A new group is about to start a programme where it is important that learners mix with others. Each new member of the group is issued with a lollipop stick.
On one side they write their name. On the other side they write down an interest or something that the others will probably not know about them. All the sticks are then placed in a bag.
To form sub-groups, one member of the whole group is asked to take a stick out of the bag. They read the name and that learner joins them and is given their stick. As they do this, they pick another stick and that person joins them, and so on, until the last person picks the stick for the member of the second sub-group.
Once in their sub-groups, the aim is to match the interests on the sticks to people. When matched correctly, each learner then contributes something about their interest. Each sub-group then builds a model – using all the sticks and other materials – that symbolises their group name.
The completed models form the ‘centrepiece’ for each group’s table for as long as they work together.
I mean, does anybody actually do this bollocks, really? Would any right-minded being (that probably excludes most Teflers, admittedly) believe the author's claims that this somehow helps to form cohesion in the class body? Or is it just a crackin' way to waste the first few hours of 'teaching'?!
I reckon the poor students would simply think 'Oh, fuck - they've sent us the college retard...'. And that 'centrepiece' would soon get crushed by the class bully, thus symbolising 'knobhead teacher', I'd say.
Actually if I had such a large amount of lolly sticks at my disposal I'd use them to prod dozy students into life before one of my famous pointless 'mingle' activities, which are a frequent feature of teachers who want to dash outside for a quick toke.
Come to think of it, the guy that wrote that pile of lollystick crap above must have been a bit high too. It wasn't YOU, was it?
24 comments:
He who touches the raiment of THE ARCHITRAVE
Sees not the MOOT in his eyeball
RATHER the MUNDACITY of his deleterious concupiscence and the SILVERED ANTECHAMBER of his own fluxations.
It should surely be a truth universally acknowledged that an artist lacking a broad mind will never achieve the pinnacle of artistic expression. In order to produce work of the highest artistic meaning and beauty, the imagination must allow in the widest possible streams of experience. Open and broad thinking artists do this, and any exponent of art in any discipline or genre that shuts out experience, inevitably diminishes artistic expression. Such artists are bound to fall short. Like a formal garden, such art may be attractive, but only chosen seeds will prosper. Rarer and wilder flowers will never be conceived, leave alone born to blush unseen. Thus the unknown, the unimagined the undreamt of, will never see the light. Consider the boundless creative genii of Leonardo, Shakespeare, and Mozart. These brilliant artistic imaginations went wildly beyond the bounds of existing genres or fashions. In their essence these genius-artists are not tied to simply reflecting what came before. Yes they used sources, yes they reflected their age, but this is the least of what they were and are.
funny how that sandy (the old cunt) just can't keep me out of his minuscule mind... your time is coming however.. and what a time you'll have hey?
Positively EDWARDIAN!
and what I have always admired.. (this is that old cunt sidney, sorry sandy speaking) is my own dogged determination to lampoon (brilliantly it must be said) something without achieving anything myself ... so long as I keep on and on, people are bound to assume, in the end, that I am a great mind after all, and that I do count for something!! damn was that my life that slipped past while I was busy being mediocre??
Well you old cunt I echo your thoughts, except for the bit where you count so I'm off (having become bored very fast)for another ten years of self-imposed exile while you continue your brilliant, and very varied, very funny lampooning.. keep it up- you'll be dead before the next contact I have no doubt :)
www.i-poet.co.uk
Not mediocre at all! In fact, rather pleasant. A bit like going for a Sunday afternoon drive in a 1978 Ford Cortina, complete with thermos flask and spam sandwiches.
Do they still make the Cortina? Hello? Hello?
Characters
Tina and Tony, a reasonably young couple (known to each other as “Tine” and “Tone”)
Ryan and Britney Tina and Tony’s two children aged 7 and 9 respectively.
Brian and Joan (he is small but dogged- an engineer by profession- she is large and vague and wheelchair bound)
Reggie and Vera, a silvering older couple respectably and tastefully dressed.
Lena and Mark “veggie” alternative lifestyle couple with a child called “Light” who they refer to always as the “light of our lives” Lena has a nervous complaint and her well-off parents have paid for this conventional holiday (which they wouldn’t normally have consented to) in order to give her “a rest”
Two gays called Dick and Chas witty but somewhat bitter.
Luis, a charming young Spaniard who works on reception and as hotel entertainer – he attracts the woman (and sometimes men), folk young and old.
Maria, an eternally distracted waitress in the hotel restaurant with a suspicious and vengeful boyfriend, Javier.
Flamenco dancers
Holiday Island - excerpt
By P. Symon.
Satirical Drawings Bespoke Work Play Short Stories Television Screenplay Poems of Being Novel
Cangrejos
A Short Story- By P. Symon.
