Private colleges

Few private colleges in Britain are owned by people who were born and educated here, and therefore often there is little attention paid to much-trumpeted British standards. Poor English is commonplace. Although many crooks have disappeared from the educational scene, still many remain

ENGLISH TEACHING

Teaching English is hard and remorseless. Ah, rather extreme I hear you say! The difficulty sometimes is convincing students that learning grammar alone is not sufficient to adequately speak and write the language. It has to be imbibed, taken into the mind as sustenance.Students must absorb the teaching and language.

Many societies express the grief of bereavement through ritualised behaviour. They cry vociferously over the corpse, celebrate their lives, as with the Irish Wake, or respond with prayer. In our society, we give drugs to stop people feeling, Which is better? Which is healthier? Grief is part of human existence. Drugs are the instrument of elite control.

BEREAVEMENT

Beeavement is often an overwhelming experience. The at present popular practice of GPs to prescribe drugs for bereavement is unfortunately harmful in the long term. Anti-dpresants prevent messages being sent between neurones thereby muffling feelings and interfering with thought processes asnd perceptions. The pain remains to resurface whenever the patient comes off he midication or its  effects become weaker, when it then causes the patient to act odd to others. Moe drugs are then prescribd.

The end result is a damaged an supine individual.

International College

Recently I learnt that a private International College, accredited by ISI, hires two gentlemen to write the students' Edexcel Btec HND assignments. These are then marked by an internal assesser, and promptly declared fit for purpose by Edexcel's External assessor. One day, one of these students might be teaching you!!

Although many private colleges have been closed down or found it no longer viable to continue, I suggest the damage is done.

Recently, I worked alongside a younger lecturer who claimed to have an MBA from Greenwich University but was unable to speak or write appropriate English. I suspect he gained his qualification from one of the private colleges who ran or still run Greenwich University business courses. In such places, the assessment tends to be weak and all kinds of people now have higher degrees.

The problem lies in teaching, as the students' of these individuals  pick up fractured English and consequently we will soon have a whole generation of individuals with Masters and above who possess the literacy of ten year olds.

The scandal of Mid-Staffordshire Hospital still receives immense media coverage. At present it is difficult to know how many lives may have been lost. Of course, nowhere in the NHS sites will any evidence of the matter be found. All is apparently well in Mid-Staffordshire according to these unfailingly upbeat sites.

What is interesting and also a matter for concern remains the consistent ignoring of patient complaints and staff whistleblowers by both the NHS management and the GMC. The latter, which polices doctors, has never to my knowledge responded when its own profession comes under attack. Although its own charter puts patient safety first, it usually has to be prodded and pushed into doing so. While it is happy to denounce physician's inappropriate lust, it ignores medical incompetence.

Many metropolitan police during the 1970s, especially the plain clothes branches, were later found to be corrupt. The police usually police themselves. Warnings about what was going on, bribe taking and vigilante behaviour, was exposed by elements of the media. In this country, the medical profession is an autonomous organisation that similarly polices itself.

At present I am researching the medical profession. In general, this profession is deeply respected and held in considerable awe. My view is somewhat different. I see them, amongst other positive qualities, as an elite group who have and are, like all elite groups, controlling perceptions. Any group with a special position in society does so and for good and bad reasons.

The reader should have a look at the NHS websites. Recent scandals and failures will not be found there nor any critique of the services offered. What the sites convey is a Disney world where nothing goes wrong, staff are almost-perfect and where everyone smiles.

Doctors have enormous power in our society. Annoy a few, and you will discover exactly how much. Also, the NHS provides a haven for doctors whereby their competence, or lack of it, is rarely an issue. Skilled physicians are lumped in with their unskilled, mediocre peers. Patients, the NHS customers, cannot sort out competent from incompetent as we are not provided with the information.

Travelling Through West Africa

We left Lagos and its overcrowded, dangerous streets as night fell to avoid the life-destroying congestion. We headed out towards the Benin Republic on the single, if well-maintained, highway. The car was packed for safety. After we crossed into Benin, we were stopped every mile by menacing police and military carrying obsolete weapons. My companions thought that word had reached them that a European was travelling through the country.

