School marks, city lessons

Youth unemployment is up and GCSE grades are down.

Youth unemployment is up and GCSE grades are down. The odds are that it is the most disadvantaged young people and the most deprived parts of the county that are affected most by both.

As pupils go back to school, the debate over this year's GCSE results continues. It is the impact that GCSE grading can have on a young person’s future prospects that causes so much concern. GCSE results determine whether a young person can go on to study A-levels en route to university. They also matter to employers.

The map of GCSE attainment looks remarkably similar to the map of youth unemployment. We published research today that shows that the lower GCSE attainment is in a city, the higher youth unemployment is. GCSE results, especially Maths and English, matter to job prospects.

Official national figures with more detail on this year's results aren't due out till early next year. But if previous results and the experiences of individual schools are anything to go by, it is the most disadvantaged that are hardest hit in the apparent move to halt grade inflation. Pupils eligible for Free School Meals are far more likely to get scores around the C-D border.

Year-on-year, children from disadvantaged backgrounds are far less likely to get five good GCSEs. Social background remains the strongest predictor of educational attainment in this country; more so than many other developed countries.

Unsurprisingly, cities with higher proportions of pupils from disadvantaged backgrounds tend to have lower attainment rates overall. Over 59 per cent of pupils from all schools in the most economically successful cities achieve at least five GCSEs including Maths and English but excluding vocational  equivalents. The attainment rate drops to 47 per cent in weaker cities creating a gap of over 12 percentage points.

These pupils face multiple disadvantages. They are more likely to go to an underperforming school: 40 per cent of schools in weaker economies  are judged "inadequate" or "satisfactory"  compared to 26 per cent in economically successful cities. They are less likely to leave school with the qualifications education providers and employers require. And local employment options are likely to be more limited.

All of this serves to reinforce the socio-economic divides that have long existed across the country. 

What is also striking is that schools in many of our weaker cities are better at improving the performance of  pupils from disadvantaged backgrounds than economically strong cities. While there are fewer pupils from disadvantaged backgrounds in buoyant cities, they are less likely to achieve good GCSEs than disadvantaged pupils in struggling cities.

It is clear that policies to address educational inequalities cannot start and end with schools; there are many reasons why some pupils fall behind. But the experience of schools in some of the most deprived parts of London demonstrates that a child's background does not always pre-determine how well they do in their exams. Nearly 58 per cent of disadvantaged pupils in Tower Hamlets achieve five good GCSEs including Maths and English compared to a third nationally.

The fact that Tower Hamlets is located in one of the most economically buoyant cities in the country can't be ignored. It may affect pupil aspiration and schools may have access to a larger pool of teachers. Cities should, seek to understand what be learned from initiatives such as the London Challenge that led to marked improvements in attainment rates. One thing is clear. Without intervention to improve the education levels of our young people, the cycles of disadvantage will not be broken.

Naomi Clayton is a Senior Analyst for Centre for Cities.

Students getting their GCSE results. Photograph: Getty Images

Naomi Clayton is a senior analyst at Centre for Cities

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Over a Martini with my mother, I decide I'd rather not talk Brexit

A drink with her reduces me to a nine-year-old boy recounting his cricketing triumphs.

To the Royal Academy with my mother. As well as being a very competent (ex-professional, on Broadway) singer, she is a talented artist, and has a good critical eye, albeit one more tolerant of the brighter shades of the spectrum than mine. I love the RA’s summer exhibition: it offers one the chance to be effortlessly superior about three times a minute.

“Goddammit,” she says, in her finest New York accent, after standing in front of a particularly wretched daub. The tone is one of some vexation: not quite locking-yourself-out-of-the-house vexed, but remembering-you’ve-left-your-wallet-behind-a-hundred-yards-from-the-house vexed. This helps us sort out at least one of the problems she has been facing since widowhood: she is going to get cracking with the painting again, and I am going to supply the titles.

I am not sure I have the satirical chops or shamelessness to come up with anything as dreadful as Dancing With the Dead in My Dreams (artwork number 688, something that would have shown a disturbing kind of promise if executed by an eight-year-old), or The End From: One Day This Glass Will Break (number 521; not too bad, actually), but we work out that if she does reasonably OK prints and charges £500 a pop for each plus £1,000 for the original – this being at the lower end of the price scale – then she’ll be able to come out well up on the deal. (The other solution to her loneliness: get a cat, and perhaps we are nudged in this direction by an amusing video installation of a cat drinking milk from a saucer which attracts an indulgent, medium-sized crowd.)

We wonder where to go for lunch. As a sizeable quantity of the art there seems to hark back to the 1960s in general, and the style of the film Yellow Submarine in particular, I suggest Langan’s Brasserie, which neither of us has been to for years. We order our customary Martinis. Well, she does, while I go through a silly monologue that runs: “I don’t think I’ll have a Martini, I have to write my column this afternoon, oh sod it, I’ll have a Martini.”

“So,” she says as they arrive, “how has life been treating you?”

Good question. How, indeed, has life been treating me? Most oddly, I have to say. These are strange times we live in, a bit strange even for me, and if we wake up on 24 June to find ourselves no longer in Europe and with Nigel Farage’s toadlike mug gurning at us from every newspaper in the land, then I’m off to Scotland, or the US, or at least strongly thinking about it. Not even Hunter S Thompson’s mantra – “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro” – will be enough to arm myself with, I fear.

The heart has been taking something of a pummelling, as close readers of this column may have gathered, but there is nothing like finding out that the person you fear you might be losing it to is probably going to vote Brexit to clear up that potential mess in a hurry. The heart may be stupid, but there are some things that will shake even that organ from its reverie. However, operating on a need-to-know basis, I feel my mother can do without this information, and I find myself talking about the cricket match I played on Sunday, the first half of which was spent standing watching our team get clouted out of the park, in rain not quite strong enough to take us off the field, but certainly strong enough to make us wet.

“Show me the way to go home,” I sang quietly to myself, “I’m tired and I want to go to bed,” etc. The second half of it, though, was spent first watching an astonishing, even by our standards, batting collapse, then going in at number seven . . . and making the top score for our team. OK, that score was 12, but still, it was the top score for our team, dammit.

The inner glow and sense of bien-être that this imparted on Sunday persists three days later as I write. And as I tell my mother the story – she has now lived long enough in this country, and absorbed enough of the game by osmosis, to know that 17 for five is a pretty piss-poor score – I realise I might as well be nine years old, and telling her of my successes on the pitch. Only, when I was nine, I had no such successes under my belt.

With age comes fearlessness: I don’t worry about the hard ball coming at me. Why should I? I’ve got a bloody bat, gloves, pads, the lot. The only things that scare me now are, as usual, dying alone, that jackanapes Farage, and bad art. 

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain