If there were a biography about you, what would the title be?

I wrote a collection of funny short stories about my life as a teacher under the pseudonym Peter Carling. It’s called Classroom Catastrophes and is available from Amazon books and free to read on Kindle Unlimited.

1. Stuttering

Taken from the book Classroom Catastrophes by Peter ‘Carly’ Carling. 

I remember being sat on the end of my marital bed sobbing like I’d never sobbed before. Great, heavy gasping sobs. I was in a bad state and I felt like I was in complete despair. 

“We’ll sort something out Carly,” my wife Monica said unconvincingly as she lamely patted my back.

We had no money and I mean no money. I’d been a full-time student for the last four years and this was June; my grant money had run out. I’d been working every Saturday at a local supermarket and often others shifts too, but I’d taken the decision to give up my job because of the demands of my final degree show at University. It was short sighted of me, even selfish because the real reason I’d given it up was that I hated it, and after three years I was sick of working there. But I had a wife and two kids, responsibilities, and I couldn’t afford to stop working, especially since I knew I was ineligible for state benefits. Life had caught me up and kicked me hard in the balls and my wife was pissed off at me. 

“I’ll try to get some illustration w-work, send my C-C-CV out to agencies,” I stuttered. 

“What good will that do?” My wife said angrily. “We need money now, not in three months time. We can’t afford for you to spending your time fucking drawing all day.”

This had been the theme of our arguments right through my time at University studying Design and Illustration at Teesside University. Monica didn’t believe women should work when they had young kids, and I believed we couldn’t afford that luxury. Apart from putting all the pressure on me to provide for them all, it had been a deeply troubling time for our marriage, since Monica couldn’t see any long-term prospects for the family from me studying art and I couldn’t see any long-term prospects in her being such a lazy cow, especially when she rarely cooked or cleaned, despite being at home all day. 

But this was my big dream and why I’d gone back to college at the age of twenty-eight after I’d had a burn out from my job as a salesman. We’d split up just after my son was born and it had taken a year for us to get back together. Part of that reconciliation was that I was to go back to Uni to complete the art & design studies I’d dropped out of at the age of eighteen. I didn’t want to just go straight back into a nine to five job; I wanted a career as a freelance artist.

But the cold realisation of my family’s desperate financial situation put pay to that idea. There is nothing quite as sobering as the thought that you have absolutely no money to pay your rent, no money for food and none for bills. Not only that, but I’d run out of family members to borrow from and I was not entitled to any state support until September, three months away. My immediate thought was; ‘How the hell was I going to feed the kids?’

“You need a bloody job,” Monica hissed. “I’m sick of us being skint just so you can draw fucking hairdryers.” (This was an illustration I was working on at the time.) To be fair to her, things had been bad for us financially for four years whilst I’d been at College and Uni and she had been very supportive in many ways. But when times are hard tempers flare. 

A few days later an idea struck me that would change my life. I decided, after having a long heart to heart with a teacher at my Uni, to apply to train to become a teacher. 

“I can just do it part-time, to fill in between freelance design work,” I said to Monica enthusiastically. 

“It sounds great, but it still doesn’t help us in the short-term does it?” Monica said flatly.

“Er, er, I’ll get a b-bar job, but the great thing about this course is that I get a r-r-recruitment bursary because they’re shhhhh-ort of Design Tech-tech-nology teachers.”

“I thought you were doing art?”

“There a-a-aren’t any art teaching colleges around here. I’d have to go to L-Leeds or Newcastle and besides, if I do this I get the b-bursary.”

“But what do you know about Technology?”

“N-Nothing.”

In retrospect, I wasn’t the best at making decisions. 

So here I was, three months later, on my first teaching placement in a secondary school on the very same council estate in Stockton-on-Tees I was living with my family and had lived on all my life. It was about as hard a school as I would ever work in in my twenty year teaching career and I knew nothing about the subject I was teaching.

“What are you like with Electronics, Carly?” my mentor Judy said.

“Er, er, a bit rrrusty,” I said in a profound understatement. I knew zilch about electronics.

