So here we are again.
Another headline.
Another moral panic.
Another attempt to fix a deeply complicated problem with a blanket ban.

This time, it’s phones.

Now — before anyone starts sharpening pitchforks — let me say this clearly:
Young people are in an attention crisis.
That part isn’t up for debate.

But I can’t shake the feeling that once again, we’re demonising technology in a world where technology is not just around us — it is us.

And banning it outright feels a bit like banning spoons because some people eat too fast.

I Was the “Tech One” in the Family

I’ve always been the one who gets shouted downstairs to fix the TV.

“Why’s Netflix gone?”
“The Wi-Fi’s broken.”
“The remote’s not working.”
“The screen’s gone funny.”

I don’t actually know more than anyone else — I just grew up pressing buttons until things worked.

And I like that role.
It gives me a sense of purpose.
Especially when I’m not particularly good at much else.

I grew up with technology.

Not the sleek, shiny version we have now — but the grindy, noisy, temperamental stuff.

I came of age just after:

• The dotcom bubble
• The Millennium Bug
• All the tinfoil-hat predictions that civilisation would end at midnight

I lived through:

• Dial-up internet
• File sharing (Kazaa — still the greatest thing the internet ever produced)
• Game Boys
• Consoles
• Online gaming before it was socially acceptable

And somehow…
My eyes didn’t turn square.
Robots didn’t take over.
And my brain hasn’t fully rotted despite years of shoot-’em-ups.

But It Was Different. And We Know It Was.

Here’s where the argument gets interesting.

When we grew up:

• Social media was MySpace
• Messaging was MSN (shout out to the MSN Messenger crew)
• Videos didn’t autoplay
• Algorithms didn’t exist
• And it took 34 minutes for a grainy picture of Russian tennis players to load

There were no short-form videos engineered to hijack your attention.
No infinite scroll.
No dopamine slot machine in your pocket.

You had time to get bored.
And boredom did something useful.

Today?
You can sit on your sofa and:

• Order food
• Message strangers
• Watch endless clips
• Doomscroll yourself into oblivion

All without standing up.

So yes — it’s no wonder we have an attention crisis.

So Where Do Phones Fit In?

This is the bit no one seems comfortable talking about.

Because it’s easier to say “ban them” than admit this is complicated.

Phones are:

• A safeguarding issue
• A distraction
• A social minefield

But they’re also:

• Tools
• Lifelines
• How the modern world works

We survived and thrived with technology.
So the question isn’t “Can young people handle it?”

It’s:
Have we taught them how?

Or have we just handed them the keys and then acted shocked when they crashed?

A Ban From Whitehall Should Ring Alarm Bells

Here’s where I get uneasy.

A blanket ban on phones coming from Whitehall feels… off.

Who are we to decide that young people shouldn’t have access to the tools that define their world?

Especially when:

• Adults use phones constantly
• Schools increasingly rely on technology
• Society expects digital fluency

Could phones be a force for good?
Could they be used responsibly?
Could we teach boundaries, ethics, balance?

Or have we reached the point where social media and instant messaging are so deeply embedded in young people’s psyche that it genuinely needs to be ripped out — cold turkey?

I don’t know.

And anyone who says they definitely know is lying.

The Magical Thinking Bit

Of course, there’s a part of this debate that’s… aspirational.

Maybe banning phones will:

• Fix behaviour
• Improve attendance
• Sort punctuality
• Re-engage parents
• Reduce teacher workload
• Restore order
• Heal society

Maybe.

But it also feels suspiciously like we’re pinning a lot on one small rectangle of glass.

Phones didn’t cause every problem in education.
They just made the cracks more visible.

Final Thought

This isn’t a defence of phones.
And it’s not a rejection of boundaries.

It’s a plea for nuance.

Technology isn’t going away.
Young people aren’t going back.
And banning things without teaching replacement skills rarely works.

Maybe the answer isn’t ban or no ban.

