SOME jobs I just wouldn’t have at any price. I admire those who do them, but they are definitely on my “must avoid” list.

Prison officer, soldiering in Helmand Province, night shift casualty nurses ... they all do difficult jobs which carry their own particular risks, both stressful and physical.

To that list I now add teaching. A family member has just finished training and obtained her first job. She works far longer hours than most of us appreciate. At least she’s found a good school with supportive colleagues and decent kids.

Unlike 62-year-old Michael Becker, the teacher whose long and exemplary career went down the pan this week when he was convicted of assault after removing a pupil from class for telling a racist joke.

After the 15-year-old had repeatedly refused to desist from disrupting the lesson, Mr. Becker took hold of his sweatshirt with one hand and the waistband of his trousers with the other and hauled him out. The poor lamb later complained of a sore neck and the teacher was suspended, hauled up before his local magistrates and shamefully convicted of assault. A good teacher’s career ruined.

Every miscreant pupil in the land, assuming they can read, will be thanking those misguided JPs who ruled that Mr. Becker had used unreasonable force. It’s a depressing tale which gives badly behaved kids the thought that they only have to raise some spurious complaint against a teacher they don’t like and they can get him not only sacked, but criminalised as well.

Isn’t it outrageous that a teacher of widely acknowledged dedication, integrity and compassion has the full weight of the law hurled upon him for a perfectly understandable reaction to obnoxious behaviour?

A teacher friend recently went through the hell of investigation over allegations by a loutish youth in her school that she had perpetrated an assault by placing a hand on his shoulder and guiding him from the classroom after he had repeatedly sworn at her.

She was eventually cleared, but that’s not the point. In many schools teachers now have to watch their backs to ensure they do nothing designed to land them in the sort of trouble that Michael Becker found himself in this week.

Teaching is now officially the second most stressful occupation in the country. Obviously not all schools are like the ones I have quoted. But the trends are worrying. We have come a long way since I was at school and there were certain teachers whose volatile temperament we steered well clear of. A blackboard duster round the ear, thrown with military precision from 10 yards, was the sort of effective deterrent today’s health and safety society would soon have up before the court.

I am not advocating a return to that sort of classroom discipline by terror. But it’s gone too far the other way. I don’t know about lunatics running the asylum, but there are some schools now where the pupils are running the classroom.

NO SHINING KNIGHT

KNIGHTHOODS and other such honours for sportsmen and transient celebrities are something I have never thought much of. Too often honours are dished out by politicians anxious to appear “cool” and in touch with the public mood. Other honours merely go to time-serving acolytes and detract from the people who really deserve recognition for selfless and brave acts.

If I had my way Sir Alex Ferguson would still be plain Mr. He got his knighthood for services to the football club that pays his wages. No football manager plays mind games better than Ferguson. His managerial record can’t be disputed.

But a Sir? No way. Once again he showed himself to be churlish and unsportsmanlike with his disgraceful comments about the alleged unfitness of referee Alan Wiley after United had failed to beat Sunderland at Old Trafford at the weekend.

It turns out that Wiley covered more ground during that game than all but four Manchester United players. Ferguson’s comments were bitter and unworthy, but not entirely out of character with his past record of criticism of officials.

He will doubtless be given a token slap on the wrist by the powers that be. If I had my way it wouldn’t just be a touchline ban. I would demand that his knighthood be handed back. He may be top man at his job, but he certainly doesn’t wear it with much honour and dignity.

TOO MUCH CHARITY?

CALL me a meanie, but am I alone in thinking that charity collections are getting a bit out of hand these days?

I am perfectly happy to support someone I know, who is raising money for a good cause by putting the effort in. But you can’t walk down the street, shop in the supermarket at weekends or attend a sporting gathering without the tin shakers appearing in your face.

What really annoys me is the way they stand on either side of the exit from the supermarket, staring balefully at any non-givers.

The other Saturday morning there were no fewer than three separate charities touting for money on the streets where I live. It’s a tourist town and all sorts of charities appear in the summer months, presumably to catch what they perceive to be visitors with cash on them.

I understand that many causes are struggling to keep their heads above water these days. But I feel under siege every time I go anywhere.

I’ll willingly put a pound in the Sally Army tin for a copy of War Cry because, unlike some collectors, their people aren’t pushy. However, I am growing resentful of the fact that, when I go down town or shopping, I am left feeling guilty if I ignore the tin shakers.

One pal has a sensible charity attitude. He steadfastly refuses to put money in collecting tins, but saves up a pound a week and gives an annual 50 quid to one charity of choice, preferably one that spends the money locally. I only wish I had the bottle to do the same.

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING

ANOTHER day, another film or book about Wainwright. Much as I admire the work of the legendary guide book writer, indeed one of his books started me off on my own mountain explorations, I am beginning to feel all Wainwrighted out.

You can have too much of a good thing and I am beginning to suspect I am falling victim to Wainwright saturation. After all, great walker he might have been, but he was a bit of a misery guts.

W. R. Mitchell, who has penned the latest work, Wainwright: Milltown to Mountain, recalls that A.W. — he didn’t even like his own Christian name enough to use it and certainly hated being recognised by his readers—once told Sue Lawley on Desert Island Discs that his wife and dog went out for a walk one night and “he hadn’t seen either since”.

There was definitely more than a hint of Victor Meldrew about the old curmudgeon. I think we need to give him a rest for a while.