Halloween

It’s Halloween again! That time of the year for ghouls, ghosts, trick or treat, fake blood, clichéd costumes, sweets, more sweets and disturbing movies. Or if you go to Eton College, a half-hearted Halloween-themed meal, if you're lucky that is.

You can’t blame the school really. Giving in to tacky, American non-events must be the first step towards moral destitution in their eyes. Plus, anything that might distract us from EWs and divs is a definite no-no, and that’s before you consider the practicality of the whole thing – letting loose 1300 boys into the streets to knock indiscriminately on doors make the words ‘zoo’, ‘cages’ and ‘open’ come to mind.

In truth though, there are always a few individuals who get into the spirit of things. Someone will find a Scream mask and take to the corridors, jumping out at unsuspecting victims. The chef will prepare dishes such as zombie intestines (spag bol) or vampire blood (tomato soup). And later in the evening you may be visited by C and B blockers playing ‘treat or treat’, a new version of ‘trick or treat’ in which you get extorted for confectionary. 

However, in my own house Halloween has been quiet the last couple of years, which came as a surprise after my experience in F block.

Back then, Halloween fell on the Monday after Long Leave, and I remember going to bed feeling exhausted already. However, I had been asleep only an hour when I was awoken by the noise of people in the corridor. Such an occurrence wasn't infrequent – often boys chatted out there before going to bed and as a light sleeper it sometimes disturbed me. But this time it felt different.

 I rubbed my eyes and sat up – I could hear several people conversing in audible whispers. It was odd I thought - ‘why are they trying to keep quiet?’. Then I heard my name mentioned and the mysterious figures began to move towards my room. What was happening?!

As they came closer one of them asked the other who should enter first. Realising now that I was about to be invaded, I thought I should pretend to be asleep in case this might deter them.

Slowly, the door creaked open and four shadowy figures entered my room. One of them was holding a torch, and from the faint light it emitted I could see all their faces were covered. The first was wearing a clown disguise, the second a Scream mask (surprise surprise) and the remaining two had socks pulled over their faces to give themselves the appearance of wannabe terrorists. 

If these disguises were meant to hide the wearers' identities then they failed spectacularly. Just by looking at their bodies I could tell who they were – four B blockers from the top floor with a reputation for pranks.

Being as quiet as possible, they tiptoed over to my bed. Then, in what appeared to be a rehearsed move, they leant over me as if in a horror film and on a count of three let out a wail of high-pitched noise! Terrified (despite being awake) I shouted out and they burst into laughter.

After calming down, one of the terrorists spoke in a Frankenstein-like voice, ‘Trick or treat?’
‘Treat’ I responded, and rummaging through the litter on my bedside table I found two Cadburys bars which I handed over.
The intruders were surprised by this, so much so that the terrorist dropped his pretence momentarily and spluttered a ‘thanks very much’. Clearly, their looting so far had provided slim pickings.

I thought this might be the end of it I would be left in peace, but I was to be proved horribly mistaken. Things took a nasty twist as I was ordered out of my warm bed and made to kneel on the floor with my hands behind my back. Then, as the others began to hum in a low rhythm the evil clown revealed a dark-coloured box he had been carrying, and lifting it slowly in the air began to speak:

‘Eton Boy, your gift to the four Wandering Spirits of this house has been gratefully received. We thank you, but in order to satisfy the Demon of Judy’s Passage it is incumbent on us whilst undertaking this spiritual quest of ours to extract from each of our victims an element of human sacrifice!’

‘What?’ I thought, ‘a human sacrifice?!’ - this wasn’t the trick or treat I remembered doing. As the others bowed in mock reverence I saw the clown take from the box a strange contraption. A gasp went up and I expected it to be something remarkable, but on closer inspection the only thing I could see was a replica of the fairground game in which you move the hole on the end of the stick through a wire obstacle course, without it touching the sides.

‘Play, now!’ the Scream ghost ordered, and hesitantly I picked up the stick. Since I had experience of this game I began to make good progress. I was almost halfway round though when my hand slipped momentarily and I touched the wire. As with the fairground game, I expected a buzzer to go off to indicate I had lost. However, I was taken aback when instead of hearing a sound the machine sent a powerful electric shock through the stick and into my hand! 

