued.  I saw unashamed tears of happiness, and deeds of kindness that were unembarrassed in their openness and sentiment.  It was as if, for a weekend in summer, the human race remembered that it is wired for good.  It was intrinsic engineering (where have I heard that before?).

As the year has progressed, I have seen a number of incidents and events, and indeed the individuals they concern, where I have concluded that what the situation really needed was a big festival hug.  Although I am not suggesting for a moment that such an act would rid the world of all its ills, it would certainly go a long way to make people, especially those who are in need, feel a whole lot better.  I think it also serves as an award for those who deserve it, but just don’t, for all sorts of invalid reasons, get the recognition.

I am one of a million Englishmen who have that deep seated hatred of the Aussie cricket team, based – I am convinced – on pure jealousy on our behalf.  My generation have seldom seen such world dominance of any sport, and they managed it for a decade and more.  I am, however, not too proud an Englishman to say that Ricky Pontin will for me, along with Joost Van Der Westhuizen, Jonty Rhodes and Franco Baresi, always be seen as a sporting colossus.

Whatever your sporting allegiance, you cannot be human and have been unmoved by the sad and tragic death of Philip Hughes.  A young man (and I am now of an age that I qualify to say that about others) who died doing something he loved, and in a complete accident.  Amazingly, my wife (never what you would call a sports pundit) made a fair point in the midst of all of this: how sad for the poor bloke who bowled the delivery?  Sean Abbott must have been subjected to a tsunami of unmanageable turmoil over the last few weeks, for doing little more than what his coach told him to.  It has been a number of saving graces that the cricketing world has managed this situation so well, especially its support of Abbott.  A massive festival hug to Sean Abbott please.

In addition to that, you must also raise a pair of clapping hands to the amazing dignity displayed at a funeral which never once asked for pity or sympathy, but instead celebrated the amazing gift that must have been Phil Hughes’ life and work.  I watched with a little awe the bravery of those who had to speak, including his sister.  Massive festival hug to her please.

Similarly, love him or hate him, the remarkable way in which Michael Clarke handled himself, his team and his nation can only be admired.  I once remarked, in a former blog, that the world needed its men to be leaders, but every so often it is even more important for its leaders to be men.  In the dictionary, dignity should have a picture of Michael Clarke next to it.  Huge festival hug to Mr Clarke please, followed by a highly deferential shake of his hand.

Operation Yewtree has loomed like a sad cloud not only over this year, but it feels like a larger number of years than it probably is.  I have taken no pleasure in reading the recounts in the paper, nor in hearing the news; only a reserved satisfaction that justice has, in some small but irretrievably late fashion, been served.  My feelings about this whole affair come into two categories really.

Firstly, I have nothing but the greatest sympathy for the victims of these unspeakably terrible acts, and the deepest admiration for the courage in stepping forward and speaking out.  Too little too late for them?  I rather suspect so, but I think that the passage of years and the public outing of Neanderthal – like attitudes will portray these women and girls in a very different light – an heroic one.  A polite, respectful and deserving hug to each of these people.

But I feel it goes deeper.  I can just about recall the radio on a Saturday morning hosted by certain people, and the TV programmes I came to know as a child.  Yet I was (I know you won’t believe it) too young to have joined in the mass adoration of the 1970s.  Some people may have had one of these people’s posters on their teenage bedroom wall, or maybe even more.  I feel bitterly sorry for people whose teenage years now bear a stain of doubt and betrayal, because I’m sure that’s how they must feel.  A mug bearing a “fix it” label that once graced our office has, quite rightly, disappeared for good.  To these people, a massive festival hug.

Previous blessay riders will know I’m not one to shy away from areas others may deem insensitive, but please consider for a moment the devastating news in Bristol in recent weeks of a mother and child who went missing from a hospital – the very hospital in which both my children entered this world – and were subsequently found dead.  I heard the news of the mother’s body being discovered as I arrived at school one morning; I had to stay in the car for a few more moments that day.  Later came the news we all hoped would not come, but somehow knew to be inevitable.  How many of us, given the chance, would go back and give them the hug they clearly so desperately needed?

But I don’t raise this with the rosey tint of hindsight.  My thoughts and festival hugs go out to the mother who is no longer a grandmother, and the boyfriend who is no longer a father.  I cannot for a second place myself in those shoes, but would do anything I could to erase the pain.

Furthermore, I have experienced at first hand, twice, the amazing care and dedication of the staff at that hospital, and will not for a second condone the discussions or accusations bouncing around face(idiot)book about “why did no-one stop them”.   I will not sanction for a second the idea that those wonderful professionals, who saw my wife through two difficult births, didn’t do what they could.  To the entire team, who I know will have – by the very nature of their outstanding professionalism – done an enormous amount of soul searching, an enormous group hug.

