Judy's Passage

It’s been a week now since we broke up for the Easter holidays, and whilst many of my friends have gone off skiing in sunny Courchevel or Val d’Isere, I’ve been stuck at home in drab England.

On Saturday my mum invited over one of her friends for lunch. It was meant to be a catch up, but turned into one long conversation about Eton, with me in the middle of it. My mum’s friend happens to have a son nearing the end of prep school, at the point of deciding where he wants to go next. So far, he has whittled down his options to Winchester and Eton, but apparently oscillates between the two on a daily basis.

His mum appeared equally undecided. She told me how she had visited both schools, been on tours and everything, but didn’t feel like she had a true idea of either. She therefore bombarded me questions about Eton, hoping for some kind of insider information that might better inform her .

This had me thinking about how future parents are supposed to know what a school is like. The problem with Eton is that, unless you have an old or current boy in the family, the only thing to go on is a very glossy snapshot. When you see gaggles of parents being taken on tours, for instance, it is only the best bits of the school they are shown around. The chapels for example. The theatres. The libraries. But not the uneven fields behind Masters astro. Nor the illicit smoking dens. And certainly not the toilets on my floor on any day of the week!

This is perfectly understandable of course. Eton, as a business, has to sell itself to its consumers. Without the income from boys’ fees, the whole place would soon be history. Which means the school tour is more of a sales pitch than an historical insight, a bid to entice future parents into signing on the dotted line.

As a pupil-to-be you get sucked into this one-sided view too. Eton is all but perfect in your imagination as you prepare for life in F block. Nothing will go wrong, surely. But give it a bit of time, and the varnish begins to slowly peel away. What was once spiffing now has a slightly rough edge to it.

I wonder, for instance, what prospective parents and their sons would make of Judy’s Passage during a change of divs? Shock and horror would be their emotions I imagine. And rightly so. Behind the pleasant-sounding name, and fairly innocuous appearance, Judy’s Passage is a scene of daily violence and pain.

I’m not sure exactly when it was decided upon that an alleyway was needed to connect Common Lane with the Eton Wick Road. Probably sometime during the 19^th century, but whenever it happened, it was surely a most fateful of days.

Like all the best highways or thoroughfares, Judy’s Passage is prone to congestion. Several times a day, hundreds of boys throng it in a bid to reach their next div. It serves all those travelling between the Alington area and James schools, beating any alternative route by several minutes. As the quickest route available, it is the only route available.

Yet what could be so threatening about an alleyway, you are surely thinking? It’s Eton, Berkshire, not Peckham, London. Unless haunted by a phantom, or with a giant manhole in the middle of it, how could it be daunting?

It’s only when you approach Judy’s Passage for the first time, however, that a potential problem arises. It’s narrow. Very narrow. Measure it across and you’ll find only eight feet separating NCSW on the left hand side and RS on the right. When dozens of people use it at the same time, it leaves little room for breathing.

Still, no worse than the tube in rush hour, surely. Pack in close to your friend and you can walk two abreast, with enough space on the other side for another pair travelling in the opposite direction. Just keep walking straight, make sure your elbows are tucked in, and everything will be fine.

This is what an F blocker thinks during his first forays into Judy’s Passage. And indeed, in those early weeks of term it is unlikely anything untoward will happen to him. Why all the fuss he thinks? A false sense of security descends upon him. And at this point Judy’s Passage bites.

It will be a September day. The sun is shining, the air sultry and the thought of football that afternoon in his mind. Alongside him is his friend from English, chatting to him about the latest EW. Life is good.

Then, out of nowhere, like a fly being swatted – BAM! He finds himself thrown into the RS fence! His files scatter. His glasses fly off. His shoulder feels broken. He crumples to the floor, and looks up to see the outline of two C blockers looming over him, laughing as they walk away. What just happened? It takes a moment to realise - as he was walking past these boys one of them barged him violently into the fence. Why, he doesn't know. But it just happened. Welcome to Judy’s Passage! We hope you enjoy your stay!

Everyone remembers their first time. For me, it was a D blocker who did it. I can picture his face now, smirking down at me. Whenever I saw him after that I instinctively shuddered.

For this, I can tell you, is what happens in Judy’s Passage on a daily basis – boys barging into each other, looking to inflict pain and embarrassment, because, well, it’s a laugh. It's savage. It's grotesque. And for the fledgling F blocker, it’s the moment Eton’s myth is dispelled.

