Culture

Although many, if not all, art forms have a track record of controversy, poetry appears to divide opinion more than most. I remember us being asked to write a poem in F block English, and listening as one of my peers read his out. I don’t remember the exact words, but it went something like this:

Sitting in my room,

Listening to radio one.

What’s this song?

Reminds me of that girl.

Gotta go eat,

Damned baked beans,

Then take a dump.

Now, if you’re struggling to believe someone actually wrote a poem this bad, I can assure you my memory does not do him a disservice. I remember a few of us in the div looking at each other during his reading and thinking ‘what the hell is this?’ We couldn’t wait for it to end so the beak would tear it apart. But to our astonishment and irritation, the beak praised it for being ‘gritty’.

Ok, gritty it may have been, but only in so far as it was crap and painful to listen to. How then could this expert in English and supposed arbiter of good taste not have seen this?

Looking back, I wonder whether he was influenced by the appearance of this boy. His long hair and permanently sulky expression may have had something to do with it, thus tricking the beak into confusing his looks with his poetry.

This raises the question of whether art today is more about the artist, or the art itself. Of course, the two are somewhat indistinguishable, but it certainly does seem to me that we place too much importance on the creator's personal life.

Take rappers for example. Imagine that a famous rapper was revealed as a middle class suburbanite. His fans would desert him in a flash, incensed by his phoney ghetto life. But would this make his music necessarily worse?

Suppose again that a celebrity artist, Tracey Emin for example, was actually a married mother living in Surrey, rather than an eccentric singleton with a colourful past? Would her work suffer in popularity, in credibility? Almost certainly it would.

Art therefore appears contingent on the artist's profile. A symptom perhaps of our celebrity culture, where X factor sob stories promote as valuable only that art with an underlying, personal narrative; invariably a rags to riches tale.

In this respect, having membership of a minority group confers a distinct advantage. Any art which can be seen as breaking through the barriers of oppression is to be held up for acclaim, and since only art created by the oppressed can do that it leaves other artists needing to justify themselves.

A bit cynical you might think, but devoid of truth. I admit that when it comes to modern art I am often left scratching my head. I have yet reached the stage of enlightenment where I can see the hidden meaning in, say, a pile of rubble, an orange peel inside a square, or any of the other masterpieces that inhabit the Tate Modern.

However, compared to most people I probably count as a culture vulture. I like to read every day, spending hours each week in School Library with a good book in hand. I go to most, if not all the plays in the Farrer Theatre and Caccia Studio. And I have a broad, and dare I say refined, taste in music!

It's true that we are very lucky here at Eton to go somewhere that places a lot of emphasis on the arts. You only have to look at the art and music schools, the Farrer Theatre, the numerous libraries and the architecture to realise this.

Indeed, if you enjoy drama then any production you see is bound to be very professionally executed. The Farrer Theatre is on a par with many West End spots, and along with the Caccia Studio it hosts dozens of plays each year. These include house plays, which thanks to the generosity of wealthy parents are often very impressive.

Then there are the libraries, with their thousands of books. The biggest may be School Library, but the most special is College Library, tucked away in the original school buildings and home to several priceless first editions, dating centuries back.

Music, whilst at times being rather too prominent, is also well looked after. Music scholars and exhibitioners take the initials MS or ME after their names, and spend most of their time in the labyrinth that is the music schools. When not there they are with the choir, rehearsing their ballads in college chapel.

And if this all sounds rather too native, foreign cultures can be pursued through language trips to Spain, France, Japan Cuba, Russia and other countries. The Arts Review, a boy-led cultural magazine, is also keen on overseas idiosyncrasies.

Despite this wealth of opportunities some of my peers still behave like they were born in a cave. Runty, for example, is the epitome of a cultural philistine, an ignorant Neanderthal in a place of beauty. Any expression of human. thought he encounters is met with a gormless expression. It's true that results-wise he is quite clever, but I've never seen him make any effort to broaden his cultural outlook. Among the many stupid things he's said over the years, I recall him asserting that Picasso was French, Mozart was born in the 16^th century and that Great Expectations was written by Jane Eyre!

