In my more desperate classroom moments, when I was knackered and things were slipping into chaos and Dave Mania was giving it some, I used to try a little blackmail. I’d describe the probable, catastrophic future consequent on sloth and delinquency.
“No GCSE Grade C. No job!”
It was time for the ugly truth.
“The world out there doesn’t take prisoners,” I’d drone grimly. “It’s a jungle out there!”
My classes had heard this speech so many times they sometimes joined in.
“We’ll be packing shelves or cleaning floors or down the mines or up the chimneys or derelicts or worse,” they chimed.
“There’s no future! No future in the UK!” I’d yell.
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