Indeed, I would also offer a future festival hug.  Not to a future festival go-er (although the two are not mutually exclusive) but to anyone who is, round about now, starting to worry.  Worry about ensuring that in two weeks’ time, or thereabouts, they will have managed to pull off a dinner that meets everyone’s not always realistic expectations, and which keeps the pre-supper / post-monopoly arguments that little more soft around the edges.  Look at it like this: that master of understatement Philip Larkin used the wonderful lines in “The Whitsun Weddings” (another summer reference) about the ladies watching the happy couple leaving on their train and had

Just time enough to settle hats and say

“I nearly died!”

Maybe your own version will read

Just time enough to steady paper crowns and say

“I nearly burst”

Yes, I agree, Larkin says it better.  However, let us not forget the sentiment, for that is what I would wish for yourselves.  As someone who is expected to cook for 11, you have my sympathies, and a big, warm sherry fuelled hug.

If you can bear to stay with me for a moment or two more, would you be so good as to indulge me in a personal moment?  There are some hugs that I want to give out in recognition of a more personal, Badock’s centred 12 months.

Firstly to the Buddies of Badock’s, our new PTA who have come from nowhere to smash it out of the ball park, thank you, and a massive, massive festival hug.  As there are so many of you (and you’re almost exclusively female) you can have Then Jericho, Alexander O’Neal and Nathan from Brother Beyond … except for Chris and Steve; Belinda Carlisle and Kim Wilde perhaps?

Next, to the parents who are helping push Badock’s even further.  Those who ensure their children are “always” children – always there, always in uniform, always with homework and always well supported.  You know who you are.  You are all due a huge hug; have level 42 and Bananarama.

To the children’s centre staff, who have at times this year had to endure the most unpleasant of all working environments – uncertainty.  Your work has been noticed and appreciated, and I know that, even though we’re not out of the woods by a very long stretch, we are on a journey towards great things.  Big, big hugs – for you all; you may have Nick Kershaw.

I have been slapped around the face this year with the realization I've now been at Badock’s almost 7 years.  I have seen a number of staff join, move on and, I’m pleased to say, stay with us for the journey.  Working in such close proximity brings about a certain camaraderie and we take an enormous interest in each other’s lives and welfare, even after they have left.  This year, with current staff and former colleagues, we have had 8 Badock’s babies.  Cause enough for celebration.  However, let’s throw in the fact that some of these babies have been ill, and we have all, as a group, waited on those phone calls and texts that no-one wants to make or receive.  Yet we have done it, and we’ve done it together.  The biggest hug to my school colleagues who never cease to amaze me in everything they do and put up with from me: you can have Boney M, and sing Christmas songs until you know I’m back in the building. 

Almost finally, I should point out that the one thing you never see in a festival hug is forgiveness.  It isn't needed.  Festivals are about spreading the joy and the love.  Therefore, as it’s Christmas, may I offer the biggest, sloppiest kiss of a hug to the people who have been writing derogatory comments about the school and yours truly on face(idiot)book.  You will all be pleased to know that you have not upset me, although I won’t be showing my mum, and can you please spell my name right?  To you, the amenities … by which I do not mean the bar.

Finally, to the wife.  Yes, you can hug Rick Astley.

So, kind people, a big gold star on top of the tree if you’ve made it this far.  As ever, I apologise humbly and profoundly for offence caused; none was ever intended.  I am far more hopeful that I have posed a question or raised an idea or two.  Whatever the festive seasons holds for you, I wish you the merriest of Christmases and the most successful of new years.  To you and yours, may this time be safe, special, and driven by the kind of hugs usually reserved for a balmy June day.

For an eventful 2014, that is all.

Except, may I offer one more hug?  It will not involve wrapping my arms around anyone, nor the offer of a faded popstar, but I would just like to prove that a good turn is never forgotten.

On the Sunday of the festival, it rained.  A lot.  My wife had “forgotten” to bring my coat from the car when she went to retrieve waterproofs and warm stuff for her and the kids.  So as the rain lashed down in the midst of Matt Bianco, I was left in tshirt, shorts and a hat borrowed to try and keep my shades clear.  The rain came crashing down on us for a good 20 minutes, and I was drenched, but my spirits undeterred.

Halfway through, whilst I was dancing with my son, a gentleman came to me in his coverall poncho.  I was expecting him to make rude comments about my lack of preparation.  Instead, he slapped me on the back and said “fair play to you, son”, then offered me his hip flask.  We then spent the rest of the rainstorm talking and sharing children-at-festival stories.  Never once, upon taking his own hit, did he not offer me the said flask, the contents of which was a hug in itself… and a bit of a smack in the jaw.  Once the sun was in the sky again and we had reached what felt like a natural conclusion, he said “Well, if it hadn’t rained, we’d never have got the chance to talk” another slap on my back “go steady, mind.”

With that, he blended back into the crowd.  It was a hug, of sorts, and I never got the chance to say thank you for the hip flask, or, more importantly, for the enormous hug of friendship that made me warm again on a cold day.  A hug feels like a hug, however it may be given.  Wherever you are sir, thank you.

That, with a wish of a merry Christmas, is all.