You might presume that Judy’s Passage becomes some kind of no-go zone for younger boys. Perhaps it should be, but even if it were made one by the school, no-one would obey it. After all, who can be bothered to go the long way round? Best to take your chances and head down Judy’s.

Of course, getting barged in Judy’s is relatively rare. One in twenty maybe. Still, after that first barge you always approach it with a sense of trepidation. It’s like how Jason and his Argonauts must have felt when facing the huge Symplegades, the narrow cliffs which crushed anything that sailed in between them.

The trick, I believe, for any newbie is to feign indifference, whilst simultaneously being on the lookout. Beware the older boys, especially those in pairs. The most common barging technique is to push into your mate on the inside, who then tumbles into the boys opposite, creating a domino effect. Also, reserve caution for anyone looking vaguely mischievous, or known rogues. This, whilst not ensuring you protection from being hit, can at least prepare you for the collision.

Being in C block now, I thought all the rough and tumble in Judy’s might be a thing of the past for me. Apparently not though. During the last few weeks of term I was barged twice. Twice! To add insult to injury, one of them was from an ugly E blocker who swore at me mid-barge. I'm guessing he thought it was oh so cool mate to barge an older boy, but I can say now categorically that he’ll regret it. Via a bit of nifty detective work I managed to track him down, finding out his name and his house. My revenge, when it arrives, will be in the form of something pleasant left for him in the school post.

Which leads me to one of the pieces of advice I gave to my mum’s friend: ‘Tell your son that if he does go to Eton, be careful of the barging in Judy’s Passage. And be sure not to barge anyone else.’

Not unless he likes receiving poo letters that is, I might have added.    

Dark Horse

They say ignorance is bliss, but sometimes I’m not so sure. With certain things it’s true – for instance, not knowing the intimate details of your parents’ lives, or what exactly goes on in a McDonalds’ kitchen is probably for the best. But on most matters I prefer to be in the know, and am frustrated when I can’t be.

What winds me up greatly is knowing that something important has happened, but little about the specifics. This used to happen all the time in prep school, when people would go around whispering in your ear, ‘I’ve got a secret…but I’m not allowed to tell!’ Yet rather than this being a thing of the past, the phenomenon that is Facebook means that I still have to suffer this info-teasing every day.

Today, for instance, there popped up on my newsfeed the status of a friend which read, ‘All things considered, I absolutely nailed that!’

It may have been trivial, but having no idea of what this person may have ‘nailed’ I found my blood boiling in irritation. Was he deliberately taunting all his friends? Or too lazy to type out the background of the story? Or so vain as to think we all followed his life to such a close degree that extra details were rendered superfluous?

Maybe it’s the attention-seeking nature of posts like these which bugs me more than the information they deny me. They have a façade of being cryptic, but any hidden information is easily revealed by a simple comment below asking for details. In many ways they work like clickbait articles, drawing you in, tempting you to take a bite, if only you demean yourself somewhat and give the other party an unmerited ego boost.

Runty, for all his faults does tend to refrain from this genre of Facebook posturing. However, whether this can be put down to a sensitivity on his part towards other people’s feelings is very much open to question. My own theory is that his one-dimensional brain simply can’t see any value in it.

For example, several times last summer Runty posted messages on the subject of his holiday boozing antics. These beautifully crafted specimens of prose included, ‘8 pints last night - smashed it!’ and ‘Feeling rough this morning. Guess that’s what comes from doing a bottle of vodka! Lad!’

Now, it goes without saying that these were neither subtle nor witty. Clearly, the thought running through his mind at the point of their conception was ‘I need to tell everyone I drank a lot last night’, and short of saying ‘I drank a lot last night!’ he made sure his message avoided all misinterpretation.

For instance, sarcasm was never a possibility. Some people just might not get a post such as, ‘Feeling groggy now after those shandies last night!’ Nor would self-deprecating humour work, for example with ‘Think I proved last night why I’m such a lightweight!’ And of course, any cryptic-crypto rubbish would just fail to tell everyone about the fact that he drank such a lot last night, eight pints I tell thee!!!

It’s not just oblique Facebook posts that I hate being in the dark about. I also have a great dislike for not knowing other people’s thoughts. This is naturally a fact of life, but when you are even unable to ask a person their opinion on a matter it becomes doubly irksome.

