The Best of British Education

What characterises the best of the British boarding school tradition? I would say it was the remorseless brutality that ground the soul out of you - that's about the finest measure. Very character building! Took me a couple of breakdowns to wash the place out of me. Now, exactly what was it? The random violence of the staff or the persistent violence of the boys ? Which did the most damage? Boarders cooped up 24/7 turning on each other; prefects that ran the place through terror; staff that were on the edge of perversion - take your pick.

Some scenes for you to conjure with. I witnessed all of these during the five years I spent boarding between the age of thirteen and eighteen. Formative years indeed.

1
The Senior prefects' room. Two prefects have thrown a 15 year old into the corner behind one of their armchairs and are kicking him. He crawls out of the corner and leaves the room with blood around his mouth.

2
Two sub-prefect/dormitory leaders taking a fourteen year old boy out onto the top of main block fire escape. One hold him over the rails by his heels. The other lies down on the fire escape floor with his arms out through the bars waiting to catch the unfortunate. They torment the boy with false releases before they try-out their "drop and catch" for real.

3
One of the above sub-prefects, who later left to join the South African Police, where he no doubt put to good use the skills he had learned, hanging a 13 year old boy from the ceiling by his wrists with a rope until he "confessed". He also tried suspending boys by their thumbs. A question of tying a good slip knot in a fine enough cord, I think. Bit of a perfectionist really. Kept trying differing methods to see which worked best.

4
A classroom full of boarders, each filing past a seated boy and each and every one hitting him around the head with their books as they left the room. I am as guilty as the rest in this. The sport of "get S____" continued for weeks until he ran away from school, a completely broken person. The "getting" included his bed, locker, possessions, everything that was to do with him in any way.

5
A sub-prefect carving his initials into a 14 year old boy's arm each meal time. The carving was done with a blunt dinner knife. Salt was rubbed into the wound each time. It took six weeks of doing this every day until he was satisfied with the permanently raised initials. The child concerned will carry those carved initials for the rest of his life.

6
The punishment of "blading". Younger boys being hit on the back of the hand with dinner knife blades. Sixth-formers competing to see who could "score" the most "bleeds".

7
Buggery was rampant amongst most of the younger boarders. It seemed to die away by about 15 to 16. I didn't join the school until the 3rd year [13-14 year olds]. One boy was surprised that I missed out. He confessed to me that he had done it with many of the boarders in the year. I think most boys had experimented between the ages of 12 and 14.

8
When I was 16, having my head slammed repeatedly against the hall wall by a prefect for singing out of tune. He held me by the hair and slammed my head into the wall between bouts of shouting at me. I was dazed after. In retrospect I think I may have had some degree of concussion.

9
Being caned so hard by the headmaster that the skin on my buttocks burst. I had to peel my pants out of the wounds that night. They were stuck to me by the congealed blood.

10
Being knifed in the shoulder by another pupil. The knife hit the bone and stuck in. I still carry the small, but non-the-less real, scar.

11

Being caned by the then Rural Science/ Biology teacher - we called him “Digger” . He overheard me using a swear word in conversation with another boy. I was 17 at the time. He organised for me to go to the lab at the top of one of the old block at the end of school. There he caned me. At that time the legal maximum was six strokes. I counted to six - he carried on to twelve. When he had finished and told me to stand up and face him. I turned with my head down. I was determined that not only would I not cry out, that I had achieved, but I was also determined that not so much as one sign of pain or one trace of a tear would be found. To do this the form was to slowly raise your eyes to theirs and show them that you don't care - that was the best way to show contempt. Whilst raising my eyes from ground level I noticed that he had a large erection. I suppose the extra half dozen were for him, not for me.

12
A teacher, who we called “Tojo”, dragging a boy out of his seat and throwing him down on the floor before flailing about the boy with a cane. I have no idea how long the attack lasted. It happened every lesson for some weeks. “Tojo” gave up teaching soon after to play piano on a cruise ship, so I guess boys were not the only victims.

13
At one of the termly dances when girls were allowed to come into the school, one unfortunate girl refused to dance with one of the boys. Two other boys took her outside, held her against a wall and repeatedly kneed her in the crutch.

I was quite good at keeping my head down and fared a lot better than many.

As for the staff – where to begin? The P.E. teacher - no, he wasn't the worst. He certainly had his moments and never missed an opportunity for a good caning and did indulge in setting very early morning runs around the school field as a punishment so that the unfortunate boy would start the day exhausted. Then there was the R.E teacher who was a little bit too caring and affectionate towards the boys. But the worst? That honour probably does to the perverted duo of Bruiser (can't remember his proper name) and 'slop. They were both boarding masters in charge of the same block, one floor each. They took a deep pleasure in inflicting pain. Bruiser would go out drinking, return drunk, and then drag boys out of bed in order to cane them. 'sop preferred that the caning was done with an eye to his later sexual pleasure. Wonderful duo.