I yelped out in pain and the ‘Wandering Spirits’ fell about laughing, thrilled that I hadn't foreseen what would happen. But they showed me no mercy and bade me to play again. The knowledge of what lay in store were I to fail now made the task seem impossible. With my confidence dashed I lost within seconds, and the pain  felt worse, leading me to question whether the game could actually be legal.

I made a third and final attempt, and this time in spite of the pressure I made my way around quickly. I was favourite to come out on top when, sensing the undesirability of this outcome, the second terrorist extinguished the torch and plunged the room into darkness. The electric shock arrived a moment later and with a final peal of laughter the Spirits gathered up their things and left.

I knelt there in the dark, my hand numb with the pain. But at breakfast the next morning it turned out I had been lucky. Other F blockers had been empty-handed when it came to offering sweets, and as a result had been forced to attempt the wire game over 10 times! Runty was one of these unfortunates, and he told me about his effort to pacify the B blockers by opting for ‘trick’ over ‘treat’.

This was a bold strategy, particularly since Runty was no magician. His attempted move however had years of experience behind it, perfected by his uncle who used it on wandering trick or treaters. It consisted simply of predicting a coin toss three times in a row. If correct each time then the children would leave with nothing, but if he failed he would hand over a double helping of goodies.

The problem for Runty though was that whilst his uncle used a double-headed coin (like uncle like nephew?), he himself had a standard one to choose from, and he hadn’t lucked out. Besides, whether tossing a coin counts as a trick anyway is highly questionable, and the ‘Wandering Spirits’ recognised this by making Runty do the wire game holding the stick in his mouth.

You might think all of this sounds torturous, but looking back I’m glad I went through it. Of course I'm no fan of electric shocks, but life is about stories and this was a great one.

I’m not sure what The Princess would think of it though. For anyone wondering how my catch-up went with her last week, I’m afraid to say she went down with a cold (not Ebola) and had to pull out. She’s recovered now fortunately and Runty thinks I should use Halloween to send her a flirty message. At first I agreed, but when I heard his suggestion - ‘Can if I bob for your apples? - I made a sharp U-turn. Part of me wonders whether that boy needs a costume tomorrow.

Long Leave

aaannd breathe…it’s Long Leave at last!

-Long Leave? What the hell is that?

 Well, it’s our special name for half-term.

-Then call it half-term like everyone else you posh tit! 

But we already call our terms ‘halves’, so if we called half-term ‘half-term’ it might get confusing.

-That’s really dumb! 

Yeah, I know.

-Why call terms ‘halves’ anyway? 

Apparently a long time ago there were only two terms per year so each one was one half of a school year.

-So why aren’t they called ‘thirds’ now?

 I don’t know - it would make more sense wouldn’t it?

-Course it would you idiot! 

Alright mate, chill out.

I’ve never actually had a conversation like this, but still, it shows that Eton’s lingo can be problematic at the best of times. It’s okay once you get used to it, but in some situations it can prove a nightmare. How, for instance, do I tell my mum about my successful start to term? Do I say ‘it’s been a good first half of half’, accurate but clunky, or give way to mainstream jargon and tell her ‘it’s been a good first half of term’? First world problems…

Anyway, the point is that I've greatly enjoyed C block so far. There have been ups (House Shout, good EWs, scoring goals in footy) as well as downs (the shampoo debacle, Runty generally), but mostly ups. It’s been a lot of fun, but I think I speak for everyone when I say we’re all shattered. Granted, we may not be out fighting African civil wars like some teenagers our age, but over the past six and a half weeks we’ve had only eight days without lessons, countless EWs to tackle, competitive sport and music trials, and the daily grind of living next to that person we don’t actually like. It’s time for a rest.

Everyone has their own way of relaxing. Some people go off on holiday, which seems plain greedy given the summer's only just over. Others take advantage of season tickets and go to watch their football or rugby teams play. The rest, (including me) stay at home and do absolutely nothing.