The result is that you are led towards wild conjecture, which is what I am doing right now. This is because over the past week I have smelt something of a rat in the house. Not an ordinary, normal-sized rat, but a big, fat, stinking one with a nasty tail. In short, I fear there is a new contender for the house captaincy next year!

Frequent readers of this blog may remember how I have detailed at various point the strategies I have used in my bid to acquire the house captaincy next year. These have included flattery of my house master and undermining other members of the house. But until recently I had only really anticipated two contenders for next year’s prize: me and Runty. But, unless I am very much mistaken there now appears to be a new claimant to the crown. A veritable dark horse.

Dark Horse, which is how I will call him, is certainly not house captain material. When we arrived in F block everyone thought he was a bit weird. He had this squeaky voice which grew annoying after 10 seconds, and despite having no real talent in either sport or work appeared very full of himself.

Whilst it’s true he may have mellowed over the years, he still carries the reputation of being a little nerd. His approach as a result has been to ingratiate himself with the younger blocks, hanging out with them and posing as the sage older boy, able to pull some strings for you if you just suck up enough.

It’s all very shallow, but the gullible younger boys seem to fall for it. As does my house master in fact, who regards it as some kind of outreach to the lower blocks, something we should all partake in. However, this was not what raised my suspicions about Dark Horse; instead it was an event that took place this past Sunday.

I had just come back from chapel, and was walking through the house, when I was stopped by a strange sight from the window. There, down below, I could make out the outline of two parents in my house master’s study. They were shaking hands with him and being offered tea. I thought it might be the parents of a prospective boy, but when I looked closely I could see it was Dark Horse’s parents.

I immediately froze. Why on earth were they there? What could be so important as to warrant a meeting with the house master? It’s not that parents meeting with the house master is unusual, but it normally happens when the son is having problems with work or behaviour. Dark Horse, despite not being clever, was not that thick either, and was also so lame he wouldn’t know how to create trouble with a bazooka in his hand.

My mind began to whir backwards. Did this have something to do with the fact that Dark Horse had been sitting next to my house master at lunch, copying the trick I had been using? Did it have something too to do with him volunteering himself for all the dud admin roles recently, the ones that everyone hates doing? If so, then there was only one conclusion to draw from all this: Dark Horse had an ulterior motive. One which probably had ‘house captain’ written on it.

I’m not sure exactly what Dark Horse’s parents were doing with my house master. Buttering him up perhaps. Offering a quid pro quo arrangement. Even putting forward a straightforward bribe. But whichever it is, they are lobbying on his behalf.

Unfortunately for Dark Horse’s parents, their level of control on the situation is negligible. They may be able to influence the outcome of it, but they cannot manipulate it. Unlike myself, who has the power to ruin Dark Horse’s bid before it gets started.

Put it this way; I’m not going down without a fight. Up to this point I’ve been complacent. But now things are really kicking off. Playing dirty is my game. When things get ugly, I’ll be the last one standing. Dark Horse will soon be Dead Horse!

Puberty

Last week I touched on the delicate subject of puberty by looking at the unpredictability of growth . Whilst a surge in height may be the most obvious sign of impending adulthood, puberty changes the body in more ways than just this.

Personally, the first things that comes to mind whenever puberty is brought up in conversation are the curly wisps of hair at the bottom of my torso – my pubic hairs. No doubt because the words ‘puberty’ and ‘pubic’ share the same stem, although I’m sure a Freudian analysis could explain it too.

I’ve mentioned before that I was pre-pubescent upon arriving at Eton, which meant that I was pretty bloomin happy when my pubes did eventually appear. After months of torture and self-doubt I could at last put to bed questions such as ‘am I a freak?’ and ‘is my penis synthetic?’  

It’s not that anyone else noticed their arrival though. As far as I know, all the showers here are single cubicles, and since the craze of pinning your mates down and stripping them naked had yet to take off, my celebration was very much a private affair.

Pubes are funny things really. They are unlike any other types of hair on your body. Whereas the hair on your head is smooth and soft like cashmere wool, the texture of one’s pubes is like the touch of a cheap doormat. Cheap is not a bad way to describe them, since their proximity to the genitals means they have a low reputation.

Their unpopularity can lead to fights, such as the one that happened recently between two B blockers in my house. From the version of events I’ve heard, one of them asked the other to borrow his Gillette in order to shave his beard, but in a moment of apparent opportunism decided to hack off his pubes as well. How exactly this misdeed was discovered I do not know, but it goes without saying that the owner of the razor was left pretty angry.