However, I have a suspicion that it had been even worse before my time.
It was only in 1948 that the last boy was birched in front of the whole school.

The Sport of Priest Frightening

Let me introduce you to the new sport of "priest frightening" at which I am now the world's leading exponent.

First, find a church that is open. A much harder task than you might think in the UK, where closed, abandoned, lock, disused, converted and walled up churches are much more the norm. Having found one that is open you need to sneak in whilst it is in use. The sneaking in is quite important, because you must give no warning of your presence at the back of the church. Sneaking is best done whilst the priest is engaged in reciting prayers to a tinny congregation in a side chapel. His droning - of course these days it may be her droning - and the mumbled responses of the congregation should mask any noise that you might make. Sit yourself at the edge of one of the aisle so that you can see into the side chapel and so both watch and hear what is going on. Sit very quietly. Perhaps meditate a little or muse on the words being used in the service. It is a very good idea to be seated in this contemplative manner directly in the line of sight of the priest when he, or she, processes out of the side chapel at the ending of the service. It works wonders, or at least it worked wonders this morning.

A green priest, no, he was not literally green but was robbed in almost emerald green vestments - I do worry about the transvestite tendencies of the priesthood - was officiating at the office of holy communion to a small and mainly elderly congregation. After a long session of prayers and responses - actually I do not think it was that long, it just seemed it - he started the stuff with the bread and wine. After the appropriate blessing of these - much holding up, folding of cloths, and intoning - he began to administer the rite by calling up the congregation and letting each in turn kneel at the altar and receive their sliver of communion bread and their sip of wine. "The body of Christ". "The blood of Christ" - Christianity is a very macabre religion I think - very macabre.

Having administered the rite, the priest then brought the service to a close, wiping the plate and chalice clean, folding the cloths and draping them, blessing the congregation and, finally, solemnly processing out of the side chapel so that, now unseen to the congregation, his last words were addressed to the high alter in the main part of the church.

Thus, having closed the service he began his stately and holy walk towards the back of the church. By now he is directly facing me, but has not yet realised that I am there, sat as I am quietly and contemplatively in the side pews. As he processes he suddenly sees me. A look of total shock and surprises crosses his face and he gasps out a load scream of horror. It echoes through the vaults. It echoes down the aisles. It echoes in the transepts. It echoes in the side chapels. He is for the moment dumbstruck with terror and, transfixed, can not move or say a word, his face frozen, his eyes wide with fear.

The horror on the priest face does not abate and, for a moment, I think he might rise a burning crucifix and threaten me with instant exorcism, or grab holy water to throw in my direction. There is little doubt of my satanic presence. I did wonder whether he might pass out with shock and fall to the ground. His face was quite ashen. 

There are sounds of members of the congregation suddenly standing, some rushing out of their places so that they may see, others craning their necks. I fear that some might have started looking for wooden stakes or bunches of garlic. Others extending their hands for more physical means of attack, - chairs, crosses, whatever they can lay their hands on. They clearly mean to defend their priest.

Eventually the priest gathered himself, and making some sort of effort to compose his face, not too successfully, he lurched forward and came up to where I sat. There, as if in doubt that I could be anything other than an unholy apparition, he proceeded to keep patting me on the head, the shoulders, the arms, everywhere he could reach. It was as if he desperately needed to convince himself that I was ordinary flesh and blood. He persisted with this so much, whilst mouthing apologies - but not in a voice that would have convinced anyone - that it was quite clear that he did not trust that I was actually harmless. He voice still trembled. I was as if he would not have been totally surprised had I suddenly belched fire and taken wing.

By now members of the congregation, at least those who could manage to walk unaided, had rushed out of the chapel and were staring at me, not quite certain that I was safe, not quite certain that I would not strike their priest down dead with some hurled brimstone, or cause his body to spiral through the air to come to rest suspended above the alter, or be smashed through the stained glass windows.

I smiled at the priest, wishing that he would stop pawing me, and said " I always suspected that I had horns" raising my hands and making their shape over my head. The priest looked genuinely uncertain at this. I do not think he was in the mood for humour!

Eventually he wobbled his way shakily off to his vestry, not yet looking totally convinced that I was not in reality a satanic presence.

Slowly, one or two of the braver members of the congregation approached me and tentatively said good morning to me. I do not think they would have been completely surprised if I had breathed fire at them.

I rose, I am not sure they did not back away just a little, and quietly made my way into the main aisle, where I took some time examining the interior of the church. Some other of the braver members of the congregation came over and also said hello. But I did note that quite a few others made their way, with what best speed they could, considering their age and infirmity, out of the church, with sidelong glances at me, just in case. I do not think they felt totally safe.

On leaving the I thought it best to speak to the priest to reassure him that I was mostly harmless, but I got the impression he was not absolutely sure.