The border crossing was an arrangement of huts and bungalows. When we arrived most of the officials were asleep. It had the disquieting atmosphere that bleakness gives to dawn in some parts of the world. We hung around, showing documents, providing bribes for an hour or two. Then we passed through into Togo. My companions went back to sleep as the car sped along. I stayed awake, squashed and uncomfortable. My back hurt squeezed up and in a fixed position.

As daylight emerged in full fury the highway became crowded with sellers. They were young and old, offering cartoons of raisons, bottles of water, orange juice, phone cards, fruit, and rice. They ran alongside the assortment of motorbikes, scooters, vans, lorries, trucks and cars. They were constitutionally and habitually unbothered by the increasing heat.

Eventually we reached Lome, Togo’s capital city situated on the Gulf of Guinea. It has something of paradise about it.  The city is built on red soil that emerges from the sea and rolls inland. Scattered around are isolated palm trees. The city is only a few yards from the sea. The beach is a strip of white sand that straddles the entire coast like a beautiful necklace. Squat off-white buildings boasting wide, ragged, brightly coloured canopies. The dust rises as the day progresses. The sun pours down its light and heat, growing fiercer by midday.

We got a cab into the city centre, a wide sandy boulevard. The redness prevails. From a distance it looks like a huge open wound. It has an astonishing beauty.

Gabriel buys a melon from a stall. Everywhere there are men, but few women. They look hard but happy enough. They scrutinise me as a walk around, taking in the flavour of the place, scolded by the heat. I am the only white man around. I guess they are curious as to why I am there. Gabriel keeps a practised eye out for trouble.

We get another taxi for the embassy. The city’s dirt roads are full of holes. We have a bumpy ride as the car sinks into the road, groans, and speeds upward again from some deep rupture. The car jerks sideways and to our surprise and joy the road disappears. We get out. The road seems to continue again ten feet below. The cab driver smiles and shrugs. I smile and shrug. It’s different. Its fun all this disorder and disruption. Everywhere are herds of goats. Chicken appear from every shadow. Swift lizards scurry across walls.

The embassy is a two storey bright gleaming white building full of plants and flowers. We purchase a visa into Ghana. It costs us a small bribe. Bribes are cheap here. Afterwards we head further into the city. The heat isn’t uncomfortable. I’m enjoying it after the miserable months of northern climates, rain, wind and cold.

The café was on the main thoroughfare. Gabriel ordered rice, peas and chicken. I had spicy chicken. We ordered mango juice each. The food was delicious. I ordered more feeling like an over aged Oliver Twist with freedom of choice. Compared to many African countries, there were few people around. Those that were, were not rich. There were few cars around. Fewer trucks. The men wore robes. The women wore cotton headscarves and plain pinafores. There was something relaxed and genial about the city, something wholly enticing.

We stayed there only one day, but I wished it had been longer. In late afternoon we crossed through into Ghana.

While I relaxed in the back, Gabriel drove. I looked out. We were racing along a narrow slip of road. On one side was a calm, flat lagoon. On the other was the ocean, rolling away towards and over the horizon. The road was red. It was a red gash running across the disunited water. On the other side was a line of dark green trees, hiding the land beyond. I already missed Togo.

Is depression truly helped by drugs that merely squash feelings and memories? Is it so reprehensible to live with negativity? Do we always have to be positive?

A population fed with drugs is one that does not rebel. The triumphirate of drug-companies, medical profession and government is benefiting from this smothering of thought and action.

STORY-WATTPAD

The Prime Minister was an extraordinary man his secretary decided as she slipped out of

the bedroom. Beneath his habitually grey suit, he concealed a beautifully toned body

seemingly honed by years of hard work in gyms. He made love with unusual energy. Naked,

she disappeared into her own room.