Still, to his credit he does plan to go travelling at some point in the future. To Amsterdam and Las Vegas amongst other places. There may yet be hope.

Subject Choices

Have you ever heard the trick question: ‘Would you rather run a mile, climb a stile or eat a country pancake?’ It's an old joke, playing on the meaning of ‘country pancake’, which in most people’s minds would be a pancake made on a farm, but is in fact a slang term for cowpat. Yuck.

Thankfully, cowpat wasn't put in front of me this week when my mum rustled up some tasty pancakes. In the spirit of Shrove Tuesday, I made these treats a staple of my diet for the past five days, eating them at breakfast, lunch and supper. I estimate to have consumed around thirty in all, which means I really should pursue some kind of abstinence during Lent.

For me, the best thing about pancakes is the flavours you can put on them. After some rummaging around in the cupboard, I found a whole host of sauces and toppings, including lemon juice, lemon and sugar, banana, Nutella, Nutella and banana, salted caramel, lime juice (not great), strawberry jam and fudge. I felt like I was six again, standing in front of the pick n’ mix cabinet agonising over which sweets to pick.

Sometimes, this can be the problem with too much variety: it creates dilemmas, and then regrets if you choose poorly. But overall, choice is a good thing. It means you have a better chance of finding something you really like.

Having to decide between two or more things is part of everyday life. At school, everyone faces the same choices every day, such as: ‘shall I do my EWs before or after supper?’, ‘shall I go into Windsor or watch a film?’ or ‘shall I play tennis or cricket in the summer half?’

In truth, these choices are rather trivial, but occasionally there are moments when the decisions we make affect the rest of our lives. The best example of this at school is choosing which subjects to continue with for the following year, or alternatively which subjects to take up.

Even before arriving at Eton in F block there is a decision to be made, as new boys are required to choose two modern languages from a list of French, Spanish, German, Japanese and Russian. These can either be studied as a continuation of what was learnt at prep school, or started ab initio (from scratch).

The next transition, from F to E block, is more significant. This is when you decide which subjects you wish to do for GCSE, and involves a complicated system of choice. Maths and English are compulsory for all, and must be joined by at least two sciences and one modern language. Out of design, art and drama only one subject is permitted (or none if you so wish) with the rest of the timetable being filled by the remaining options, such as history, geography and Latin. Most people work towards 11 GCSEs in total, a number which can be dropped to 10 in D block depending on one's circumstances.

After GCSEs come A Levels or Pre Us, which is where things get really serious. The ten or so subjects studied before are now slashed to four, and lectures are given to all D blockers on how to arrive at a sensible choice. We are reminded that the subjects we study from hereon in will form the basis of our degrees, which makes it advisable to choose a combination which complement each other. For example, a set of subjects which focuses mainly on the sciences, such as Physics, Biology, Chemistry and Maths will demonstrate a clear train of thought, as would one emphasising the humanities, which might include English, Latin, divinity and history. However, a real hodgepodge of subjects, for instance biology, English, economics and design, might seem a bit random.

Of course, the ultimate decision lies with each individual, and it is better to study something you like rather than dislike, but it is useful guidance nonetheless.

One trap people often fall into is the temptation of the ‘grass is greener on the other side’ with regard to new subjects. A negative experiences is what puts people off continuing with a subject more than anything else, and so when you don't have one in, for example, economics or politics, because you have never studied them before, then it can be easy to be sucked into a rash decision. As it happens, these two departments are both very good, but if you are the type of person who hates maths for instance, and are unaware that economics depends on it, then you may not find it much fun.

Fortunately, there is a certain amount of leeway for people who realise they have made the wrong choice. If you go to your house master within the first two weeks of Michaelmas and tell him you wish to switch subjects then it is usually possible to do so. It may not be greeted too enthusiastically, but it is better than being stuck with something you don't enjoy.