It’s only in the last six months that I myself have begun shaving. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure I need to. The stuff that comes out is little more than bum-fluff, and since it never grows more than a centimetre it’s barely noticeable on my chin. Still, I convinced myself back in September that it was the right time for me to start shaving, being a C blocker now and a real man.

As a result, I headed into Windsor in search of a razor. In the end I purchased for myself a top of the range Gillette Mach 5, eight blades and shaving foam. I was almost stopped however by the bill – over £20 for a few sheaths of metal! I half considered putting them back on the shelf and coming back in a year’s time. But I swallowed my pride, opened my wallet, and strode back to the house armed with my new weapons.

Shaving is one of those things that looks easy, but is trickier than you think. Everyone reckons they can do it after seeing it in movies, but when it actually comes to pulling the blade across one’s skin there is little room for error.

I was to find this out on my first go. After rejecting the possibility of seeking advice from a friend, I whipped up a thick layer of foam and slapped it across my cheeks. Then, picking up the razor, I brought the blade firmly up my face in a vertical direction. Having done this a few times, and with the adrenaline of this groundbreaking moment rushing through my veins, I failed to notice the sharp pain building in my chin. It was only when I saw myself in the mirror that I spotted the scarlet blood seeping into the white foam. Wiping away the mess I surveyed the damage - three conspicuous cuts on my chin. I instantly opting for the multi-bladed Gillette – five times a close shave it may have been, but it was also five times a deep wound!

As well as getting rid of unwanted hair, another symptom of puberty is the dreaded BO. I am fortunate to have an eleven year old cousin, and last summer we spent a whole afternoon playing football in the sun. When we eventually stopped I must have stunk like a pair of old socks, but my aunt remarked that he didn’t smell any different.

Telling someone they smell must prove a really awkward conversation. I’ve never had to do it myself, although on several occasions I probably should have done. Most people arrive in F block with a whole case full of deodorant, so terrified are they by the thought of smelling.

Inevitably though, some people don’t get the memo. One boy in my house, around the end of the Michaelmas half began to develop a strange odour. At first it was neutral, but it soon became unpleasant. People talked about it when he wasn’t there, and it was only after the Dame had a quiet word that he went and bought some Lynx.

Reeking of deo is acceptable, if a little inconsiderate of your div partner. Perfume however, be it aftershave or cologne, is generally considered a step too far. This is probably because it has effeminate, slightly metrosexual connotations to it. Occasionally older boys wear it, those going for the debonair look usually, but to rock up in E block smelling of Davidoff would be to ask for a lynching.

Finally, one thing I didn’t know about puberty until recently is that it affects girls earlier than boys. With my limited experience of girls I’m not surprised that this fact passed me by. However, I admit I was rather sceptical when I heard it – why, after all, should one’s sex determines when they begin puberty? To test this theory out I decided to check out one of the girls I know, The Princess, and go back on her Facebook pages to some of her earlier photos. And there, sure enough, she was pictured at the age of thirteen with an impressive pair of breasts which don’t appear to have changed since!

The only problem now is that I’m guilty of spending half an hour looking at a 13 year old’s boobs. For someone my age this could even be illegal. Time to delete my internet history I reckon.

Size Matters

So far this half I’ve played several Field Game matches against the old boys, and they’ve all been great fun! Despite my pre-season concerns about not making a team, I played well enough in the early trial to avoid missing out. Moreover, I've scored a rouge and two goals already to help secure my position, not a bad return for your average bully player.

What is noticeable about the old boys is the very erratic quality of their performances. Some of the teams we face are superb. Others are awful. The inconsistency, it would seem, stems from a mismatch of their sides to our school teams. Since the beaks in charge of the fixtures can know little about the merits of each old boy side, they are forced to guess when it comes to pairing them off with appropriately talented school teams.

The result is that the 6^th and 7^th Fields have faced old boy sides capable of beating the 2nds or 3rds, whilst the better school teams have had to play sides your average house unit would beat.

This might not sound ideal, but in my opinion it makes for more entertainment. Much of sport’s attraction boils down to the suspense it generates, and so not having a clue about the strength of your opponents leads to a great deal of anticipation. Furthermore, it turns the games into exciting free for alls, since any attempt at pre-arranged tactics is futile.