     Five minutes after she had gone Geoffrey woke up. He switched on the bedside lamp as he loathed the dark. He sat up and took off his head. Underneath, much smaller and to human eyes far less handsome, was a triangular serpents head complete with long sharp poison injecting fangs. He lit a cigarette and wrapped his tongue around it.

     His wife hated him smoking. Although she was human, he was genuinely fond of her. He knew that sadly he would eat her one day. He would not be able to stop himself. In his culture it was accepted that after ten years of co-habitation the female was utilised for food. Annoyingly, he would have to do this ordinary act in secrecy, hiding it from all eyes. On his planet, it would be a public event.

     It was a hundred years ago since he had come to Earth with a tiny number of his colleagues. At first they lived in city sewers, of which there were only a few, establishing small vibrant communities. They bred rats, which they ate with gusto, fried, boiled or eaten raw with discarded flushed vegetables.  Although it kept them alive, and they enjoyed the taste, it left them susceptible to stray viruses. The first human eaten, a tramp who strayed into their community changed forever their lifestyles and culinary habits. Humans they found delicious, especially accompanied by sodden decaying sprouts.

     As few humans strayed into the sewers, they emerged into the city in search of food. To their delight they found human herds strolling through their huge concrete nests directly above the sewers. The Synopes ate freely.

     After a decade they began to prefer the surface world, hating the sewer with its long pleasantly rank tunnels, spending longer and longer in the sunlight. Their artists fashioned human heads to fit over their own. They acquired work and then, the brighter amongst them, careers.

     Once they became part of the human community, trapping, killing and eating humans became more difficult instead of easier. Relatives noticed when their loved ones vanished. Newspapers told of suspected murders. They learnt to be discreet. Some acquired a taste for pork, a reasonable but still inadequate substitute.

      That was years ago. Now, Synopes were in positions of power in every developed country.  They had grown fond of humans, and like Ecreeps, sometimes married them. Of course, they never had children with the humans, as they were separate specie. Sex was difficult too, but their scientists overcame the otherwise insuperable problem of two penises in opposite parts of the body. Synopes had no females, but as they were capable of changing gender every twenty or thirty years, this did not prove a barrier.

     He was judged the finest PM in a century. He was up there with Churchill, Gladstone and Melbourne. He had made the country great again! Arthur proved a problem. He was too clever for his own good. It was Arthur, the deputy PM who threatened to bring his career down.  By general agreement, he should have left matters alone. A few well-digested people were compensation for a thriving economy.

     Arthur was on his way home that day after ten hours dealing with the recent benefits crises. It was a balancing act, meeting the demands of the moral majority, who rightly hated freeloaders, and fiddling the figures. Half way back to his London home, he realised he had left his credit cards in the office. Like all important people, he carried no money.

     Arriving back at number ten, he noticed that lights were still on in the upper floors. Saving energy was one of his obsessions, so he went up there first. He walked in huffing and puffing with moral indignation, to find the PM feeding on Martie, his beautiful secretary. Her intestines were disappearing into the PM’s remarkably wide and deep maw. His tongue, suddenly of an unnatural length, flopped over his chin.

     Arthur watched stupefied. Then he bolted. In his panic he ran around and around the lower floors gibbering.

     Annoyed at having to stop eating, the PM left his office to see what all the noise was about. He arrived in time to find Arthur being held by two security officers, one of whom was calling a doctor on his mobile. When Arthur saw him, he pointed a finger gurgling:

     “He’s a monster. He’s eating his secretary. I saw him. Guzzling her down, bit by bit. He isn’t human. Don’t let him near me-he isn’t human. He’s a monster.” He then gurgled incoherently. The officers gripped him tighter. “Don’t let him near me.” Arthur screamed.

     He was still gurgling and screaming when a doctor arrived. Administered a powerful sedative, Arthur slipped quickly into unconsciousness.

     As expected, no one initially believed Arthur’s story. The PM was clearly a handsome ordinary male human and not a lizard-like monster. The only evidence to support Arthur was the sudden absence of his secretary.  Her husband had not heard from her. Neither had her parents. She had apparently disappeared off the face of the Earth.  Rumours spread, and soon the PM was being watched.