Back in September Runty was considering whether to switch from maths to a lighter subject. I’ve described already how he spent the first few weeks of the Michaelmas half moaning about how tough the jump from GCSE was. He explained his dilemma to our house master, who was sympathetic at first but soon got pretty cheesed off when Runty wouldn't make a firm decision. I remember him lecturing Runty with, ‘when you make a decision in life, stick by it!’

In a few months’ time the shoe will be on the other foot however, as he will have to decide which one of us to appoint house captain for the following year. Based on this evidence, he does not appreciate irresoluteness, so I will be making every effort to appear as strong-minded as possible. 

This shouldn't be too hard, although let's hope I don’t the mistake of saying something stupid as I did last week at lunch. We were talking about speed in physics, and I claimed that Usain Bolt could probably run faster than most horses. Obviously, with the benefit of hindsight I realise this was ridiculous, but how can I be sure not to repeat the error in future? I guess I'll have to stick to the mantra someone once told me about expressing strange ideas: better to shut up than muck up.

Valentine's Day

When Charles Dickens began A Tale of Two Cities with the famous line, ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,’ he may well have been confusing pre-revolution Paris with Valentine's Day. For is there another date in the calendar that so brutally divides opinion as 14^th February? I cannot think of one. Valentine’s Day may well be a celebration of romance, but it is also a reminder of the solitude for those out of love. The day is spent in one of two ways: canoodling your loved one and whispering sweet nothings in their ear, or trawling hook-up sites in search of a quick ego boost. No middle ground exists. It’s like getting invited to the world’s best party, or being forced to watch from outside.

Unless, that is, you attend a single-sex boarding school. These institutions live up to their reputations as artificial bubbles of existence by offering an almost entirely romance-free zone during the sickly sentimentalism of Valentine’s Day.

Although not this year, sadly. Here at Eton we break up for long leave tomorrow, which means that for once we will be spending the day at home.

Despite the dread of being exposed to the full horrors of this event, the silver lining for me is that I won’t have to pick out the single, red Valentine's card from my pigeon hole this year. I’d love to say this annual demonstration of love came from my girlfriend, or at least a reasonably fit girl my age, but, very embarrassingly, the individual behind it is my mum. She does this every year, despite my fierce orders to the contrary, believing that I would be upset were it not to arrive. She fails to realise that it is not the sentiment I oppose, but the fact that it is inevitably noticed by all my friends.

This is because in my house our pigeon holes are located directly next to the boys’ entrance, a consequence of which is that when a person has a bright red letter sticking out of his, on a day dedicated to romance no less, it is bound to be spotted by pretty much everyone in the house. There follows a interrogation on the sender's identity, and when I reveal it to be my mum it prompts comments such as ‘eurgh! Incest!’ or ‘I knew it wouldn’t be from a girl!’

Of course, a valentine card from an actual girl your age is an overwhelmingly positive thing. It is already better than what most people will get. Even more impressive is to receive multiple cards (which always happens to one lucky person) which more or less entitles that individual to lecture everyone on the subject of sex and relationships without reproach.
 
Spending Valentine’s Day at school may be preferable for bachelors like me, but for those with girlfriends it is understandably painful. An extended Skype session can only marginally compensate for the lack of physical intimacy, and even then it is more likely to be sorrowful (‘miss you so much - boohoo’) than celebratory.

As well as being a day for couples, Valentine’s Day is also the perfect occasion to declare one's hidden love for another. In other words, it fills people with an irrational abandon that nine times out of ten leads to extreme awkwardness. Having said this, you may be wondering whether I myself will be sending out any valentines of my own this year. The long and short answer to this is ‘no’.

This is not because I am inhibited by the thought of rejection. In truth, I admire the people who let go of their pride and attempt to escape the innermost circle of a friend zone. Instead, my reason for doing so is that the only girl I like right now (the Princess) has recently been caught in a tricky situation .

