Off the Cuff: Through the eyes of the invigilator

We've been reading recently about the innovative methods adopted by foxy students to outwit eagle-eyed invigilators in the exam hall. With virtually invisible ear-pieces and microphones, the era of James Bond has at last invaded the classroom.

Reminiscent of that famous "card playing scene" from Goldfinger, students are showing it is possible to have someone outside the classroom, "uninvigilated", dictate the answers to them. In this scenario, one has to spare a little sympathy for the harried invigilator, quite often one who has let the times get ahead of him, so he is not as "technologically savvy" as the "dudes" he's in charge of.

There's a funny kind of irony at work here, because he, as the master, is testing the students on one level; and they, as the "hi-tech brat generation" are testing him on another, and finding him severely wanting. But back then….when "mobile" meant exactly that, and not a telephone; when "mouthpiece" meant spokesperson (usually unauthorised); and when "cheating at exams" meant "expulsion if caught"….back then, we had Mr. "What's going on here, boys?" Anthony, physics teacher, who tragically succumbed to the law of gravity one post-lunch exam afternoon and paid a heavy price.

He'd gone by the time I joined school, but his name had become legend for all the wrong reasons. The management loved him, because he brought in excellent results in his subject. The students loved him even more, especially at exam time, because he nullified all their ingenious methods of "beating the system". At exam times, Mr. Anthony would walk into the classroom, place his briefcase on the teacher's desk, bellow "What's going on here, boys?" even if there was absolute silence, then proceed to distribute the blank answer sheets, followed by the question paper. This done, he would seat himself in the teacher's chair, whip out a pair of very dark sunglasses, put them on, and say, "None of you will know who I'm looking at, so don't any of you try anything shady. Understand?" The boys would chorus, "Yes, sir."

Mr. Anthony would place his elbows on his briefcase, his forearms forming the two inclined arms of an isosceles triangle. He would place his chin on the cradle of fingers at the apex of the triangle and do a couple of "test swivels" of the neck. The triangle would hold firm. After five minutes he would emit one of his customary, "What's going on here, boys?" then relapse into silence.

This emission may or may not be repeated after another seven or eight minutes. It usually wasn't. By then, of course, the idiots in the classroom were all busy bartering answer sheets with the intellectually better-endowed, all in plain view and under the dark, shaded scrutiny of Mr. Anthony. Actually, word had it that it took a whole exam week before the boys realised that Mr. Anthony was sound asleep. And this is what made him legend: that he could sleep so soundly without snorting, snoring, listing or leaning.

When the strident notes of the first "warning bell" rang announcing there were 15 minutes left, he would awake, collect the scripts and send the boys home. This went on for years and it's amazing really how a student secret like that came to be protected so fiercely. It all unravelled one afternoon when the headmaster, checking up on some collection for charity, entered the classroom mid, or post-mid exam…The entire class jumped to its feet. Mr. Anthony continued to sit and survey the masses darkly, moving not a bicep. At least until the headmaster gave his forearm a gentle prod. One arm of the isosceles triangle collapsed inward; the other arm, unprotected, followed suit; and the chin, minus its base, fell on the briefcase with a resounding thud. The dark shades assumed an enquiring angle, like an arched eyebrow, and Mr. Anthony asked, "What's going on, boys?"