     In general, those the PM worked with thought very well of him. Cabinet secretaries, office workers, lowly MPs and cleaners voiced their appreciation of Ecreep. The consensus was, that he was by far the greatest PM they had worked with, intelligent, charming, cultured. The country was once again prosperous. Luxuries were again commonplace. The opposition leaders were lightweight in comparison. No one then active in British politics was his equal.

     Still, the disappearance of other personnel since he had assumed office was noted. They ran into dozens.

     Arthur returned to his position as a shadow of the man he had been. Restored to normality by psychotropic drugs, he assumed his place back in the cabinet. Nevertheless, he refused to be alone with the PM and found it hard to look him in the eye.

     The PM, in order to deflect suspicion, kept to a diet of pork and vegetables. As time went on, he came increasingly ill. Pork did not provide the same degree of nutrition for his specie like human meat.  He became pale and listless. At times he simply took to his bed. The cabinet, led by Arthur, increasingly ran the country. They ran it badly. Industrial output fell dramatically, while the service industries declined with equal speed. The PM’s cool astute hand was missing. The country sank down the world league table.

     Ecreep knew he was dying. His grey green skin had grown dry and flaky. He needed proper nourishment. He began eyeing his wife with the desires not of a husband but a lunch guest. As often with his kind, sexual desire and hunger were entwined.

     Like a good if old fashioned wife, Joyce assiduously tended to him. As he grew weaker she was at his side day and night. He was the only man she had ever loved, and was anxious about losing him.  She would have done anything to keep him alive. One Sunday, in the afternoon, Joyce vanished and a noticeably rejuvenated PM emerged from his death bed, licking his lips.

3.

     The following week, the country back on track, the cabinet met up. It was a truly solemn occasion. Supplied with immense amounts of food and coffee, they discussed replacing the PM and if necessary, killing him. What if they were next on his menu? How many of them would he devour before his hunger was satisfied? The discussions continued for days.

     Eventually they invited the PM into their discussions.

     George, the retiring Home Secretary and Member for Shrewsbury, began the inquisition. He leant forward, but not too far forward, and nervously asked, glancing at the security officers around the table:

     “Good afternoon PM.”

     “Good afternoon, George.”

     “How are you PM?”

     “Fine George. You?”

     George cleared his throat. ‘It’s about your wife, PM.’

     Ecreep nodded understandingly.

     “Where is she?” George asked.

     “I ate her. That’s what my specie do.”

     Stunned and anguished expressions passed over the assembled cabinet. The occasional ‘Oh, my God’ was heard.

     “You ate Joyce?” George asked, his face descending towards the table.

     “Yes. If I hadn’t I would have died.” He felt it necessary out to politeness to conclude. “She tasted excellent I might add.”  He smiled benevolently at his colleagues.

     ‘Why?’ Arthur gurgled.

     “The pork I ate as a substitute for human meat was not sufficiently nutritious for my true form. I was actually dying. We males often eat out wives as they mature. Or at least, parts of them.”

     At least one embittered cabinet minister saw the reasonableness of such behaviour.

     Daphne, Minister for the Environment, asked:

     “Who are you?” There was a tremor in her voice.

     “I am a Synopes.” Ecreep replied.

     “What are you doing here?” She continued. 

      “I and my friends arrived here a long time ago. We do not mean any harm.” He replied.

      “Are you an invasion force?” Arthur asked.

     Ecreep laughed. “Oh, no. How absurd. We are far too few. Anyway, why should we? We don’t wish to rule you or harm you. You are far too delicious.”

     George nodded. “Problem is, s’.” He caught himself. “Whoever, whatever you are, what do we do with you?”

     There was immediate mumbling assent around the table.

     “What do we do with you?” George repeated. He looked around the table, hoping for an answer.

     “Well, you could eat me I suppose, but I’d probably taste foul. As a specie, we don’t travel well.”  

     “We’re not going to do that.” George insisted. “We can’t dispose of you really. Not at all.” As a group they shook their heads. “We certainly can’t tell the British public either about your strange origins.” He threw back his shoulders. “What can we do?”