Not literally of course, but not anything that requires too much mental or physical strain. One of my favourite ways to unwind is to take my dog on a walk near our house. We head down this deserted, hidden pathway which leads to a cluster of semi-derelict houses. One of these fantastic red-brick buildings has a large apple tree in the middle of its garden, and whilst my dog is busy urinating over everything nearby, I like to pick up stones and hurl them at the tree, seeing how many apples I can knock down. 

I was doing this the other day, and had chalked up three direct hits in five minutes, including a rare double bull’s-eye. I was just about to consider becoming a modern day William Tell when I heard a rustling of leaves from the direction of the path. Looking up, I saw advancing towards me the figure of a fat, angry-looking man, who I could only assume was the owner of the apple tree. 

Panicking, I let go of the stone in my hand and put into action the first escape plan that came to mind. Picking up my dog, I hurled him over the fence of the garden opposite, and with the help of a well-placed tree stump, just about clambered over myself. 

I tore my jeans in the process, but I was grateful for my slim build because by this point the man had come chasing after me, with cries of ‘Oi! Come back here!’and threats to call the police. I ignored him and stumbled haphazardly through the overgrown garden in front of me, eventually reaching the safety of the main road. It was a close shave, but instead of feeling sorry for the damage caused, I'm probably more upset about the death of such a fun activity.

However, before you now think I’m scratching my head and wondering what to do, it turns out I have an upcoming engagement to keep myself busy. It involves a meeting with that rarest of species in Eton and Windsor – a female human being. This girl, whose name shall be The Princess, looks in every way like a blue-blooded highness - blonde hair, green eyes and a lovely smile. Is she is a real princess? No, I'm afraid not, nor is she my actual girlfriend (though I'm working on it).

To give some background to this (non-)romance of mine, I first met The Princess about four months ago, when I ventured into a pub with a friend and group of his mates to celebrate the end of GCSEs. Given that I go to boarding school, the only people I knew there were my friend and a girl I once met at a jumble sale, a situation which proved disastrous as I ended up stranded at a table with three geeky boys, who not only failed to include me in their conversation but could only talk about their chemistry exam. 

It was a nightmare, and I was praying for something or someone to come save me. Astonishingly, no sooner had I said an Ave Marias then a miracle duly arrived, not in the form of my companions dropping down dead, but in a girl, a very pretty girl approaching our table and asking if she could join us. Stunned by my swift reversal in fortune, I spluttered a ‘no, not at all… come sit down here’, which came out like an order rather than a cool approval, but one which she luckily obeyed.

With the nerds engrossed in their periodic table, we spent the next hour chatting about me, her and life generally. She was interested in my opinions and laughed at my jokes, and in a state of lightheadedness I asked for her number. She gave it to me, and since then we have kept in contact via text and Whatsapp. 

Is it love? I don’t know, but all I can say is that I want to be with her. ‘Ask her out then’, you’re probably thinking. I could do, but it's not as simple as that. It feels premature for a start - because she was away for most of the summer we’ve only been able to catch up a few times, and it's always been with other friends. As a result she doesn’t really know me that well yet, and I fear that by asking her out now she'll say something like ‘let’s keep hanging out for the moment’ and write me off as desperate. But at the same time, I worry that if I don’t move in soon I'll end up in the dreaded ‘friend-zone’, which I’m told is like the seventh circle of hell. Even worse, someone else might swoop in.

What to do? Just go for it and ask her out this Saturday? But even that might not be possible, since the it's likely she'll bring a friend along to our Starbucks visit. And how exactly would I put it to her – ‘do you fancy doing something when I get back in seven weeks’ time, and in the meantime can you ignore all the handsome, local boys hitting on you?’ Not the most attractive proposition.

Whatever I end up doing, I admit to making one big mistake already. It wasn't anything I said to The Princess, but consisted in me revealing all my feelings to Runty. I knew nothing good could come of it, and unsurprisingly the first thing he demanded was to see a photo (‘preferably bikini’), which he critiqued with the comment 'looks like she’s got Ebola’. Then contradicting himself, he asked if I had any nude pics, and when I said I didn't he advised me to request a naked Snapchat immediately. 

‘But she’s not that kind of girl’ I protested weakly.

‘Trust me mate, they’re all the same’

Despite his casual sexism, I can’t deny that Runty is a genuine player whose experience might prove helpful. But if I follow his advice too carefully I could end up like a cheap Russell Brand.