Another curiosity is that one's first impression of an old boy side can be deceiving. A team composed mainly of uni students is bound to tire after twenty minutes, suffering the consequences of their non-stop partying. Sides with young professionals however, often gym freaks or marathon runners, will run all day. But how to tell the difference?.

After the matches there are beers laid on in the pavilion. This came as a surprise to me – would the school really supply alcohol to underage C blockers? But they do, and after an hour of running around they go straight to your head!

It makes me pity all the younger boys who can’t get involved. Rather than getting tipsy with 30 year olds, D, E and F blockers spend Saturday afternoons playing Non-Specs. This competition (the name of which is short for non-specialists), may not be as prestigious as League or Ties, but is still highly revered.

One characteristic that really marks it from the others though is the sight of D blockers playing alongside F blockers. In League and Ties the division of blocks to junior and senior competitions is F/E and D/C/B, but in this instance D blockers are bumped down with the lower boys. This may not sound like much of a big deal, but my first experience of the competition highlights how significant it can be:

Three years ago, as an F blocker new to the Field Game, I was ignorant of all its rules and jargon. Consequently, when approached by the Non-Specs captain of my house about the possibility of me playing on Saturday I placed all my trust in him.

When told I was in the team I said ‘great!’ When earmarked for a place in the bully, I said ‘nice one!’ And when informed that my exact position would be ‘post’ (because, as he said, he needed a ‘really skilful player’ there) I said ‘sure, wherever you need me!’

Oh how naive!

For unbeknown to me, the position of post is akin to being a human shield. When the bullies of both sides come together in the Field Game version of a scrum, the posts are in the middle of it taking the full impact of the shove.

Now, if you happen to be built like a rhino it's not much of a problem. But if, like my F block self, you are a weedy 5”3, then post is probably not your ideal position to play in.

Of course, I wasn't to know this, not until the actual game that is. Before the big day I boasted to all my friends about my selection for the team. I even rang up my mum and tried to impress her with references to the 'bully' and 'sneaking'. As we walked up to the pitches, I strutted ahead of the rest of my team, doing flick ups with the ball and multiple stepovers.

It was only as we were lining up, however, did the truth of the matter begin to become clear. For there, on the opposite side of me, in the exact same position of post, I laid eyes on what can only be described as a modern day version of Ajax, the Greek warrior. Six foot three, built like an ox, and with the outline of a beard he had probably shaved that morning, a gigantic D blocker stared down at me with angry, bloodshot eyes.

How I didn’t collapse on the spot I cannot say, but before I had the presence of mind to flee I was being dragged to the centre spot by my teammates for the opening bully of the match. With it the opposition put-in, I closed my eyes as the freak of nature bent down before me to wedge his mammoth shoulder into my exposed belly. A second later he led the shove from his teammates, causing me to groan in pain as they tried their best to shatter my rib cage.

Let's just say that every time that afternoon one of my teammates messed up to award the other side a bully, I wished on him a very slow and painful death.

Looking back, I think this episode demonstrates a couple of things. One - that you should never trust a glib D blocker, and two - that people’s bodies develop at different rates.

The second point is evident in the F blockers who arrive at Eton each year. Everyone may be thirteen years of age, but the intake is split roughly half and half between those who have hit puberty and those who haven’t, leading to wild variations in appearance.

Personally, I was on the pre-pubescent side and looked more like a ten year old than a teenager. On the other hand, a few of my peers resembled grown men. I remember in my first ever Maths div being shocked when a boy who I would have mistaken for a C blocker walked in and sat down next to me. He must have been at least six feet tall, and had a voice like Frankenstein.

Yet if I thought I was a baby face for my age, then I probably hadn't met some boys in my block. For next to them I resembled a giant, which made me wonder if they'd missed out prep school and come straight from nursery.

Being a shorty cannot be much fun. A lack of height will inevitably be commented upon in a competitive school environment. But things can change.

With everyone now in C block fully pubescent, it turns out that some of the dwarves in F block now resemble basketball players. Whilst at the same time, a few people who were relatively tall in first year, five foot seven for instance, haven’t grown an inch since their arrival, instead craning their necks for the past three years as everyone else has overtaken them. Brilliantly, a few of these boys were the first to jump on anyone smaller than them. Now all they have is a belly full of humble pie and a potent case of small man syndrome.

He who laughs last laughs loudest, as they say. Though at least when it comes to Field Game they can be assured of a position, that one reserved for ‘really skilful players’…