God’s Bolt – The ultimate ‘end of the world’ scenario.

Posted on by Opher

This novel came out of the collision of two ideas. The first challenge was to see if I could write a novel with just one character and make it compelling. The second challenge was to start at the end and then work forwards towards that end. Could I retain tension and interest if the reader already knew the outcome?

I set my character on a space station witnessing the end of the earth as it was bombarded by a huge asteroid. I then set about describing the intrigue and incompetence that led to the disaster and found a reason to give my protagonist a reason to live.

This then was God’s Bolt.

My readers seem to enjoy it!

Extract – God’s Bolt

I was seated in the viewing gantry with Mission Control plugged in. The many tridee displays showed the scenes from a variety of sources both on Earth and out in space. I found myself flicking from one to the other. People in Mission Control were talking out loud, oblivious, commentators for various channels were babbling, it was all a background cacophony to me. The heavens were lit up with trails of meteors and the explosions of surface to air missiles – I knew that all our larger missiles had been expended.

By 10.35 p.m. my hopes were on an upward trend – it was beginning to look as if we were weathering the storm. My spirits were rising. I was beginning to think High Command had pulled it off. Then it happened. A huge ball of fire arced through the sky as various explosions blossomed around it but failed to make any dent on its progress. I watched in horror as it descended and scorched its way to the ground. I swear the whole planet shuddered when it hit. The strike was just inland of Washington. Even from this distance I could see the enormity of it. A great welt of livid molten rock, expanding swiftly to become what looked to be the size of a third of the entire country, was flung into the air as a broiling front of superheated air and dust radiated out at supersonic speed. The seething gasses rushed across the ground as crimson clouds were flung up into the upper atmosphere threatening to reach out into space itself and even engulf the space station.

I watched horror-struck and numb. Though I was so very far away the speed of the expansion of that livid cloud was staggering. It was consuming the rest of the continent at an alarming rate in a glowing storm while yellow fires blossomed into a huge swirling cloud above the impact site and huge lightning bolts raged. The Earth seethed with livid orange flame.

Around me the various channels roared and went silent as they too were consumed. Mission Control was amongst the last to go; based as it was two thousand miles away in London. My mind grappled with the horror of what I was witnessing. I could not conceive that Brad Noone, Happiness Ntobe, Neil Cox and Janice Cervantes along with that whole centre at Mission Control with all those dedicated staff, were gone. It was too much to take in. I could not allow myself to even think about Jomo and the others. I could not. That just could not be. I could not allow that. No!! No!! NO!! I shook my head in disbelief. This could not be happening. I squeezed my eyes tight shut.

Over the next three hours I watched silently in some strange unreality, dissociated and analytical, as the rest of the planet was consumed by the boiling sea of fire. Through the thick fiery skies I counted four further enormous impacts further north in what must have been the States, Canada and Siberia. It confirmed everything of my worst fears for me. The last of the stations from the other side of the planet went down. The whole world was silent now and gripped in that raging torrent of fire. From where I sat it looked as if the whole world had become a ball of molten rock, a superheated furnace.

The worst had happened.

All night I sat there watching the scene below waiting for it to sink in. Things had settled somewhat. The whole planet was now a glowing writhing ball of crimson and orange cotton wool. It now looked almost serene from up here but I could well imagine what it was like down there – the force of that blast and the heat of those winds. No matter how deep underground anyone had gone I knew there was no safety to be had. Nobody was surviving this event. This was every bit the extinction event the media had predicted. I kept telling myself that it had not really happened. This was one of those media simulations.

Somewhere down there my family and friends, the colleagues I had said goodbye to just days before, my lovers, they were all gone. Nobody could have survived. They were gone. I had watched the solid rock of the Earth’s crust ripple, fold and rupture releasing torrents of fermenting magma. That can’t have been real can it? It was a tridee. It was special effects. It could not possibly be real – could it? I could not imagine it so it couldn’t have happened. It was too enormous.

Strangely I felt like laughing. It was absurd. All that huge effort that had gone into conservation was wasted. All those precious plants and animals were gone. The ironic thought came into my mind that we had been killed by a surfeit of peace. If only we had not disarmed and done away with all those nuclear weapons. If only we had kept the missiles. We’d fallen victim to our own desire to become civilised. If this had happened a hundred years earlier we would have blown that huge chunk of metal into dust.

