Andy Richardson: Helpful or popular? It’s a school for thought

In the second paragraph of an essay about the state of live music she triumphantly made the assertion. And, by my simple maths, that means there must have been the equivalent of nine million gigs at Wolverhampton’s 3,000-seater Civic Hall in one single year, which is roughly 25,000 every single day. Imagine that. Nine million gigs. The stewards would be more tired than the guy who crawled the London Marathon in an ape suit on his hands and knees, taking seven days to reach the finish line. Poor man. Poor knees. Ooh. Ooh Ooh.

For my student’s theory to work, the district of Cannock Chase would have to stage 10 sell-out gigs by Paul Weller every single day for a year – as would the 256 other UK districts, towns and cities with a population of 95,000 or more. And as much as I love Paul Weller – and, for that matter, Cannock Chase, even I might baulk at the idea of watching his nibs play for the equivalent of 20 hours per day, every day, for ONE. WHOLE. YEAR.

There aren’t 27,000,000,000 UK concert attendees per year, of course. The student had made a simple mistake, confusing the word ‘billion’ for ‘million’. I’m sure she’ll go far. For who but an eagle-eyed workaholic tutor would spot that?

Spring is a season of new beginnings, of opportunity and hope. It brings asparagus, new council tax bills and for those who are racking up debts of around £35,000 per head in order to stick a letter or two after their name in the hope that it will improve their job prospects, it also brings exams.

In the little spare time I have, rather than watch footie, mow lawns, paint the conservatory or tinker with tappets, I work with a bunch of bright, young 20-somethings who want to get a job in an industry where jobs no longer exist. It doesn’t last long – a few weeks each year – and it’s a privilege to spend time with remarkable young things who provide unending inspiration. The truth, of course, is that I learn from them, rather than the other way round.

Except for when they insist there are 10 Paul Weller gigs per day in tiny districts of Staffordshire. Then I write pithy remarks on their assessment sheet and feel the pain as they stick another pin in the doll that they’ve lovingly made of a middle-aged man with not much hair who bangs on about the need to be accurate in order to be credible.

When I started work, Team GB were losing face in the Seoul Olympics, the England cricket team were being banned from India, Maggie was still PM and Ian Rush was becoming Britain’s most expensive footballer after returning to Liverpool from Juventus for £2.7 million. Which, to today’s footballers, is peanuts.

And in the intervening 29 years, there have been a small number of mentors who have personified helpfulness and support. The first of whom was a man with a beard so thick and bushy that sparrows nested in it. His love of gardening may, in fact, have been the reason for his resplendent follicle display. He probably used it to store seeds. Mentor Number One walked me through two years of mistakes – professional and personal (mostly personal, my work was fine) – before I was ready to fly.

Another gave me the time, space and encouragement to grow as a writer – as well as the salary to live on – and smiled benignly when the team that he’d assembled won a slew of awards that said ‘Best In Town’. And it was a really, really, really big town.

Others have taught similarly important lessons: the importance of working hard, sticking to your guns, being honest and loyal. And so when a group of students arrive to take nest with me for a short time each year, I try to offer the support and time that others have given me. It’s about giving back, doing the right thing, knowing your place and supporting those with the brightest of futures.

These days, lecturing has come full circle. Students fill out forms saying what they think of their tutors – rather than tutors filling out forms saying what they think of the students. It’s a hilarious juxtaposition and one that makes for supremely funny reading. Who knew they really thought that about the fella at the front of the class? How funny.

I’m not sure what the student who wrote about there being 27 billion attendees at gigs will write on her assessment of me. Though I can have a pretty good guess. But while her comments might not be flattering, I’ve long since learnt that being popular comes a distant second to being helpful. And I know which I strive to be.