Maybe the answer is:

• Education
• Digital literacy
• Modelling balance
• And accepting that this is messy

I could be wrong.

Maybe banning phones will fix everything.

But if it does…
I’ll eat my Game Boy.

I’ll be honest — I’m a bit flabbergasted.

Not shocked.
Not surprised.
Just that very specific educational emotion where you stare into the middle distance and think, “Have we learned absolutely nothing?”

Enter RISE.

Our Bridget — Bridget Phillipson — has explained that:

“The universal RISE programme is being promoted as an optional offer available to all schools. Targeted RISE, on the other hand, involves direct intervention in schools judged to need significant improvement.”

Now… call me cynical, but that second bit sounds remarkably familiar.

You know.
Judgements.
Labels.
Categories.
The same pressure cooker that led to a school leader taking their own life.

But sure — let’s crack on like that never happened.

Judgement, But Softer. Probably.

We are knee-deep in a new Ofsted framework.

Schools are spinning.
Leaders are chasing their tails.
Staff are trying to decode guidance documents written in that special brand of bureaucratic English that means everything and nothing at the same time.

And just as everyone’s about to collapse into a puddle of laminated policies…

Surprise!
Here’s another thing to think about.

Another initiative.
Another acronym.
Another “supportive offer” that still hinges on judgement.

Because at the heart of all of this — despite the rebrand, the softer language, the pastel colour scheme — we’re still being reduced to a few words.

Words that attempt to summarise a complex, nuanced, un-generalisable place called a school.

It’s like reviewing a Michelin-star restaurant by saying:

“Food happened.”

Optional… But Meaningless

Here’s my favourite bit:

“It is understood that the DfE does not expect schools to engage with universal RISE and will not follow up with those that choose not to take part.”

Right.

So let me get this straight.

• It’s optional
• No one will check
• No one will follow up
• No one will measure engagement

Which begs the obvious question:

What’s the fucking point?

That’s not an improvement strategy.
That’s a suggestion box with vibes.

All Fart, No Shit

And then this absolute gem:

“The DfE also said that it will not be able to fully quantify how many schools are engaging with universal RISE, particularly where support takes place informally between schools and trusts through local networks.”

Ah yes.
The classic “trust us, it’s happening somewhere” approach.

All fart.
No shit.

Nothing says robust national improvement strategy like “we assume some people are having chats.”

£1.5 Million Well Spent (LOL)

Now for the headline number:

“The DfE has committed around £1.5m this financial year to support universal RISE activity across the country.”

Amazing.

That works out at roughly £2.44 per teacher.

£2.44.

What can we do with that?

• Half a coffee
• A packet of Smarties
• Or — and hear me out — a Greggs sausage roll

Which honestly might be the most effective professional development many of us get all year.

Maybe that’s the vision.

We all sit around with a lukewarm sausage roll, talking about pedagogy, knowing full well:

• No one will check
• No one will record it
• No one will evaluate it
• And no one will care

But it sounds supportive.

RISE, indeed.

The Bigger Problem

The most frustrating part isn’t even RISE itself.

It’s the opportunity cost.

Because £1.5m — while laughable at scale — could still be used for things that actually matter, like:

• Proper SEND support
• Mental health provision
• Reduced workload
• Funded release time
• Specialist training that lasts longer than an afternoon

Instead, we get a half-baked “improvement opportunity” that exists mostly on paper.

A policy designed to be seen, not felt.

Final Thought

RISE feels like education policy by PowerPoint.

Well-intentioned.
Softly worded.
Entirely disconnected from reality.

If we’re serious about improvement, then we need:

• Investment, not initiatives
• Trust, not judgement in disguise
• Support that actually lands in classrooms

Until then, I’ll be at Greggs, sausage roll in hand, rising absolutely nowhere.

But at least it’s warm.

This one is a bit different, I’ve been helping a trainee these last few weeks and it has reminded me just how difficult it is for all of us.