That was the ultimate irony.

I still could not really accept it. I did not believe what my eyes were telling me. It was not happening. I was not really watching it for real. This was nothing more than a sensational tridee programme.

It occurred to me that I was on my own. That was when it hit home. I was on my own. I would never see them again. I would never see anyone again. I was completely on my own.

Amazon.com: God’s Bolt eBook : Forsythe, Ron: Kindle Store

Life and Death

Posted on by Opher

I’ve been working on my Death Diaries book. Here’s a short extract:

What do I think will happen to me once I am dead? Nothing. I expect nothing. I will simply cease to exist, be nowhere, fade into eternity. I will have been a flash, a brief flicker in forever. Even the mightiest, most powerful, are brief unimportant flickers.

I do not expect eternal paradise, reunions, reincarnation, judgement, damnation or any awareness. I will be where I was before I was born; where I go when I drift off into dreamless sleep – nowhere.

It will neither be painful or unpleasant or ecstatic and blissful; it’ll simply not me.

And I’m very relaxed about that. I cherish life. I certainly don’t want to die. I find the thought of death disturbing. I certainly don’t like this ageing process either! I think, as I get nearer, I will reach a point where I want to give up. I shall relax, let go and dissolve into eternity. That’s it. Over.

I imagine there will be some pain and sorrow in the ones I leave behind, but not for me. I will no longer exist.

For a time I will live on. I will be remembered. People who knew me will conjure up their memories. There will be ripples that spread out from my life. But I fool myself if I think I have ever altered anything substantial. That’s vanity. I’ve stopped no wars, discovered no panaceas, not greatly altered any lives. Despite all my efforts in teaching, writing and arguing, my impact has been minimal.

I would have liked more but I think I’m alright with what I’ve done. I don’t think I’ve done a lot of harm.

Life has been fulfilling.

Death makes life all the more. Life is measured in seconds. We live in the moment. I have an urge to fill every second, to strain the pleasure, wonder and fulfilment out of it. Life is experience. That’s all.

Apart from the impact of my life and relationships there is the impact of my artefacts to consider. I shall leave behind ‘things’, things that were either valued parts of my life, possessions or were just passing through. They will be distributed or discarded. Charity shops and the local dump will get their share. Things that meant a lot to me might mean nothing to other people.

My records, CDs and books will be sold, my clothes sent to charity and other things discarded. My family and friends will pick out a few things to remember me by.

I wonder about all the photo albums. Will they be placed in an attic somewhere for a while? Will one or two be brought out and a life picked over? There are so many, too many. My life is well-documented. But of little importance.

Then there are the books. I have a couple of hundred of my own books. They might clutter the kids’ lives for a while. I bet they have good intentions to read them but never actually get round to it.

Never mind. They are of no importance. I will not care one way or anything. I will not get upset. I will not be there.

That’s life.

That’s death.

Lessons from a long life.

Posted on by Opher

Lessons from a long life.

What have I learnt?

One important thing I would like to pass on: beware men who have no doubt!

Beware people who are certain about anything – particularly the religious and political ones. They are very dangerous.

Pregnancy -Bodies in a Window – Paperback/Hardback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

For all you addicts who have been following these irregular instalments. Here’s the next. This is based on my mother and a schoolgirl friend who found herself pregnant at sixteen. My Mum went around to her house, talked to her, told her not to listen to pressure but to think it through for herself. When she decided to keep the baby my mum helped her with the things she needed. My Mum was a wonder.

I fitted these things into the novel. You can buy the whole thing for the investment of a few shekels: Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window Paperback 

Looking out through that window, standing beside death, peering at the world outside, it struck me that we were all stranded within the parameters of our own narrow lives – the fashions and attitudes of our youth and old age. We were victims of our times and ourselves. There was no such thing as individuality and freedom. It was an illusion. All life ran its course and ended in scenes like this. We were all trapped within the limitations of our days. Outside that window was another world. There were all manner of things happening. It was a panoply of everything you could imagine – rich and eventful. Life went on. It was only in here that it had stopped. In here everything had changed. All values and endeavours had been rendered meaningless.

