What do tech bros and pushy parents have in common? They’re both fond of citing Samuel Beckett’s most famous quote: ‘Fail again. Fail better.’ For parents, the line is invariably deployed when their ‘gifted’ child has underwhelmed at a crucial juncture.
Let’s park the inconvenient fact that Beckett’s line has nothing to do with self-help. Just go with it and nod sympathetically while inwardly enjoying their elaborate contortions in an attempt to save face.
Perhaps my favourite example is a Putney mum (we’ll call her Polly) whose son played tennis with my friend’s children a few years ago. Her boy’s failure to get into Cambridge (‘It wouldn’t have been the right place for him anyway, so we’re pretty relieved!’) has proved to be a gift that continues giving.
For Polly, her son’s failure (sorry, minor setback… sorry, learning opportunity) has prompted such a rethink and reappraisal of her values that she has quit her old job and set herself up as a life coach. Now, if you’re having a bad day you can pull up one of her motivational (some might call them hysterical) Instagram reels, sit back and enjoy her Duchess of Sussex-style affirmations such as: ‘Did you know that you are actually your biggest fan?’; ‘You are the only person who knows how brilliant you actually are!’; ‘Write all your achievements down, write your letter of reference on why you are awesome – to the world!’.
Whichever Russell Group university Polly’s son got into, he’s surely medicated for anxiety
Poor Polly. But, more importantly, poor son. I don’t have a current status update for him but imagine that whichever Russell Group university he got into, he’s surely medicated for anxiety.
There are a lot of Pollys around. We’ve all met them at the school gates and PTA fundraisers, or had the misfortune to be seated next to them at a dinner party. They make the mistake of bigging up their children, feeling secure that, having been tutored in every subject to within an inch of their lives, they’ll cruise into Oxford or win a King’s Scholarship to Eton.
When it doesn’t happen, the humble-brag social media posts dry up while Polly hunkers down to plot a new strategy. Usually, this involves ringing round the crammers or £250-an-hour super-tutors. It’s an overused word these days, but the reasons for resorting to such measures are legendary. My favourite: ‘He didn’t get the A-levels he needed for university because it was the first year they let girls into the sixth form. They spent all their time shagging!’ Surely the more likely reason is that he didn’t do enough work – or perhaps he just wasn’t as bright as you thought? Or perhaps he isn’t cut out for the university you’d envisaged for him?
Chatting to a woman at a drinks party once, I asked what her eldest son, who’d come back to live at home, was doing. ‘He’s a tree surgeon,’ she said, in obvious discomfort. I happen to think there’s something rather noble and wonderful about being an arborist. His arty West Country boarding school, she added, by way of explanation, ‘was too free’.
Another mother justified throwing £50,000 at a crammer for retakes because ‘We haven’t spent all this money for him to become an estate agent’. Pity the poor offspring of the Pollys. Children and young people do have to find the level at which they’re happy working and existing. Martin Amis got into Oxford with an exhibition after his stepmother sent him to a crammer. But many teenagers today will find themselves in one because they haven’t met their parents’ expectations. If they actually want to re-take their A-levels, then why not let them do it under their own steam at the local further education college?
I’ve always sought to underplay my own kids’ achievements, believing it better to allow them to shine in their own time. I’m not claiming parenting-guru status here – this attitude was kind of forced on me, as my children were always the last to walk among my NCT group. (This in itself is pertinent, as Pollys start early, agitating over whose child is first to crawl/talk/play a Bach Partita.)
One tiresome mother at my sons’ old primary school in London had her daughter – let’s call her Jocasta – playing Suzuki violin pretty much once she was able to sit unaided. My most recent sighting of Jocasta was on a TikTok video forwarded by one of my mates, crowd-surfing at a festival, heavily inked and pierced. Baroque music binned, apparently for good, in exchange for heavy metal.
Which brings me back to Beckett. He’s not the easiest to interpret, but I feel we can say for sure that his intended message with ‘Fail again. Fail better’ was a bit darker than ‘retrain as a life coach’ or ‘don’t settle for becoming a Foxton’s estate agent’.
If you’re still tempted to quote Beckett at your hapless children, be aware of the phrase (another wilful misquote) that best echoes the bleakness and despair of his work: ‘My soul drowned in vomit.’ Leave the poor things alone.
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