“I’d like you to take the year 10 electronics unit,” Judy continued. “They’re making their own circuits using etching processes. Now you’ll be using acid baths so there’s a few health and safety concerns attached to them but don’t worry, Norman (the technician) and I will be on hand to help out.” (Norman went on long-term sick two days later.)

Long gone are the days when pupils etched their own circuits onto metal plates using portable acid baths, but in those days there was no such thing as a risk assessment or COSHH (Control of Substances Hazardous to Health). Well, there might have been, after all it was 1995, but no one told me and no one cared. 

“Er, isn’t that the class with P-P-Peter Smythe in it?” I asked nervously.

“Yes,” Judy said, a flicker of cunning flashing from her eyes. I didn’t learn until a lot of years later that teachers often got the students to take classes they didn’t like teaching themselves. “But I’ll always be in the class with you, so don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

But I was worried. Very worried. Firstly, because I knew Peter Smythe and I knew his parents too. These were not the sort of people you messed with. They had little regard for the law or society in general and they hated schools and teachers. They only sent their kids to school because they had to and they might as well have sent them with a note saying; ‘please excuse Peter from every lesson you teach because he has a personality disorder that makes him want to destroy any nice thing you’ve ever wanted to do in a classroom.’ Secondly, I knew nothing about electronics and thirdly, I stuttered, especially when I was nervous.

Don’t ever be fooled by those fancy documentaries on the telly that tell you how wonderful science is, because Biology is a twat. Oh it comes across as wonderful and awe inspiring, but behind your back it’s up to all sorts of scams and shenanigans. In my case it shuffled my families’ DNA deck and dealt us a Jack high. Not a terrible hand in the scheme of things I admit, but not a winner either. You see, Mother Nature decided to give most of the male members of my family a speech impediment. 

I mean you can’t complain can you? It isn’t like we got Polycystic Kidney Disease like the men in my mates family inherited, but it’s just enough to blight your bloody social life and affect your prospects with the girls. Girls prefer dangerous, edgy bad boys. I was a Catholic choir boy who couldn’t get the words out of his mouth without spraying the poor girl with my spittle. My Dad stuttered, my two brothers stuttered and so did my cousins and uncles. Family gatherings were a hoot. 

Just to clarify this; I don’t usually stutter much these days if I’m relaxed and confident, but when I’m nervous or speaking publicly I can still suffer badly. Imagine, every time you want to speak to a person in a shop, or a bar or ask someone a question you know you’re going to stutter. I had some speech therapy as a kid but essentially I learned how to duck and dive the full on stammer by developing a mind trick; basically a short melody of three notes I sang in my head before I spoke. I’d rehearse the words I wanted to say as the anxiety built up, play my melody in my head, then spit the words out. Doo wah wah. 

Another trick I learned to avoid the stammering was by replacing it with the sound ‘er’. For some unfathomable reason I decided that starting every word with ‘er, er, er…’ was much better than starting it with ‘P-p-p..’ 

My stammer isn’t too bad now, but as a kid it was pretty awful and affected my confidence enormously. Mam used to send either me or my brother to the corner shop to get some things for tea, (dinner to everyone in the south of the UK) and she would always give us a note; a list of things she wanted. You’d think I’d make life easy for myself and just hand the note over in the shop, but as I grew older it became a cause of much shame if you were still using notes after the age of six. Now if I’d stopped and used some logic here I could have saved myself a lot of trouble because the chances are, only a minority of kids could ever see me handing a note over, whereas everyone in the shop would hear me stutter. As I was to find out throughout my whole life, if there was a hard, difficult way to do something I’d find it. 

Back in the sixties and early seventies most corner shops in the north still had counter service. You had to go and ask for what you wanted and the woman behind the counter (it was always a woman) would get it for you. As you can imagine, at tea-time (four o’clock in Teesside) the queue would be huge. I’d wait in the queue patiently for my turn, rehearsing my list of food items, getting ready to sing my little melody in my head, sweat running from my forehead and anxiety building. Finally, I’d get to the front; (doo wah wah) “C-c-c-can I have a er, a er, er…’ (stop talking Carly you’re making a fool of yourself).