Chris told me about poor June. She’s pregnant. It’s been preying on my mind ever since he mentioned it. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve seen so many young girls get themselves pregnant. It messes up their whole life. Poor girl’s only sixteen and she’s such a nice lass. She hasn’t had time to enjoy herself. Her life’s only just begun. I feel so sorry for her. I can’t stop thinking about it. There must be something I can do.

I remember when I was sixteen. There was a bloody war on. We had a time with all those Yanks coming over here. Those were the days. They had so much compared to our boys, they seemed so rich and sophisticated. I remember them saying the definition of a brassiere – one yank and it’s off. But we had such good times dancing at the Palais. They’d promise you the earth, with their stockings. Real silk stockings, mind. You couldn’t get stockings over here in the war. Girls used to pencil in a line up the back of their legs to make it look as if they were wearing stockings. Some girls would do anything to get their hands on some real silk stockings – and I do mean anything. I never fell for it though. I could see right through their line – smarmy gits those Yanks – so smooth talking – they’d charm the knickers off a nun. But I don’t blame them. There was a war on. You didn’t know if you had a tomorrow. You had to make the most of life. We all did.

We had such fun. We danced home down the streets with the ack-ack guns pounding away, the searchlights, big Bertha up and down the railway line booming out its great deafening roar, the drone of bombers and orange burst of explosions as we tried to knock out the Jerry planes, red hot chunks of shrapnel falling in the road around you – and we were so full of it we were dancing down the street – immortal – not even wearing our tin hats. Not that they’d do much good it one of those great lumps of metal hit you on the head. You were a goner. But we didn’t care. It wasn’t going to happen to us – and it didn’t. Nothing happened to any of us. Well, apart from a bunch of my old school friends. They were queuing for bread and got wiped out by a doodle-bug – took out the whole street. That was tragic. But we didn’t care about those bombs or all that shrapnel – didn’t have a care in the world. We were completely blasé about it all. It was fate – if your number was up then that was it – nothing you could do about it. Put all those thoughts to one side and not give a fig. You had to live for the moment and enjoy yourself while you could. Who knows what tomorrow may bring? We were alive and that was all that mattered. Just the fun and excitement, the music – and dancing – dancing down the street as if you were as light as a feather. They were good days.

Of course a lot of those girls lived to rue it. All those promises from those sophisticated American soldiers with their smooth talk, snazzy uniforms and money. They got them pregnant and disappeared like ghosts in the night. Some of them lied about their names and took advantage but some were genuine. It was a job picking one from the other. They were all fancy with their chocolate, chewing gum and nylons. They had money to burn, all dolled up with their caps and creased trousers – so smart in those uniforms. They swept a young girl off her feet. They were going to whisk you off to a new exciting life in the States – made it sound like wonderland – the yellow brick road – the sparkling lights, big city and no rationing. Things were tough over here with rationing and many families living in poverty. Lots of girls fell for it. Except it wasn’t really like that. Even for the ones who did marry. It wasn’t all bright lights and big cities. Some found that life out in some dead end town out in the middle of the plains, in the middle of nowhere, was about as far away from wonderland as you could get – an unremitting dust of nothingness that they were marooned in. Then a lot of those poor boys never came back to deliver on their promises anyway, no matter how genuine they were. They are still over in France and Germany. Poor kids. Even if they meant every word they spouted they never lived to deliver on it. Even worse, I suppose – a lot of the ones that did come back were in no state to get married. They weren’t the same gay, carefree young boys who’d gone out. Even the ones who came back in one piece were not the same. They came back haunted and changed. Despite all those promise made by all those young men there weren’t many couples who lived happily ever after. Life is hard. You learn that the hard way.

Reality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. A moment’s pleasure and a lifetime to pay. Poor June was going to find that out, the poor mite.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Dad’s cancer – Bodies in a Window – Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

The backdrop for this novel was the death of my father. I am standing in the hospital room by the side of his dead body looking out the window.

In thia extract we have just been given the diagnosis.