I could hear the relaxed buzz of after-work conversation as I turned the last corner, quite decided that this was, wherever it was, my final destination of the day. Ok, not bad I thought. I was outside a busy, traditional London pub of the quaint kind with etched glass, old fashioned tiles and solid swing doors. Just gathering together were a group of vocal Australians with a large buggy containing a golden-haired baby girl just able to talk baby talk in a charming way. With the baby was a young mother who not only had not lost her pregnancy weight, but clearly was still “on the way up”. She was a natural honey-blond and would have been, and probably had been, pretty, except for now being both rotund and short. Next to the mother was a thin young man, tall and dark, with dark glossy hair. I assumed he was the husband and father. Also present was an uncle figure, older with silvering hair wearing a long dark Mac against the rain, which had stopped, leaving long beads of water quivering on the benches. Next to him was an aunt figure (as with the older man, just a little too detached to be a grandparent) with a kind face of about sixty-five, in a light coloured Mac and holding a small folded umbrella, which visibly, had been used not long before against the rain.
As they stood next to the wet pub benches, unable to sit down, a younger man walked unobtrusively up. He was carrying a telescopic umbrella and carefully and unceremoniously extended it to its full length, laying it on the bench, and sitting down quite quickly without any seeming concern for getting even slightly wet. He didn’t look round, but the small gathering with child, had observed his confident, seemingly natural behaviour, and looked at each other with mild surprise. Perhaps there was also a trace of envy, I judged, that someone has seated themselves in a clever manner that had not, and never would have, occurred to any of them. Their momentary silence and exchanged looks lapsed quickly into another session of baby-talk directed at the golden-haired girl.
The observer in me thought, you’ve let yourself go haven’t you mummy?
“Does Zo Zo want her rainy hood on again?” the mother pleaded.
Why, the observer thought, would “Zo Zo” want her rainy hood on again if it had stopped raining half an hour ago?
I went in.
* * * * *
The bar vibrated. It was feminine, smooth, and sensuous. The wooden curve of it, decorative and solid, showed huge and shining copper rivets at intervals along the swaying line it ran, off to the shadowy end of the room. It ran its voluptuous figure, like an ampersand without the abrupt slash, round the bar. It encircled and enfolded the staff on the inner side, yet did not exclude the clients on the outer edge. They leaned and spilled over like bubble gum, inwards toward the staff side, and the staff too, leaned outward towards the clients as though beckoning them over to the intimate side, suggestive of enticements beyond. All except Barman, that is. Barman was of steel. He was sharp and defined in body and mind at least to the extent that his mind stretched.
I navigate my regal furrow
Through life's vaporous nebuLISM
Royal and SERENE in my procession
UNLIKE the COMP boys with their bitten biros
And their smitten GIROS
Their hogs and blogs
Bunch of nasty SProgS
UNLIKE ME
NONE
None but the fair DESERVE the rave
The concuspicant squinter derives his BLOGNESS from his mediomuckracy
WHEREAS I am magnificent ME
at the junk ture juncture of the INEFFAVBLE and the hideous
is the bloggy site
tattoooooooood and bloated like some monstrous WELK
Thank F**CK I am not VULGATUM VUlgarIS
How many copies of A Day Out have you sold so far, Paul? It can't be easy to market blazer literature in a comp boy (and girl) world.
Hmm, can I get a copy for 1p on Amazon, I wonder?
I think I may be a god
YES
It is becoming clearer all THE TIME
THE RADIAnt eyes, the commanding MANNer
The stamp of other worldly GR GENIUs
YES YES tis more than likely now
TREMBLE, unbelievER
Mmm, more 'cod' than 'God', I'd say.
Nice with chips!!
TomoRRow I shall wrap myself (= meself IN YOUR VernaCUlar) in a pure white SHEET and speak unto the MULTITUdes from the very portal of my Gracious declivity.
I hope the CHAVS geddit.
I know HM will. She sees in me that which she has NOT seen perforce RECENTLY.
Yes, I dressed in a pure, WHITE raiment (= TOGA Candida for the LATIN Speakers amongst you)
I gesticulated from my BALCONY to the passing CHAVS and TWits who throng the booolevards of CASTletown
Yea, and their fury WAS mighty to behOld
"oooz the prat in the DOOOvet" was a TIPPIKUL remark.
WHY canot they see my GENIUS?????
Candida? My ex-bit on the side Annabel had that:I can't look at a piece of nice,soft Brie or Camembert again without feeling queasy...or getting a raging stiffy!
I know that article, it's from a recent IH journal! LOL!!
Paul Lowe is still obsessing about defecation...I pissed myself laughing at his website, I-Poet.com. Even I, the author of the Shighter parodies,am at a loss for words or insults. Paedo Paul still reminds me of Private Eye magazine's E.J.Thribb.
'I started writing when I was a teenager. At the time the creative blood ran too fiercely in the veins to be tamed into a clear whole.'
Paul Lowe admits in this statement that he spent all his teenage years compulsively playing his hairy banjo. 'Of Wanks And Vapour Trails,' more like!
I think the article's taken from one of those awful FE 'community learning' journals, right?
I addressed the CHAVVY THRONG from the HEIGHT of my EFFULGENT ARCHITRAVE and DEFUCKATED as I DID so. ACHIEVED with true CLASSICAL EDUCATION. MY Long DEFUCKATION bore the MARK of TRASCENDENTAL and ASCENDED GENIUS
I am PAUL LOWE
PAUL LOWE
I am PURE
unlike YOO
I smell of WEE
AND TOUCH BOYS
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