In a village not far from anywhere in the country, there is a secondary school. The school prides itself on its ability to educate vulgar little brats into conscientious, well-rounded young people. Of course, this boast is easier said than done, as is recognised in the school’s manifesto:
‘ A place for everyone, where success is not always impossible.’
The local residents had already filled in the application form for their offspring and posted it before they managed to comprehend this motto, and thus the most ancient and well-recognised foundation for education was present right from a child’s induction: ignorance.
The school itself leered tall and proud from a side-street off the main road. Red brick and cement thrust their way from the bleak earth to the beard-grey sky. Wrought iron gates were speared hard and cold and deep into the fleshy meadow of playground tarmac. An architectural achievement, some said. A thousand grazed knees were the only memoirs left by the children that escaped this prison; that and the flowering shrubs of carefully cultivated chewing gum that clung so resolutely to the belly of the desks. Bells chorused unvarying on the hour, every hour, regardless of date. The midnight peal was a particular bugbear of the locals, which resulted in the irked unpeeling of a great number of eyelids.
The headmaster of the school was a self-proclaimed ‘good bloke’. Indeed, since the abolition of corporal treatment, decades ago, he had often been described in the school newsletter as a ‘gentle hand’ and a ‘forward-thinking gentleman’. The school newsletter was notorious among students for its lack of uncensored pupil input.
One particular day, the headmaster in question was watching the playground from the window of his office. Dressed smartly and therefore coldly, the head towered over students at the wonderful height of six foot four, and had vast leather palms grown tough from a lifelong career in education. His face was lined and ancient, with grizzled whiskers sprouting like knives from a stiff upper lip. His secretary stood by him, puckered, pursed and curved like a crow, black blobs for eyes flickering behind expensive spectacles.
‘Look at them.’ the headmaster said. ‘I see the smokers are well-hidden as usual. Such cunning minds.’ He thought himself a great wit and exercised sarcasm habitually. The secretary tittered an ugly caw in response.
‘They are here to be educated, not to enjoy themselves. I have never understood the thinking behind allowing them breaks.’ the secretary noted. There were a great many things she understood intrinsically, so naturally this confusion was a great shame. Her eloquent mouth dripped gobs of contempt onto the carpet.
Down on the playground a cluster of children were gathered, discussing the luxury of education and generally passing the time of day. A lull had fallen into the conversation and a breath of silence tickled the arrogance of one intelligent boy.
‘I have often been called handsome.’ the clever boy interjected into the silence. He often liked reminding people of this fact.
Another boy, small and cynical, smirked at the clever boy’s assertion and kicked a stone languidly about the vivid monotone of the tarmac. ‘I have always thought there is nothing more attractive than a hated genius, and nothing more hateful than an attractive genius.’
The clever boy, who was too intelligent to waste time comprehending paradox or irony, appeared perplexed, his ears clothed in prettiness. It is distressing but, like so many people, all he had was his brain- a tangle of equations, paintings and opinions. He was a talent indeed, particularly at self-delusion, a practice in which he excelled.
A girl, also in the circle, had been apparently ignoring the clever boy and the cynical boy. She muttered, with all the airiness of a feather, ‘Why do they make us come here every day? It feels like such a waste.’ The girl was a wistful romantic; a fantasist who often dreamed up unrealistic situations. As a result life was a constant, bitter disappointment. ‘Why are we forced to slave away at desks when there are so many other things we could be enjoying?’ she pondered.
‘That’s just life isn’t it?’ the clever boy answered. He was full of answers, all magnificently unhelpful.
‘People didn’t always used to come to school,’ a fat boy said, matter-of-factly.
‘Yes they did, stupid, it’s compulsory.’ the clever boy snapped, trying to use his social authority to impress the girl. He had his eye on her, and told himself his good looks meant he would eventually attain her. The intelligent stupidly insist that ‘love is blind’ when it is clear, for this reason, that intelligence is blinder.
The girl continued, eyes still distant, ‘Why don’t we just shatter down the gate and leave?’ Her questions were like a feast to the clever boy.