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window

We sat there stunned. I don’t know why. We both must have known it was coming. I’d known from the beginning. It was hearing it like that though. It sucked all the words out of your head and stopped you thinking. It was as if your brain stopped working. That’s what it was like for me – fuck knows what it was like for the old man. He was the one in front of the firing squad. But had that faraway look, seemed detached and did not appear to even be listening. The words were falling short. He was not taking any of it in. In fact he gave every appearance of not wanting to be here at all. I could understand that but…………

At least one of us was attentive. I listened as the Specialist told us what was what. The words seemed echoey and were coming to me as if I was in a long tunnel, but I tried to make sense of them despite the fact that I was still reeling from the impact of that first statement. Dad was dying. That’s what was going round in my head. It clouded everything. When those other words arrived they did not even seem to gel together to form any sense.

There are extensive tumours throughout the liver. I expect they are secondary. We will do further tests. I expect the primary will either be in the lung or gut. I can see from the extent that it is inoperable. Are you a smoker Mr Cooper?

Yes.

He smoked like a trooper – had done since he was a bloody trooper. He’d joined up in the war and his best mate had given him his first cig. Imagine that! You go through a fucking war with your mates getting shot to pieces, steel and bullets all around, the enemy doing their utmost to blow you to bits and you get a death sentence from your best bloody friend – killed by friendly fire! I felt like laughing out loud.

The feeling of being submerged eventually passed and reality hit home. Dad was dying. It was confirmed. He had inoperable liver cancer. There was nothing they could do. I sat there seething. This should not be happening. He was much too young. It should have been picked up much earlier. They should have been able to treat this.

What’s the treatment? Dad asked.

Treatment? I looked around at him in disbelief. He was highly intelligent. The guy had said it was inoperable. What was dad talking about? I stared at him and wondered what was going on in that head of his. The guy was telling him that he was dying. He was not stupid for god’s sake. Why was he behaving like this?

We will give you palliative care, the specialist said kindly. He must have been used to delivering speeches like this and the reaction of patients to the news. There will be some pills for the pain. But there is nothing we can do. I am afraid that the tumour is inoperable.

Dad nodded. He latched on to the pills. They were going to treat him with pills. That’s all he needed to know. The shutters went down again.

We will have a better idea of the state of affairs when we get the bloods back. They will tell us a better picture of what time we have left.

Dad was satisfied. He’d heard all he needed to know. He did not need to know the duration of the death sentence – they were going to treat him with pills. There wasn’t much more to say. It was as if he had blotted everything else out. He did not want to hear it. The specialist told us to check in with the receptionist and book another appointment. He would send a prescription through to Dad’s own doctor. Dad allowed himself to be shepherded out through the door. Our appointment was over – except it wasn’t quite over for me. I needed to know more. I waved dad off to the receptionist to see about his follow-up and stayed behind for a quiet word with the specialist. He seemed prepared for this, even glad. He must have done it a thousand times.

‘How long?’ I asked.

‘Two months – maybe four’, he told me. ‘The bloods will tell us a bit more. It is hard to be exact. Everybody is different.’

‘Is there nothing you can do?’ I asked – I mean I had to ask, didn’t I?

‘I’m sorry’, he said. ‘There is nothing we can do. It is much too advanced.’

‘Would it have made any difference if he had come in three months ago?’ I had to know. If I had done something about it back then, at Christmas. If I had noticed.

‘I doubt it,’ he said diplomatically. ‘The symptoms are largely silent on this type of cancer until it is far too late to do anything about it. It is rare for us to be able to treat a cancer of this nature.’

That did not make me feel much better and certainly did not let that sad excuse for a doctor off the hook; he had been utterly reprehensible. Something needed doing about that smug git. I thought I might just be the person to do it.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Diagnosis – Bodies in a Window – Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

I drew on a number of incidents and people from my own life experience to compose this novel. It was cathartic. I was standing at the side of my dead father looking out the window.

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window 

Dad drove me in to the appointment in his flash blue Hillman Hunter car. I call it a flash car only because it was a damn sight newer and more expensive than my pile of rust. It was only two years old and he was very proud of it. He’d only just got it. In reality there was nothing special about it. It was a middle of the road saloon – a Hillman Hunter for fuck’s sake. But it was the best car dad had ever owned. He loved it. It was his pride and joy. I just wish he had managed to buy the thing earlier when he might have got a bit more use out of it. Trust him to start getting things together when he was about to fucking check out of the game!

