“Fix up. It’s not me who needs their GCSEs – it’s you!” These words were barked at my year 10 science class by our science teacher and form tutor, Miss T. And deservedly so, because we had just suffered the ignominy of collectively flunking a GCSE mock exam. All 30 of us.
Miss T was relatively young, but she was old-school in her approach – she had a low threshold for nonsense. While I considered this mock an inconsequential test – a pre-season friendly, if you will – she treated it like an FA Cup semi-final. To put it another way, it was half-time and we were losing badly, so she gave us the hairdryer treatment: a relentless, 15-minute tirade berating us for our lack of aptitude and our attitude.
I remember it vividly: “Fail to prepare, prepare to fail!” she yelled, so disappointed she had resorted to tried-and-tested cliche. “I’ve got my GCSEs, I’ve got my job. Fix up!” I was 14 and this was perhaps the last time my hair was dried, literally and figuratively.
Despite her best intentions though, we were emotionally immature teenagers, not professional athletes. To keep it frank like Lampard, I was initially affronted by her impassioned rant. It didn’t motivate me. Quite the opposite – it angered me. I felt that it was an overreaction. Our formative exams weren’t for a good 12 months, so why all the drama? She believed in her ability to teach us, right?
With no revision, I had secured a D (one of the best grades in the class), so I was quite confident that if I did a little reading between the mocks and the finals, I’d be all right. “Don’t lambast me,” I wanted to tell her – “wanted” being the key word here. My grade may have been a D, but I definitely wasn’t a dunce. You crossed Miss T at your peril. Even rolling your eyes behind her back felt risky. That said, I secretly thought those who obtained a U deserved her condemnation. A U is unrighteous.
With the benefit of hindsight, I know that my initial reaction was one rooted in deflection. The teenage me found comfort in dismissing my tutor’s criticism instead of committing to the hard work of self-analysis and reflection. Instead of getting angry, I should have been grateful that I was fortunate enough to have a teacher so invested in my future that she wanted to challenge me to bring out my best, all the time. Success isn’t a tap you can turn on when you feel like it; it’s the result of consistent hard work and preparation. This, in part, is the lesson I think Miss T wanted us to grasp that day.
Fortunately for me, it didn’t take me long to “fix up”. My parents are Nigerian, and for them, academic brilliance is not merely a goal – it’s compulsory. A grades were acceptable, Ds were deplorable and U wasn’t even in their alphabet. Crucially, up to that point I had been relatively successful academically, but this outburst was a vital kick up the backside. I realised that being academically gifted wouldn’t be enough – hard work was required. As the adage goes: hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard.
I therefore hit the books vigorously – that cool dude on the front of those CGP revision guides and I became besties. Sadly our acquaintance came at the expense of my high-flying Football Manager career. But my goodness, the hard work paid off. When I opened my GCSE results envelope the next summer, the only D was in my surname. No Cs either. One B in French – not my fault, Duolingo didn’t exist back then. The balance were Acceptable As and A*s. This would not have happened without Miss T’s “Fix up, it’s not me who needs their GCSEs – it’s you” rant.
Regrettably, I never told her that. She was there on results day and, of course, I thanked her for her time and efforts, but I never conveyed the profound impact she had on me. I wish she knew.
This is even more true now, because her tirade is largely responsible for my meticulous approach to work. I became obsessed with not only knowing the syllabus back to front but really understanding it. I’d work diligently throughout the year while gradually stepping up the intensity as I approached an exam period. If I ever felt like coasting or leaving work until the last minute, Miss T’s words would echo in my ears: “Fix up.”
Through the international baccalaureate and medical school, this method accompanied me up the career ladder. Even beyond the classroom, Miss T’s advice holds merit. Nothing exemplifies this more than my life as a standup comedian. When I’m on stage, I can’t deliver a D-grade-worthy performance, and nor do I want to – in the age of social media, a bad gig in Catford could end up on TikTok in Cambodia.
That’s why whether it’s an open mic, a TV gig or screwing together a broken hip in an operating theatre, I’m aiming for A- and A*-quality performances each and every time. Like Miss T, I’ve already got my GCSEs – but I still see the value in fixing up, every day.
Michael Akadiri is an award-winning standup comedian and junior doctor. His debut Edinburgh fringe show, No Scrubs, was nominated for the Biggest Award in Comedy and is available to watch on YouTube