This situation, without beating about the bush, is that she has acquired a boyfriend. Not just any old boyfriend; a tall, sporty, clever boyfriend who resembles Tom Hardy and goes to Tonbridge in Kent, one of Eton’s rivals.

To say this news has sickened me is an understatement. When I found out about their relationship through the photo of them kissing on Facebook, I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. I was physically unable to do anything for the rest of the day, except mope around and pray I was dreaming.

The worst thing about it is not that she has a boyfriend, but that I never saw the whole thing coming. I knew that freaks like Jedward were after her, but I always believed the Princess would see through them for the chumps they were. But with Tonbridge boy, I wasn't aware of his existence until I saw the photo. As a result, there was nothing to prepare me for the shock of seeing them together.

Although this happened over two weeks ago, my feelings are still raw. At random points in divs my concentration will go and I see the photo of them together. What is also galling is that, unlike Jedward, there is almost nothing with which to compare myself positively against this guy. By all appearances he is the perfect boyfriend material: not only good-looking and clever, but a nice guy it seems too.

At least this is my conclusion after many hours' analysis of his Facebook profile. Try as I might, I have been unable yet to locate a clear chink in his armour. If this is a hint for me to give up then nothing else could be, yet I still retain belief, driven by the thought that his perfection may well be his greatest weakness.

This is obviously counter-intuitive, but what I mean by it is that it is clear from his demeanour that he is the type of person who can fit into any social group. No-one who knows him will have a bad word to say about him, ever. Yet the nice guy image he has going on comes at a price, and this is that by choosing not to offend anyone or court the merest controversy he inevitably makes himself boring. Speaking generally, it is impossible to get on with everyone you ever come across, and at some moments in life you have no option but to make your dislike of someone known. In part though, this is what makes a person interesting; they have opinions which others disagree with; they like things which others dislike.

I certainly fall into this category. Although I try not to go around alienating people, I will call a spade a spade when the situation demands. It may annoy the people whom I say it to, but it will also endear me to my friends.

Therefore, my theory is that after a period of time, say six months, the Princess will grow tired of Tonbridge boy and inform him politely that it’s her fault, not his. She will actively search for someone more interesting, someone with a personality. At which point I will swoop in, flowers in hand and a witty comment on my lips. We will make out immediately and live happily ever after.

As it happens, one of my friends last year was faced with an almost identical situation to the one I face now. Infatuated with a girl he met at Christmas, he took the spirit of Valentine’s Day to heart and decided to pour out his feelings to her in a very gooey card. All the while ignoring the fact that she had a long-term boyfriend who went to Harrow. I advised him strongly against this course of action, and was unsurprised therefore when his only response back was a Facebook message from a very angry Harrovian telling him to lay off his bird.

We’re often told that History is about learning from the mistakes of the past. As a result I will not be sending any make or break Valentine cards of my own this year. Instead, I will spend Saturday stretched out on the sofa at home, watching telly and scoffing food, whilst laughing at the punters outside falling for the confected romance peddled by opportunistic businesses. Pah, who said love is all you need?

Dress Sense

It’s funny how much we judge people on their clothes. With the exception of looks, they’re the first thing we use to form an opinion of someone before meeting them. This is because experience tells us that a person's dress sense is a reflection of their personality. A smart suit and tie, for instance, is likely to be worn by a motivated, disciplined individual, whilst a baggy shirt and jeans are more suited to a free spirit. Clothes therefore are a means of self-expression and often a tool for cultivating a deliberate image.

There are exceptions of course. Uniforms, for example, are intended as identifiers for certain groups rather than reflections of the wearers' personality. It is doubtful, thus, that policemen or firemen would actually choose to wear their bulky outfits when off-duty.

Yet it would be wrong to presume that a uniform cannot reflect the values of a collective body. The exceptional standards of the Armed Forces, for example, and the pride with which they carry themselves are expressed in the immaculate service dress they put on for ceremonial occasions. Likewise, and at the other end of the spectrum, it is arguable that the cheap, garish boiler suits of prisoners reflect the wearers' status in society.