On the day of the specialist appointment he drove that car like he had something to prove. I was glad we had seat belts in the front, my heap of rust didn’t. He drove fast. At one point a car pulled out of a side road in front of us. Did he brake? Did he brake fuck. He went straight round the back of it without slowing and with tyres squealing. Nice manoeuvre – unless some bastard was coming up behind the fool who’d pulled out. Maybe sitting on a death sentence made you a bit more cavalier with your life, though the bastard might have shown a bit more care and consideration towards me. I was planning on hanging around for a while to come. We lived and we somehow arrived at the hospital in one piece.

We sat in the waiting room and made small talk about football and cricket. Botham was the man of the moment. Dad talked about all of that incessantly. He was avoiding talking about his illness. Any distraction would do. He really did not want to confront dying. We assiduously skirted around it. I knew that if I hadn’t been there he wouldn’t have gone for that appointment. I was sure of that. But I got him there and he was going along with it.

Unlike that bastard of a doctor the specialist examined him thoroughly. Sent him for X-rays, took bloods and set us out in the corridor waiting again.

We were both quiet then. I looked out the window at all the people going past. I was deep into thinking. Those people out there all had dreams and aspirations just like me. Their lives were full. I could picture what some of their lives were like. I could even identify with some of them. I could fit in their shoes.

Dad just sat quietly, deep in thought.

Eventually we were ushered back in. The specialist had the X-Rays up on the screen. He did not bother explaining them to us. I could see the dark patches myself. I was a biologist. I knew the score. The specialist had everything he needed to know. The X-rays confirmed his suspicions. He pulled no punches. He sat us down and looked at both of us with a very serious face. I felt sorry for the guy. He must have to do this every fucking day. It was no fun telling people that they were dying. It had to take it out of you.

‘I’m sorry Mr Cooper you have inoperable liver cancer’.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

I believe – 53 and imploding

Posted on by Opher

I wrote this antinovel as a flow of consciousness. It was a spotlight into the convoluted internal world of a mind. All life and death. Everything. This represents a position on a map, fixed in time. Nothing more.

Excerpt – 53 and imploding:

I love those Neolithic mounds, shrouded in mystery.

I believe in love, laughter, awe, wonder, friendship, fun, respect, empathy, craziness, sex, help, friendliness, highs, contentment, change, responsibility, tolerance, kindness, happiness.

I believe that if we were able to build a mound based on these sorts of things it would be a truly happy fulfilled mound.

It’s just a list but it’s what I build my life on. I don’t have to think about it, plan it out, or strive towards it; it comes naturally to me. I don’t have to form a sect, join a cult or follow anybody, believe in the divine or the mystical – I merely stand back and look around me.

I am the watcher.

I used to believe in spirituality but that’s been replaced by a sense of wonder and mystery. I try not to hold it against anyone but I don’t want it shoved down my throat or imposed on everybody. I am angered by the blatant indoctrination of children. If you believe it then accept that it’s a personal thing – write it in a book, talk to anyone who enquires but shut the fuck up when you’re on my doorstep, in my schools or running my mound! Keep your fucking endorphin rushes for your own junky heaven leave me to my own dope!

I don’t believe in violence or retribution even though I feel them strongly enough within myself. I often want to kill the people who are carrying out the barbarous acts and not one of them has killed one of mine! I can’t imagine. I am infuriated constantly by cruelty and selfish greed. I am infuriated. WHY WHY WHY!!!! There has to be a better way. Hurting doesn’t make you happy. But it seems to for a lot of people. We love pain!

I repress my anger because I have no wish to be consumed by hatred. I have no wish to become violent.

I hate religion. Religion is probably equal with nationalism as the joint most evil inventions of mankind. Sure it would be nice to have a purpose in life. But a special, personal relationship with God – the chosen ones, the true believers, the spawn of the deities – come the fuck on! Hasn’t history, littered with dead religions, chosen ones fallen by the wayside, decapitated statues of gods, taught us anything? Religion is made by people for power.

It makes me laugh when I hear the twats talking about the mighty Allah giving them victory, God wills it, and all that ridiculous shit. You don’t hear them asking why God hates them when someone else bombs the fuck out of them and they lose. You don’t hear the ones in the mine say ‘why me?’ – ‘Were my prayers not good enough?’

Ha.

I love friends, conflicts and argument but I feel the need to be alone a lot of the time.

