I always approach GCSE results day with interest. The impact of English and maths GCSE resits has reshaped the FE sector in recent years. From shuffling hoards of new students into not always appropriately sized groups, to the now traditional head-scratcher of where to actually house the exams. I’ve never taught the qualification so I’ve never really had skin in the game. This year, I’ve got an entire teenager’s worth of skin in it.
My son’s been a solid grafter throughout his school career, working hard enough to avoid bother, but really putting his back into subjects he enjoyed. Confident in that consistency, he reacted to missing out on exam season with fist pumps and shrieks of joy. We trust his teachers and felt safe that his results would be some configuration of his usual numbers.
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GCSE results day 2020: LIVE
Rites of passage
While there have been so many rites of passage snatched away due to the you-know-what, I was quietly relieved that he’d avoided this one. I’ve taken end of year exams for my degree in recent years and spent the day before each one in a right old flap, galloping to the lav, sweating cobs, having surprise weeps about nothing.
My confidence that things would run smoothly on GCSE results day was clobbered hard after watching aghast as the A-level algorithm drama exploded like a shit-filled balloon. I was half expecting Gavin Williamson to scuttle out of a cupboard at the last minute, clutching his Strictly Come Dancing scorecards to nervously declare “Nines for everyone. Sorry, sorry sorry. I mean everyone who goes to a fee-paying school. For the rest of you. It’s a three from me”. To say I’ve lost confidence in him would be an understatement. My whippet’s a more convincing leader and she’s frightened of doorways.
Our lad didn’t seem in the least bit arsed about results day, but I was hoping to drum up some sort of excitement in the run-up, if not a Christmas Eve vibe, at least a sense of something imminent, like the night before routine surgery. He didn’t feel an urgent longing for a full house of 7s, 8s, and 9s. He’s got a place at an excellent college to study for a BTEC in film production, so as long as he got 4s or above in English and maths he believed his numbers would have little impact. In his particular case, I agree. We’d had a talk about the potential knock-on effect of his GCSE results and university, but at this point, he’s not convinced that uni would be the right path for him anyway - he’s been running a successful media company since he was 15, currently employing 20-odd freelancers, and he’s already had multiple offers of consultancy gigs as well as proper jobs. He’ll be okay.
I wanted a bit of pre-results excitement though. I have no recollection of getting my GCSE results, no memory of opening the envelope. I’ve dredged my mind in search it but nothing gives. It’s ever so odd, I know.
I couldn’t sleep on Wednesday night and when I did finally drop off I woke before dawn. He reluctantly plodded out of bed at the crack of 10.30 and set off to school to find out. Half an hour later he phoned with his results. He’s done really well - a fair reflection of his effort and his aptitudes.
A level peddling
Before he left the school hall, he was collared by a careers person and asked yet again if going to college was really the right choice for him. They would be delighted to have him in the school’s sixth form. This wasn’t the first time he had declined their “offer”.
At the last parents evening, he had been told that college isn’t for people like him and many would end up leaving and applying to school sixth form anyway once they realised that. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to attend that parents evening or wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to provide a thorough rebuttal. Especially since I’d already heard about the A-level peddling assembly they’d had in school, where they’d been told that unless they wanted to be “a bin man or something”, they would definitely need A levels. I had all-on to stop myself from marching into school to unleash hell because:
- It’s not true.
- What the frig is wrong with being a refuse collector? Go on. Explain. I want to hear it. I think you’ll find they were classed as key workers when it all went tits up.
As he walked home with his envelope already crumpled, I hastily flung streamers everywhere and blew up celebration balloons. It doesn’t seem like two minutes since he was a tiny boy spinning in circles with a bucket on his head then falling over while guffawing and being sick simultaneously, or sitting on the football mid-match shouting “Mum I’ve laid an egg!” to the horror of other parents at primary school.
And now school is over and it’s time for college. He’ll be okay.