‘Because we’d be given detentions, or worse. And besides, where would it get us? We’re all perfectly content here.’ The clever boy assumed that because he was content to stay in school to the flattering grades of his teachers, everybody else was too. His utter blindness meant he believed each and every one of his assumptions and worked hard to ensure he imprinted them on everyone he met.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. This place is stifling. Even colour is discouraged so as to discourage creativity and free-thought.’ the cynic argued, as he would do until the end of time.
‘But how can you say that when, clearly, ennui is stimulating?’ the clever boy replied. ‘Without ennui we would be at an eternal loss- it is ennui that drives us to search for entertainment and invent new ways of amusing ourselves. In short, boredom is the lifeblood of art.’ A smug grin played across his fat lips at such a controversial and therefore intellectual statement. He would make an excellent politician one day.
The fat boy, who thought himself a bastion of liberal thinking (that is, thinking more than is ever necessary), liberally shot down the clever boy; ‘That makes no sense at all. Ennui is as far from amusement as love is from hate. I know not what you mean by such a suggestion, because it is utterly ridiculous and confusing.’
‘No, you really must read between the lines. Think outside the box. Do you have no imagination at all?’ mocked the clever boy irritably.
‘Clearly he does not, but I believe there is a fine line between imagination and idiocy.’ the cynic muttered.
‘Well when I grow up I shall be a great artist.’ The intelligent boy boasted. A depressing hope, for surely he never would be. Like all clever people he sought an inner creativity that he simply lacked; a life of numbers and phrases awaited instead. He was ignorant of the fact that all imaginative people are usually horribly stupid, and this was the key rupture in the patchwork of his dream. Yes, he had intelligence, too much so for a life serving art. ‘I shall be the greatest artist there ever was.’
‘So shall I,’ said the dreamy girl, gazing glassy-eyed into the sky. As romantic as she was, the chances of her ever succeeding in art were slim. Her opinion altered too wildly and too often. A life of religion awaited instead.
‘I shall be a brilliant scientist and find cures for many terrible diseases,’ the fat boy joined. As matter-of-fact and scientific of opinion as he was, he lacked the brains to ever succeed in such a field. In time, as with all unintelligent yet thoughtful personalities he would make an excellent writer.
‘And I will have no job, for I am above employment,’ the cynical boy smirked superciliously. He, of all four of the children, was perhaps the most accurate in his assumption. Like all cynics he was bound to fumble through life without love, success or well-being. All these things he would scorn and thus push away.
The argument carried on in this vein for some time. As dull as school was, it was often the only intelligent debate these children had in their lives. Home life was merely a pause between bouts of education; a respite yearned for and then thoroughly despised. Conversation was choked by television, free-thought hooked, filtered and replanted by Google, and play replaced by the Xbox. All these children needed was reading to, playing with, and relating to. But they never had it, because their parents were too deeply embroiled in the customs and fancies of the 21st century.
They say that orphaned or homeless children have the worst start in life, but it is arguable that children born to prosperous, upper-middle-class families with conservatories and HD televisions have it just as bad. You can rescue a child from poverty and loneliness, but you can’t save a child from the isolation of a stable household. And these children go on to form their own bleak relationships and opinions, pouring their tatty hearts into families to continue a miserable line of human beings caught in the rut of ‘enjoying’ life. It is this vicious cycle that controls the modern youth, and, by extension, their ancestors and future children. Seeking to break free takes a certain talent that is simply suffocated by the humdrum of suburban childhood- the only escape is to embrace poverty as a brother and take the excitement that comes with it.
Even on his deathbed the intelligent boy insisted on his gorgeous creativity, although his paintings were grotesque and never sold. The romantic girl loved many times in her long life, but her career as an artist was stifled by a day job in the Carphone Warehouse. The fat boy published several novels in which he addressed a great number of topics of scientific interest but these books never really gained the recognition and praise he desired. And the cynic grew old and wise, and, in time, learned not to be sceptical but to appreciate the world. In his cynicism he never attempted to escape the boredom of his life, or to be something he was not. He died a happy man.