Sniggers erupt in the queue behind me and the woman just glares at me, after all there’s a lot of people waiting. And just to complete my humiliation, for some reason I think this is a great time to fidget with the crotch of my pants and rock backwards and forwards. 

‘A er, a er, a p-p-p…’

The shop assistant is distracted by the bloke behind me who is pleading with her and glaring at me. ‘I only want some fag papers Mary.’ 

She turns to get the fag papers.

‘A p-p-packet of c-custard powder please.’

I’m thrilled. Relief comes surging through me and my anxiety levels subside instantly. But it’s not over yet. She hasn’t heard me. ‘What was that son?’ 

‘Oh no!’ Panic, panic, panic. ‘C-c-c-an I have a er, a er, a errr…’

Fidget, fidget, rock, rock. 

‘Oh hey son I haven’t got time for this,’ she says impatiently. ‘Stand to one side and let me know when you’ve made your mind up.’

It sometimes took me bloody ages to get served and I never did make life easy for myself and just give her the note.

It didn’t get any easier at school. It was common for me to suffer from teasing and bullying on the playground. ‘C – C – Carling,’ they’d taunt. And that was just the teachers. In the seventies the big comedy acts at that time were Ronnie Barker’s ‘Arkwright’ in Open All Hours and Monty Python’s Life of Brian, both of whom featured parodies of stuttering. As far as the kids were concerned I was comedy gold. It’s difficult to be taken seriously when every time you speak someone is shouting; ‘Ger – ger – Granville!’ Young people these days seem to get counselling for the mildest of situations. For me bullying was a daily trial that you just had to endure and get on with. Another side effect of having a speech impediment is that it knocks your sense of timing out badly in conversations and it ruins your comedy timing completely.

I was in a Geography lesson in Fourth Year Seniors when I told my mate Martin a joke I’d heard (without stuttering). He laughed politely but at that moment the most gorgeous girl of my dreams, Jade Mansfield who just happened to sit in the seat right behind us said; ‘Oooh is that a joke Carly? Tell us it!’ 

I went scarlet red of course and turned around to face her. 

‘It’s ok, it wasn’t f-f-funny,’ I pleaded.

‘Carling’s got a good joke,’ Jade said softly as all the class now turned to face me. There was no getting out of it now. 

Pause, perspiration, rock backwards and forwards, note to self to keep hands off testicles, melody; Doo wah wah, “Er, er, a bloke g-g-goes to the opticians for an eye test. The o-o-optician says ‘look, look, look up to the sky what do you see?’ ‘The sun’, says the bloke. ‘Well how fffffffffffffffff, how ffffffffffffffffff, er, er, er how fffffffffffff…’

The excruciating silence could have been sliced and labelled with a charity sticker saying; ’Please help us save this desperate child’. The entire class began perspiring along with me, Jade, bless her, tried to get me to stop, holding her hands aloft, almost praying for me to end the agony. For the first time in my life, no one was laughing at my stutter, they were just desperate for me to finish the punchline, which most of them had worked out anyway. At that moment Mr Stringer, the class teacher walked in. 

’Sorry I’m late everyone,’ he exclaims as he breezes into the room. The tension is broken and the class, in utter relief, turned to get their books and pens out of their bags. But I hadn’t finished.

‘HOW FAR DO YOU WANNA SEE LIKE?’ I bellowed loudly. No one laughed. Mr Stringer glared at me, his face contorted in outrage at this little pipsqueak of a boy being so rude to him. 

“I beg your pardon young man?’ he cried indignantly. ‘How dare you speak to me like that? Get out and stand in the corridor.’

‘B-b-but sir….’

Cue guffaws of laughter from the whole class.

So why the hell I became a teacher I don’t know. I should have done a nice, quiet desk job, one that didn’t depend on my ability to communicate fluently and expertly with young people who might find it hilarious that their teacher stuttered. But I didn’t. I was here, in October 1995, facing a classroom full of the wildest, most disruptive children you’d ever meet. I knew nothing about the subject I was teaching and I was as nervous as hell. And when I got nervous, I stuttered.