I’m 53 and have discovered that age brings some perspective but not necessarily any greater clarity. The complexities you discover cloud the certainties you used to hold dear.

Every second ticks. Every step is closer to the final step.

53 and imploding eBook : goodwin, opher: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

The Most Important Words

Posted on by Opher

Bodies in a Window – Paperback/kindle

Posted on by Opher

Well, I missed out the really sexual part of the girls. That was based on a real account but I thought it was far too explicit for a blog. I’d probably get banned.

I’ve skipped on to a different character. The novel is a mosaic that all comes together. I am standing at the side of mt dead father.

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window Paperback

I was brought up Catholic. It’s all I know. I go to church every Sunday without fail. When my girls were at home I made sure they went and had confession every week. I have brought them up properly. My Bill isn’t a Catholic. He doesn’t go to church. I don’t really know what he believes in. We never talk about it. He is not the type of man you have conversations with let alone talk about God, for sure. He’s a good man and that is good enough for me and it’ll have to be good enough for God too, or I’ll want to know why. My Bill is a simple man. He’s not one for thinking, or praying, come to that. He is a groundsman and is very handy with his hands. Bill is very loyal and quiet. He’s not one for telling you what’s on his mind. He spends most of his free time out in the garden on his own. We have a lot of garden with many hedges, vegetables and flower beds. He does a really good job. We might not be the wealthiest on the estate, in fact we are among the poorest, but we do have the best gardens of anyone. Bill ensures that. He’s at one with nature and I believe that is where you’ll find God.

I take people as I find them. I don’t care who they are, rich or poor, Christian or Jew, I treat them the same. Our next door neighbours are Jewish and they are fine people no matter what our priest says about the Jews. He’s a dappy sod anyway, that old priest. I think he’s a man who is too fond of the booze with his big red nose. At the blood of Jesus a bit too much if you ask me. I’ve never known anyone as stingy with the confessional wine. I think he begrudges every drop. He told me that God forbids contraception and that the Jews killed Jesus. Well I told him straight that our next door neighbours haven’t killed as much as a fly and that six girls is quite enough for anyone. I’m friends with them, Jews or no Jews, and from now on my Bill wears a hood. He didn’t like it much but he soon shut up and got used to it. I’m one for straight speaking. No priest was going to lay the law down to me. He could see my mind was made up. I saw what having twelve kiddies did to my old ma. I don’t wish that on anyone. God wouldn’t want that. I go to confession and do my penances. I reckon I’ll be alright with God when my time comes.

I’m friends with Madge too. She’s one of the few I have any time for round here. She’s like me – has no time for all this pretence and putting on airs. She calls a spade a spade and I like that. You know where you stand with someone like that for sure. Not like with most of the silly sods on this estate. They are all trying to be something they’re not. My priest tells me I shouldn’t consort with her either. Madge is a spiritualist. I don’t hold with all that mumbo jumbo spiritualist stuff myself – talking to the dead sounds peculiar enough to me. My priest says that it’s the devil’s work. Well that’s rubbish too. I just think it’s daft but I don’t think there’s any harm in it. Madge tries talking to her poor mum who passed away. If that helps her come to terms with missing her poor old mum then that is OK with me. Besides, it’s no difference to what the Pope and the Cardinals do when they have their holy communion. As far as I’m concerned she can do what she likes. It’s no business of mine what other people believe. Madge is a down to earth woman. She’s not evil. There’s no harm in wanting to speak to yer ma, is there? That priest of mine talks out of his arse sometimes. Don’t the Pope and all those bishops hold séances? They talk to the dead. What’s the difference? I think he consumes too much of that communion wine myself. I’ve never seen a man with such a red nose. I don’t hold with this spiritualism, and talking to the dead myself but I don’t see how it can be evil to want to talk to your old mammy. There’s not an evil bone in Madge. She’d do anything for you. That’s the proof of the pudding for me.

As far as I’m concerned a person gets on with their own life and leaves others to get on with theirs. If everybody in the world did the same thing we wouldn’t be having all this trouble. That’s my honest view and I tell that to the priest. There’s good and bad sorts everywhere. The Catholic Church hasn’t got a monopoly on goodness. There’s good and bad everywhere. He’s at a loss. He doesn’t know what to say to me, for sure. But I’m like Madge – I call it as I see it.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

A passion for Education – The story of a Headteacher – Managing people is hard.

