Rules exist, but are broken on such a regular basis that it would probably be better not to have them at all. Pupils know that their school is chaotic and that most of their misbehaviour will go unpunished. Thus, on a routine basis, justice is not seen to be done. Personal responsibility is never developed among the pupils, as they are so rarely held to account for their actions. Only misbehaviour of an extraordinarily extreme nature (such as hitting a member of staff) is sure to be met with definite consequences. The idea that senior staff will deal with the most serious infringements does not exist. Far from being the school's ultimate moral arbiters, senior members of staff perceive themselves as administrators, often unknown to the pupils. Similarly, events such as school assemblies are not seen as an opportunity for moral inspiration, but instead a convenient time to read out school notices and play the occasional game. Little platoons such as houses, sports teams or prefects, which should engender bonds of allegiance and notions of community, either do not exist or play little part in school life. Even the language of reward and reproach is lobotomised to remove any notion of judgment. Behaviour is not good, it is "appropriate". Swearing is not rude, it is "unacceptable". 

The saddest thing about working in a school like this is watching the deterioration of the 11-year-old pupils who arrive in year seven. Many, particularly those from good primary schools, are polite, well-behaved and hardworking when they start secondary school. All this will have changed by the end of the year, once they have had time to absorb the mores of their new environment. Five years down the line in year 11, many of them can't even be relied upon to bring a pen to their GCSE examinations. For those pupils who swim against the tide and retain a work ethic and good manners, I have enormous admiration. 

Apologists for the state sector argue that schools have been innocent bystanders in these developments, vulnerable to the wider forces of social deprivation. However once you understand the philosophy that has taken hold in state education, such an argument becomes untenable. The idea that schools should be institutions designed to cultivate virtues was one of the many casualties of the 1960s turn towards "progressive" education — a movement which sought to transfer authority from the teacher to the child. The movement's leading light, A.S. Neill, wrote: "No one is wise enough or good enough to mould the character of any child... An adult generation that has seen two great wars and seems about to launch a third should not be trusted to mould the character of a rat."

Over the past half a century, progressive education has become normalised in our state schools. In 1993, a lecturer who went on to become a senior academic at the Institute of Education wrote, "Doing what is right cannot be a matter of doing what one is told . . . When exposed to a little more teaching of history, perhaps, this pupil will see that by such an argument the values of slave states and Nazi states would have to be endorsed." Most of today's teachers would not express these ideas with the zealous conviction of Neill. Instead they are expressed through an ingrained discomfort in asserting the need for children to uphold moral norms. As Melanie Phillips wrote in her 1996 book on British education All Must Have Prizes, "Morality has now become a subject to be discussed only by consenting adults in private."