‘Okay everyone, s-s-settle down please,’ I said belying my complete lack of confidence. It has become the norm for children to have to line up outside the classroom before a lesson now, but in those days, and especially in practical lessons such as Design Technology, the students just wandered in and sat down in an ad-hoc fashion. 

No one paid any attention to me. They were strewn around the workshop in all manner of positions; a gang of lads at the back, some girls slouched over desks at the front and a few nice lads sitting quietly and talking. 

‘In your seats everyone, the lesson’s about to begin,’ I said shouted louder. The group began to pay a little more attention and a few sat down in their chairs, but the lads at the back completely ignored me.

‘Are you new Sir?’ Said a bubbly girl with bright red hair as she turned to discuss my newness to her mates. 

‘Yes I’m new,’ I said wondering how the hell I was going to get the classes attention. 

‘Has Miss Thompson left?’

‘No, I’m still here Gemma,’ Miss Thompson said as she furiously scribbled notes about my performance on her clipboard. She would be observing me in my first lesson and feeding back to me about my performance afterwards. 

“Just start without them Sir,” a grim faced, but well presented boy said at the front. “They never listen anyway.”

I ignored him, but I had discovered something about myself; I hated being ignored. 

“You boys at that back, b-break up the conversation and sit d-down please,” I barked authoritatively. 

They dispersed and moved to their seats. All apart from one boy; Peter Smythe. 

“How many times do you want me to sit d-d-down?” He mocked with an impudent grin on his face. His mates laughed out loud as the blood rushed to my cheeks in embarrassment. 

“Now then Peter, that’s enough of that!” Judy Thompson interjected from the back of the room, before I’d had a chance to reply.

“Sorry Miss,” he said with a smirk on his face. 

And like so many times in my life before or since that moment I let his comment go and continued with my lesson, because to fight back against everyone who mocked my impediment would mean I’d spend my life fighting and I didn’t want to do that. 

I don’t remember a great deal about the lesson itself other than the fact that Peter Smythe was a complete pain in the arse for the whole lesson. He demoralised me, undermined my authority and stripped my confidence at every opportunity; not in a severe way that would have caused me to expel him from the room, but in a snidey, sneakey way that constantly niggled me. After the lesson had ended I felt completely exhausted. 

“That went well Carly!” Judy exclaimed after the lesson. “Your first one! Give yourself a pat on the back.” 

“Really? You think so? But Peter Smythe was awful and some of the cheekiness from the boys towards me was dreadful. It was all I could not not to shout at them,” I protested. 

“You get used to it,” she said knowingly. “They don’t mean any harm and once they get to know you you’ll be fine. Trust me you did well for a first lesson.”

“Do you think my speech impediment was bad?” I asked anxiously. 

“What speech impediment?” She asked genuinely. “It sounded alright to me, you have a very powerful, commanding voice. The kids will pick up on any slightest little thing, don’t let that get to you or you won’t last long in this job.”

As I walked home I tried to give myself a talking to, shake off my feelings of negativity about my first lesson but I couldn’t. I didn’t know it then but I was a perfectionist, nothing I could have done would have been good enough for me. I always spotted every flaw in myself and was too self-critical. I had done well. Not many people could have taught that class without shouting and screaming in rage at them, but that wasn’t what modern teaching was about. Everyone in these children’s lives either shouted at them or were violent towards them, that would only make them shout back at me. I had to find ways of making them respect my authority without resorting to confrontation, which I felt was possible with most of them, but Peter Smythe? He would be the cause of a lot of anxiety and sleepless nights. I’d naively believed that I would only work part-time as a teacher, to fill in between art jobs, but as I was soon to discover, teaching took over my whole life and brought me to the edge of a nervous breakdown on more than one occasion. Peter Smythe and many more like him had not finished with me yet. But then neither was I with them. Stutter or not, my teaching career would be a long one