     While the PM sat in silence, his cabinet discussed his future. The pros and cons of each suggestion were debated at length, all day. By evening, a decision was reached. As Arthur, the senior figure, was still in a visible state of shock, George again took the lead.

     “We will let you live.” George began. “But only on the condition that you eat no more people.”

     “If I don’t then I will die.” The PM reminded them.

     Faced with this, the cabinet renewed its discussion. It was late by the time they had finished.

     George, downing another coffee, began again:

     “Clearly, on this and other matters we must compromise.” He swallowed hard in his nervousness. “Does your food have to be alive?”

     “Preferably. There’s far less nutritional value when it’s dead. Humans have little flesh, and it’s much better if it’s fresh.” He replied candidly. “If a human has been dead a long time, preserved or frozen, they do not taste quite the same. Anyway, on a lighter note, we prefer the fat.” His eyes shone.

     “Hmmm.” George responded.

     The cabinet broke off for another lengthy discussion. Once again, food was brought in. After an hour, George resumed.

     “How often exactly do you eat?”

     “Oh, only once every three months.” He was getting tired now. The process was interminable.

     The cabinet returned to its considerations. More food and drink was brought in.

     “We agree to supply you with food for the foreseeable future.”

     “Oh, good.”

     “Our prisons are overcrowded as it is. It will be an efficient way of disposing of our worst criminals. And, we all have relatives we dislike.” George smiled. “In the circumstances, we would prefer you to remain PM.” He stretched across the table, taking the PM’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “Welcome back, sir.”

     All in the room, aside from Ecreep and Arthur, began to loudly clap.

     The rejoicing spread throughout the building. Even those who despised all aspects of cannibalism, or who were devout vegetarians applauded the decision. The PM stood and bowed. He turned and walked slowly towards the door.

     “Good luck PM.” Several of the cabinet called as he departed.

     Ecreep turned briefly around appraising his colleagues. Licking his lips, he closed the cabinet door behind him.

Letter, posted in History Today: Comments welcome

I was very interested in your article of February 2013, volume 63 issue 2, A Curse and a Blessing. May I put a slightly different twist on the matter? As someone who has worked in mental health for a number of years, occasionally lectures in the field, and has history degrees, I see the matter from a slightly different perspective.

Since the Second World War, in part the result of the growth of the NHS, there has been a growing medicalization of human nature. Much of that process has been in the area of mental health and this has increased over the past twenty years. Now almost every façade of human behaviour is subject to labelling. For example, if you constantly work you are considered, or likely to be considered, as suffering from some kind of disorder. If you don’t work, your behaviour is labelled as a different, if connected disorder. Grief, part of the natural human experience, is treated with drugs and considered yet another disorder. Each condition is accompanied by an expert sooner or later. All human behaviour is now subject to medical analysis. The treatment invariably involves drugs.

May I suggest that not only is this process colonising the present, it is also now colonising the past. Although neither the writers of the book under review nor your reviewer intended it, it conveys the notion that Churchill’s immense character traits were the product of a bipolar condition. I would firstly strongly contest that he had such a condition but also point out that this is how the medicalization juggernaut works. Now, Churchill’s exceptional qualities are subject to medical scrutiny. Also, although Lincoln’s wife was difficult and neurotic, there is no evidence she suffered from schizophrenia, an illness with clear symptoms. This juggernaut seeks to reconstitute exceptional behaviour and ability into mental health issues, imposing increasing conformity.

What would have been the fate of these exceptional people had they lived in the present day? They would have been classified, prescribed highly addictive drugs which would have altered their behaviour and swamped their judgement and creativity. I’m afraid like everything else stigma against mental illness is there for a reason; to provide credibility and greater influence for the medical profession and more money for the pharmaceutical companies. I have worked in the psychiatric field for over twenty years and I strongly hold that it is 80% charlantanism, based mainly on the acquisition of professional power, prestige, status and money.

Recent letters in History Today on the medical profession. I will upload later.