Spectator Life

Oxford and Cambridge have released figures showing how many offers they gave to pupils from schools in the 2023 Ucas application cycle. We have combined the figures in this table. It shows how well state grammars and sixth-form colleges compete with independent schools. Over the years, both universities have increased the proportion of acceptances from state schools: 72 per cent, up from 52 per cent in 2000. Of the 80 schools, 29 are independent, 29 grammar or partially selective, 17 sixth-form colleges and five are comprehensives or academies. (Schools are ranked by offers received, then by offer-to-application ratio. If schools received fewer than three offers from one university, this number has been discounted due to Ucas’s disclosure control.

At long last, the day has come. After nearly two months of summer holidays, institutions beckon their children back for another school year. The television will resume its status as a post-school treat rather than an indispensable tool to fill the dead hours between events. The kitchen will no longer resemble an all-day canteen, and the house will take on the solemn quiet of the middle of the day. But this kind of peace is only won after a great deal of preparation. First up, school shoes. Unfortunately, children grow at a disproportionate rate to your bank balance. This means that the start of the new school year heralds the annual cash haemorrhage in Charles Clinkard shoe shop or similar.

Many years ago I wrote a book called Dreams and Doorways, a collection of interviews with well-known people – writers, actors, politicians, sports personalities – about their childhood. I wanted to find out how their early experiences helped to turn them into the high-achieving adults they later became. And in almost every case, some kind of deprivation or anguish or obstacle was a key factor; they’d been motivated by a determination to overcome adversity. My days were a little less happy. My mother didn’t believe in the permissive child-rearing policy of liberal American moms For boxing champ Henry Cooper, it was extreme, ‘bread-and-dripping’ poverty in South London.

This is a complex tale involving an American murder, the popular British TV series Flipper, and the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche – but bear with me. Next month sees the centenary of the conviction of two spoiled Chicago boys – Nathan Leopold, 19, and Richard Loeb, 18 – who admitted carrying out what the press at the time dubbed the ‘crime of the century’.  I had always sensed that my friend had a dark side and that he kept parts of his life secret from me The two student friends were sentenced to life imprisonment for murder, plus 99 years in jail for abduction, after admitting kidnapping and killing a 14-year-old boy, Bobby Franks, before mutilating his body with acid to disguise his identity.

The Guild Chapel in Stratford-upon-Avon presents its congregation with a vision of terror: a medieval Doom painting depicting the Day of Judgment. On the left are those who have behaved themselves – the Saved – who joyously bound towards the gates of Paradise. On the right, sinners pay the price for falling short of the moral mark: they are tortured by demons and fed into the Mouth of Hell, to be swallowed by a fanged serpent. This summer, another Day of Judgment looms. Yesterday, thousands of UK 18-year-olds will receive their A-Level exam results. In one nervous scroll, years of schoolwork was validated, university places confirmed or denied, and future careers seemingly mapped out.

Ucas, the organisation in charge of university admissions, has announced that it’s bidding bye-bye to a crucial teen rite of passage. It is killing the personal statement. No longer will admissions tutors beetle their brows over flowing paragraphs about when you built an orphanage in Malawi using only a spoon, or how really, really passionate you are about late medieval poetry. Instead, it has decreed that wannabe grads must now answer three dour questions. This move is designed to help those from disadvantaged backgrounds, who do not, in the eyes of a Ucas spokesperson, have access to teachers and family members able to help: and who could argue with that? Well, I think it’s not only a shame, but another sign of the creeping hand of cold and normalising bureaucracy.

Over the last decade, I have offered legal advice to thousands of students accused of cheating in their assessments. In university jargon, the term for cheating is ‘academic misconduct’. Although many assessments remain online after Covid, some have returned to the exam hall. There are still instances, therefore, of cheating à l’ancienne, with students writing notes on various limbs or smuggling in scraps of paper with minute writing.  I have had clients whose former partners have tipped off their ex’s university about historical episodes of cheating At times, the cheat is caught by an invigilator spotting a nervous glance towards an annotated palm. In other cases, the crib sheet falls out of a pocket or protrudes from its hiding place.

My son and various well-meaning friends have been advising me to abandon writing history books and cash in on the trend for boarding school misery memoirs. On the face of it, as someone who was sent away aged seven and remained in these institutions until I was 18, I am well qualified to add my contribution to what has now become a recognised sub-genre of English literature. My problem, though, is that I quite enjoyed my time at boarding schools and I cannot claim – as so many do – that it adversely affected my life; rather the reverse. In his extended essay ‘Such, such were the joys’, George Orwell recorded his awful schooldays at St Cyprians, a snobbish boys preparatory school in Eastbourne.

In 1979, I was 11 years old, and I had a quite remarkable teacher. Don’t worry, though – this isn’t going to be one of those anodyne paeans to an inspirational educator that the Department for Education use in their ads to lure people into teaching. In fact, if the lady I’ll refer to here as Mrs G were somehow to be reincarnated and placed in front of a Year 6 classroom of today, Ofsted would have her frogmarched out after about 20 minutes.  She once sent me to the local parade of shops to buy a box of Tampax  Mrs G was a fearsome sight – in her late 40s, as broad as she was tall, squeezed into shirt and slacks, with closely shorn curls. I have no photographic evidence, so I’m relying on memory here. She seemed enormous, but then so does everything to a child.