A visit to the strictest school in Britain

The Orwellian journey starts at reception. “No first names please, just your surname and title.” Do your duty placards line the entrance to the school, after which you pass a cartoon drawing of the headteacher Katherine Birbalsingh sitting alongside Nelson Mandela, Boris Johnson and the Queen.

My tour is led by two guides, a girl in Y10 and a tiny new boy in Y7. Both are polite, both kind, both hold fearless eye contact. The girl holds a stopwatch: we’ve got 23 minutes. “Hello, Sir, what are your hobbies” and with that the first volley of questions. I immediately feel the need to make him laugh. I'm proudly given the school’s Progress 8 score - to the nearest 2 decimal points (2.27) - and then asked to comment on it. The 11-year-old doesn’t look convinced with my response. 

Glowing testimonials from visitors line the staircases up to the corridors, the classrooms, the nerve centre of the school. I wonder why I’m not shown inside the digital detox room, neither the art room nor the science lab. The same 11-year-old quietly reminds me not to talk too loudly in the corridors as we step into our third maths lesson. Much like the American charter schools, it’s common place for members of the public to watch a teacher’s lesson take place. "We've had about 600 visitors this year," the boy tells me dispassionately.  

Rows of children face the teacher who stands perched on a box at the front of the room. Ties are done up perfectly, jackets are clean; each child holds a ruler in one hand and a sharpened pencil in the other. They sit perfectly upright. With each child glued to the end of her line, the teacher conducts her orchestra in front, the children playing the seemingly identical note. “Slant in 3,2,1…” and in unison they all cross their arms. Merits are given out for good behaviour, with a child at the front tasked with keeping those merit scores.

Not a single noise out of turn from any child, not a single comment or question or challenge or laugh or squeak. I wonder what happens to the child who can’t keep up? Or the child with learning differences? Or the child that wants an extension? “Nice high arms…louder and project please Dina.” Speak with partner in 1 and 2 and back to me in 3 and 4.” It makes a military procession look sloppy. 

At break, I’m taken into the yard. The organised chaos you recognise in most playgrounds is replaced with what I later see as self-aware play. The boys throw the basketball with a little more concern for its direction, groups of gossiping children are broken up. The majority sit and wait politely for the whistle for lunch.

A kind pair of boys spot me standing alone and rush up to me. It feels a little like it’s the children hosting me; it’s their house to keep in order, their guests to keep entertained. “Sir, where have you come from, what are your hobbies?” Out of context, this would feel impressive and just a little surprising. Here, this is a practiced conversational set play.

The discipline is astonishing. Teachers parade the yard, their status heightened by the flurry of visitors, their identity now engraved by the mark of being a Machaelite. It’s like the school has swallowed a business manual on creating culture, one delivered with perfect consistency, the recipients of which don’t realise what they’re necessarily part of. Why would they? responds one of the teachers when I ask, “it’s the only secondary school they’ve been to.” 

But I think they do know, and so do the teachers, now celebrities in such an uncelebrated industry. They’re part of something exciting, something new, a brand that self-perpetuates high standards, a brand they can talk about back home, to their family or their mates in the pub. “It’s hard work but it’s the future,” says another teacher to me. 

At lunch, I ask the children what they think of the school. They reach into themselves and pull out from deep within their pre-learnt script. Up comes the Progress 8 score,  the string of straight 9s at GCSE. When I make them laugh, I see the child in them; but it quickly vanishes as the girl reminds me, “Sir, please let’s stick to the lunch conversation topic – it’s rivalries today.”

They practice their “affirmations.” The 12-year-old girl to my left gets picked. Hands tightly behind her back, in front of 150 students: “I’m appreciative of Mr Kerr who’s travelled all the way from Hammersmith and given us three tips on starting a business. An appreciation on 2. 1,2” and the whole school responds with a crisp “clap clap.” She sits down - her appreciation met with “3 merit points.” I try to smile at her as she walks out of the canteen but she’s in line for the exit. As I walk out, a staring match between children has been organised by a member of staff - delivered in perfect silence - and done, I am sure, for reasons beyond what they realise. 

Is it impressive? It’s like no other school I’ve ever seen. The discipline, the rigour, the consistency. What’s the opportunity cost? I question their long-term ability to collaborate in the workplace or the lack of creativity they may have. It’s as diametrically opposed in ethos and approach as it could be to our own method of pupil personal development. 

But does it work? The children recognise it’s different; they respond well to the comforts of boundaries, of what is right, of what is wrong. The school gets the pick of some of the best teachers in the country, motivated by the brand of which they’re a part.

Will they be successful? Almost certainly - they have some of the best GCSE scores in the country. As the EEF notes, raising aspiration isn’t enough; it’s about raising expectations of success by focusing on self-esteem. Is there a better alternative? I don’t think so; attendance is sky high and with 25% on free school meals, there is no doubt these kids' lives are changing quickly and for the better. But do I like it? It’s not for me to like or dislike - it’s not made for me. But it does give me the shivers.