I’ve also been reading a lot about the new £200m pot for teacher training in SEND. Nice one!

Let’s start at the beginning.

The PGCE.

Also known as:

• The Hunger Games, but with lesson plans
• A year-long audition where no one tells you the rules
• Being thrown into a classroom with 30 children and a smile that says “you’ll be fine”

PGCE training is brutal.
Not “challenging.”
Not “intense.”

Brutal.

You are expected to:

• Learn how to teach
• Learn how to manage behaviour
• Learn safeguarding
• Learn SEND
• Learn assessment
• Learn how to not cry in the cupboard

All while being observed, graded, judged, and occasionally told you should “try smiling more.”

Then — just as you start to feel vaguely competent — they hand you a timetable, pat you on the back, and release you into the wild.

No safety briefing.
No survival kit.
Just vibes and a whiteboard marker that doesn’t work.

Thrown to the Lions (With a Seating Plan)

From day one, you are expected to be:

• An outstanding teacher
• A data analyst
• A SEND specialist
• A therapist
• A mediator
• An attendance officer – what are you doing about attendance?
• A safeguarding expert
• A provider of snacks, pencils, emotional reassurance, and occasionally deodorant

Parents want results.
The public want miracles.
Students want snacks and for you to “chill.”

And heaven forbid you don’t immediately master all of it.

Because someone — usually someone who hasn’t set foot in a school since 1994 — will say:

“Teaching can’t be that hard.” or sometimes… “What, secondary? I don’t know how you do it!”

Ah Yes… The Holidays

And then it comes.

The sentence.

The one that makes every teacher’s eye twitch.

“Well… you do get all them holidays.”

ALL.
THEM.
HOLIDAYS.

Said casually.
With confidence.
Like it’s a mic drop.

At which point, something ancient and feral awakens inside us.

Because yes — we get school holidays.
Which are:

• Unpaid for many
• Spent recovering like Victorian convalescents
• Filled with planning, marking, prep, and anxiety
• Or lying face down wondering what year it is

But say one bad word about our holidays and suddenly every teacher within a five-mile radius is activated.

We will smile politely on the outside while mentally drafting a PowerPoint titled:

“No, Sharon, I never fucking switch off and some idiot is always emailing me during half term anyway.”

Our holidays are sacred.
Mention them incorrectly and you’ll see things you can’t unsee.

SEND Training: A Drop in the Ocean

Which brings us neatly to the latest proposal — funding for SEND training for all teachers.

On paper?
Brilliant.

In reality?
It feels a bit like saying:

“Right, we’ve noticed you’re drowning… here’s a leaflet.”

SEND training matters. Massively.
But one-off sessions, surface-level CPD, and buzzwords are not going to turn teachers into educational psychologists overnight.

You don’t become:

• A SEND lead
• An ED psych
• A trauma specialist

Because someone put you in a hall for two hours with a PowerPoint and a biscuit.

We need proper, ongoing, expert-led training — not something designed to tick a box and look good in a policy document. Which is why £200m is not even a drop in the ocean – there are half a million teachers across the country requiring more (because we want it done properly, not because we’re incapable) than just a poster.

Funnily enough I can see it now, just like the huge issue about sexual harassment. “Stick a poster up about it not being ‘banter’ that’ll show ’em!”

This can’t be the same SEND is a real issue across the country, I should know – my daughter is autistic. She gets unbelievable support at her mainstream school but they go above and beyond. They do all this with their own purse strings!

Final Thought

Teaching asks you to be everything, all at once, with minimal training and maximum judgement.

You are trained intensely…
Then launched violently…
Then criticised constantly…
Then reminded you’re “lucky” because of the holidays.

And still — somehow — you show up.

So next time someone says:

“At least you get all them holidays…”

Smile.
Breathe.
And remember:
They couldn’t last a week on a PGCE.

And they definitely couldn’t survive Monday period one.