What therefore to make of Eton’s famous tailcoats and pinstriped trousers? They are an emblem of Britain's public school tradition, and embody on the one hand the school’s many centuries of tradition and on the other its unashamed ethos of elitism and aspiration.

It goes without saying though that none of us actually wear anything remotely like the uniform when we have the choice. Evenings and weekends are the time for something more casual, comfortable and frankly normal!

Given the demographic from which most of us are drawn, it is surprising that there is a real diversity in people's dress senses here. A stroll around the school on a weekend will reveal several distinct styles on show. These might include:

Sloaneys – who deck themselves out in brightly coloured trousers, and loafers whatever the weather. These lads fuel the toff stereotype and carry an irrational dislike of t-shirts. Membership of this group conditional on possession of a dinner jacket.

Country bumpkins – the Sloaneys of the outdoors, they own multiple items of tweed and love to accessorise with flat caps. Acclimatise to rain with a Barbour jacket (no imitations) and Hunter wellies. Can tell you where bacon comes from.

Rude bois – for those boys tortured by the guilt of their privilege and determined to be as normal as possible. Staple costume is best described as ‘chavvy’: hoody with the hood pulled up, tracksuit bottoms (ideally 3-stripe) and an aggressive swagger. Not for the uncool.

                                                                                                                

Hipsters – lovers of everything alternative, they sport skinny jeans and untucked shirts (with the top button done up of course). Best accompanied by an edgy haircut and working knowledge of indie music. Unsuitable for the fat or those who like smiling.

Gym bunnies – exercise freaks with a penchant for wife-beaters, lycra and anything vaguely revealing. Do not approach with question: ‘Do you lift mate?’ Likely to engage in random displays of strength.

Of course, a few of these looks are very context specific. For example, the gym bunny style is only really acceptable before or after a massive sesh, whilst a sloaney or hipster costume is best used on visiting girls.

If you’re wondering which category among these I fall into, I can say I’ve never attempted to imitate any of them. The reason for this can be traced back to my first half in F block. I was nearing the end of third or fourth week and realised, almost suddenly, that my worries about not fitting in or struggling with the work had disappeared. In reality, I had made friends very quickly, and with the odd exception found the work very manageable. Yet rather than settle into a happy routine at this point I must have thought it was all too good to be true. Consequently, I began to search for things that might ruin it all, and settled on my clothes.

Until this stage in my life my standard outfit had consisted of a pair of corduroy trousers, a collared shirt and a woolly jumper. These were recommended to me by my mum, who also purchased them, and since no-one at prep school had ever commented negatively on them I was oblivious to their relative coolness.

But now, with a discerning eye, I saw that they were completely unlike anything that anyone else at Eton wore. Cords and woolly jumpers were, quite frankly, the type of things an old man or boy from the 50s would pull on. I feared therefore that if I didn’t change my look soonish one of the older boys might pick up on it and start to tease me.

So it was that I trotted down to Windsor the next Sunday afternoon armed with all the money I possessed. It was just enough to buy a navy pair of jeans and two jumpers which more or less resembled the type my friends wore. I hoped my wardrobe change would go unnoticed, and fortunately it did, although I was forced to wear the jeans permanently until the next installment of money.

Looking back now it’s slightly sad to see how paranoid and insecure I was. Yet at the same time it is always hard to be a new fish in a big pond, where your main priority is to fit in. Although three years have since passed, but my outlook on fashion has regrettably not changed. It is guided more by a fear of being mocked than by what I might like to wear. As a result I shun any bold style, be it sloaney or rude boi, and play it safe with a t-shirt-jeans-jumper combination.

Perhaps my conservatism comes from the fact that I know that my friends know what I wear. If, for instance, I were to suddenly rock up one day with a completely different look I would doubtless be accused of being someone that I wasn't. I hope that at some point in the future I end up in an environment where my sartorial history is not common knowledge. This, then, will be the time for reinvention. But till that day I'll just be the normal me!