Posted on by Opher

For me there is nothing more important than education. We, as educators, are shaping the future. By expanding minds and nurturing questioning we create lively minds, harness idealism and energy and unlock solutions.

To do that you have to get the whole team rowing in the same direction.

Excerpt – A passion for Education – The story of a Headteacher – Managing people is hard.

There are lots of complicated issues around people. No two are the same. Many people are working flat out doing a brilliant job. Some are coasting doing a good job. There are always a few who are working themselves silly but doing all the wrong things, driving themselves into the ground and being ineffective. Then there are the lazy ones and skivers who need a nudge or a kick, the ones who are working hard but not doing it in the way you would like and the small number who are useless or deliberately antagonistic.

As a Head you have deputies and middle managers with a system of line management that is organised to manage these issues. You can direct them to manage staff or student behaviour.

You cannot rely on them.

The first thing a Head needs is a good source of reliable information. There is no substitute for first hand intelligence. Getting out and about, talking to all staff and in particular the students, not only gives you a picture of what is going on but also a good understanding of the people concerned, their worries, concerns, the issues they are up against, their personalities, relationships with other staff and students, how hard they are working, their effectiveness and how things can be addressed.

With a staff of a hundred and twenty it is not possible to deal effectively with all of them. It is important to know exactly what is going on though.

This is no different to a head of year managing their tutors but needing to form a personal relationship with all 130 students in their charge.

A Head needs a network of views. The information coming in from this network gives you an overview of what is and is not working smoothly, what needs addressing urgently and what needs nudging. This network should come from all levels of the organisation. It keeps you informed.

It is essential that nobody else, including your most trusted deputies, know the sources of your information. It is often the case that your line managers are playing politics, keeping things to themselves, not wanting bad news to filter through to you for fear that it might make them look bad for allowing problems to develop in their areas, or simply retaining information to use later to their own advantage. Line managers need keeping on their toes. When you come out with information it is for them to guess as to where you got it from. Knowing stuff before your line managers is always a good idea. It makes them think you know exactly what is going on. It gives them an impetus to prevent things happening. They know you will find out what is happening and there is no point in trying to gloss over things. It also means they have an incentive to tell you before you find out for yourself. You finding out their muck-ups simply makes them even worse.

It is good to keep them on their toes.

It’s all a game.

This is where touring, good relationships built up over a long time, and an open email, open door policy come in handy. It is quite amazing what snippets come out in casual conversation, as a single line email or behind a closed door.

This gives you the edge. You have to be aware of what is going on and have your finger on the pulse.

You also have to know your staff well.

It is pointless using the wrong tactics towards the wrong individuals. You have to tailor your strategies to the individuals concerned. Deploying the wrong tactics is not only ineffective, it is can be harmful. Using a heavy handed approach on some people can create life-long enemies who will hold grudges and become stubbornly entrenched in opposition to everything you are trying to do. They will then ferment bad feeling and be a focus for disaffection. One has to hone ones arsenal. It is all intuitive.

Flattery, praise, recognition, concern, logic, argument, dressing down, punishment and threats are part of the armoury.

This makes it sound cold and dispassionate, calculating and devious. Whilst there is an element of that it is not quite as bad as it sounds. The need to get people on side requires a degree of manipulation. That is the politics of the job. You work with staff the same way that you work with students in the classroom. Your tactics come out of sincere belief in what you are doing and care for everyone in your care. There is no dishonesty in the relationships. You just instinctively know the best way to get the best out of your staff and get them to go along with your policies. I genuinely liked almost all the staff I worked with, including the ones who were troublesome and had to be disciplined. In fact some of the rogues were the most interesting of all. Everyone has their reasons. Most of what you do is instinctive, intuitive and part of your everyday interaction. None the less it does not do any harm to review your tactics to make yourself more effective.

As a Head you have a vision for the school enshrined in your stated ethos. The object of your exercise is to ensure that this vision is communicated repeatedly to everyone with clarity and passion. You constantly harp on about it.

Your next task is to ensure that everyone on the team, in their own way, is buying in to your vision.

A passion for Education – The story of a Headteacher eBook : Goodwin BSc (Hons) NPQH, Christopher: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store