If only girls were as simple as stones and apple trees.

Dear Diary...

I don’t keep a diary, but if I did the past week would read something like this:

Friday:

Got an essay back today with the bizarre comment of, 'this is somewhere between average and good'. Hmm, I didn't know my beak was so inarticulate. I'll take it as a 'quite good'!

For some reason Friday Chambers always throws up the worst food of the week. Today we got given yoghurts. Yoghurts! Fridays is supposed to be the end of the week, a time for celebration - going to the next div to hear that your mate from the house opposite got a bacon butty is gutting, especially when the only flavours left by the time you arrived were peach or banana. Whoever is responsible for this debacle needs to sort it out!

Saturdays: 

Although I dislike having to work on Saturdays I’m not sure there’s a better feeling than walking out of last div knowing you have 40 hours or so of freedom. I wasn’t playing a match this afternoon so went down to the Field to watch the Fifteen take on Wellington. I'm afraid to say we got tonked - I didn't stay around to watch the whole match but from what I did see it was very one-sided. 

It's disappointing, but then again what can you expect from a school that laces its flu jabs with steroids and tell its players muscles will get them far in life?

Sunday:

There are lazy Sundays, and then there are lazy Sundays. With chapel over I glued myself to my room and rejected all suggestions of activity. Kickabout? Nah not now. Watch the footy? England’ll win anyway. Get some Percy Pigs in Windsor? Can’t be bothered mate. A walk?  Ha, you serious?!

This all sounds rather cool but I actually did nothing productive all day, and am now loathing myself.

Monday:

Sundays evenings are the time for dreading the week ahead, but once Monday comes around and you realise the world isn’t going to end anytime soon life isn't too bad. It helps when, like me today, you get told in the div that your latest work was 'outstanding'. 

Praise like this is more than just an ego boost – it makes everyday irritations fade away. Discovering someone’s borrowed your charger or has been using your shampoo just doesn’t matter anymore. Not even Runty bragging at lunch about some girl he pulled and asking questions about your own love life can erase those eleven letters from your mind: o u t s t a n d i n g. Yep, that’s me. Deal with it. Outstanding.

Tuesday:

Ok, I’m getting a bit annoyed now– someone’s definitely been pinching my shampoo. I normally leave it in the shower, and although people might use it now and then I noticed yesterday that the level was significantly lower than before. I suspect it’s an F blocker, because they don’t tend to grasp the concept of money and exchange systems and think everything is still purchased by Mummy’s bank card, not realising that I actually used my own cash to buy this stuff.

I mean, how cheap can you get? If an average squirt of shampoo is 10ml and my bottle contains 400ml at £1.99, then the thief is saving himself 5p per shower. Come to my room whoever you are and I’ll give you 5p if it keeps your dirty mitts off my Herbal Essences!

Of course, I could just stop leaving my shampoo in the shower. But there’s a principle at stake here – I feel it's my duty to catch the person doing this and order him to stop.

Wednesday:

Things have gotten worse - if I thought the robber might be considerate in his pilfering of my Herbal then I was mistaken – looking at the bottle, he not only thought he’d do his hair this morning but have a good body scrub at the same time, maybe even wash his pubes (if he has any). Why not of course, when it’s not even his shampoo?!

You might think I’m overreacting to the minor theft of a non-luxury liquid soap but I feel a part of me ravaged when I see my Herbal Essences emptier. This is a product that wakes me up every morning, makes me smell fresh and never criticises what I say.

This isn’t going to end here! I swear I will not stop till I find the person doing this and when I do I will inflict some serious damage on him and his property! Be warned.

Thursday:

Just found a bottle of shampoo in my cupboard. The one in the shower must be someone else’s.

House Shout

We're nearly there. In just 7 days/168 hours/4032 minutes/241920 seconds the world will stop, stand still, look up and witness the return of a competition so hotly anticipated that someone, somewhere may have to take a deep breath. No, I’m not talking about the Apprentice (that starts on Tuesday) but about the magnificence, extraordinariness and awesomeness that is the Eton House Shout, or to go by its official title, the House Unison Choirs Competition.

To give an idea of the prominence of this event in the school calendar, imagine being invited to the Palace of Versailles by Nelson Mandela to watch a private gig featuring Mozart, Beethoven, The Beatles and Peter Andre, followed by a variety show that includes a Helen of Troy striptease and Kate Middleton giving birth live on stage to her second child. Picture the exclusivity and once-in-a-lifetime-ness of this hypothetical event and you get something close to what it feels like to witness and participate in the House Shout.

Okay, I may be exaggerating a bit, but if like me you are a House Shout aficionado then next Thursday evening can't come soon enough! My appreciation of this remarkable event was born three years ago, when as an F blocker I sat in the front row of School Hall and watched the whole evening. This was technically against the rules - younger boys being forbidden to linger after their performances - but I'm glad I broke them since I was so unexpectedly entertained and enraptured by the event that I have looked forward to it ever since with an irrational glee.

The House Shout, if you haven't already guessed, is an annual inter-house singing competition. Each house is required to choose and rehearse a song which they then sing on stage in front of a packed School Hall. Every boy in the house must join in, no matter how low his level of singing, making it the ultimate team event and the Holy Grail for a number of ambitious house masters.

However, one of the great things about the competition is that it is traditionally organised by the boys. Although each house master will oversee proceedings from a distance, it is the members of B block in the house who take hold of the reins.

The first thing they must do is elect a conductor from amongst themselves. This tends to be the most musical and/or extrovert boy, the kind who during rehearsals can get away with comments such as ‘come on now Bertie, I’ve heard you singing better in the shower!’ If no clear leader emerges (which happened once in my house) then a mild anarchy fills the void, which ultimately ends up in arguments and fights. Best avoided.

With a conductor in place, the next question to tackle is which song to perform. In some houses a shortlist of tracks is voted on by everyone; in others the B blockers just decide. Either way, the choice of song defines the approach a house will take towards the competition. The fifty percent that go for something absurd by the likes of Hannah Montana or Katy Perry immediately rule themselves out of contention for the prizes. As it happens, these houses generally have zero ambition, save to have fun and entertain. The more competitive houses, however, will opt for a tune more suited to a male choir, like a Beatles or Oasis classic.

Indeed, the run-up to House Shout sees this whole song dilemma become a standard mealtime discussion. Back in F block, when the craze was still alive, Runty suggested doing a dubstep track. Somewhat confused, I pointed out to him that most of the songs didn't even have any vocals. To which he protested, completely seriously, that, 'we could just do the bass noise you know, like wawawawawawa wa wa wa…’ If I hadn't already done so by this point, I think this was the moment I finally realised what an idiot Runty really was.

             

Less enjoyable than discussing which song to pick are the rehearsals. They start brightly enough as people shed their inhibitions over singing a song aimed at prepubescent girls, but drift quickly into tedium as D blockers forget their lines and that once catchy, but now annoying, chorus is sung over and over and over and over and over and over again. It’s probably how the Rolling Stones feel playing Brown Sugar for the billionth time, minus the stadium crowd and the crazy after-parties.

               

Any house with a sense of humour will include choreography in their performance. This always goes down well with the audience, who love to see the more rotund boys in the school attempting moves Michael Jackson would balk at. But even a house full of MJs can’t save most of the singing on offer, which is out of tune, over the top and generally appalling! But therein, of course, lies the charm.

So far my house’s preparations for this year have gone smoothly enough, ignoring the odd stumble here and there. We’ve plumped for a rather poppy tune, which has left me pleased, but Runty less so. During the song, there’s a moment after the second verse when the chorus kicks in a tad later than expected, which has fooled several people in rehearsals, me included. When I fell foul of it I laughed it off, yet it reminded me of similar incident back in F block, when during a rehearsal for that year's house shout I sang a few notes on my own with the rest of the house silent.

Given my lowly status in the house at the time I was mortified, even though the laughter was mostly good-natured. Being the lowlife he is however, Runty teased me about it for several days after. I acted like I wasn't bothered, but inside I vowed revenge. When later he told me that someone had come into his room while he was out and left toilet roll everywhere I tried my best to feign sympathy. But in my head I was thinking, ‘You’re not singing, you’re not singing, you’re not singing anymore!...’