The King's Scholarship

Have you ever woken up one morning to find your neighbourhood invaded by a hoard of garishly dressed dwarves? I have, and I can tell you it’s a nightmare. In fact, it happened to me this very morning. And yesterday morning. And the morning before that. How come? It’s the King’s Scholarship exam week.

The King’s Scholarship exam week is when Eton decides which fourteen of the future intake to make King Scholars. Any boy in his last year of prep school is invited to enter it, and should he succeed in making the top fourteen a place in College is reserved for him the following year. College, as I’ve mentioned elsewhere, is where the King Scholars live, while the rest of us, Oppidan plebs, are accommodated in the other twenty four boarding houses.

Once all new boys are at Eton there is no mobility between the two groups. King Scholars cannot become Oppidans, and Oppidans cannot become King Scholars. It is therefore hugely important for the school to pick the right boys to put into College the first time round. They must sort the wheat from the chaff, the cream from the milk. And what better way to do that than organise three gruelling days of nerve-wracking exams to see who’s really got what it takes to be a KS.

So it happens that every summer half for three days over a hundred silly, immature, miniature prep school boys in their multi-coloured blazers arrive at the school and pollute the chilled out atmosphere with their inane mutterings about what papers they’re doing, what books they’ve read, and what the cubed root of 3,476 is. It’s like having the most annoying boy in F block cloned dozens of times and let loose in the school. The only problem being that you can beat up the F blocker in the queue for lunch, whereas the scholarship boys, as guests of the school, are protected from violence.

If I sound harsh in my criticism of the scholarship boys it’s because I’m embarrassed by my former self. Like all the little freaks currently staying at Eton, I too sat the Scholarship exam back in the day (without success), and spent my days at the school mouthing off about Pythagoras and Animal Farm, telling anyone who would listen about all the papers I’d done, and generally being a nuisance. To put it kindly, I exhibited the type of behaviour which once you arrive at Eton is soon kicked out of you, if not figuratively then literally.

Whilst it’s a pain to spend hours each day scribbling away on exam papers, the whole Scholarship exam experience is otherwise great fun. The main attraction of course is that you get to leave the strict confines of prep school for a few days and taste the freedom of secondary school, where within reason you can do what you want when you want.

Most scholarship boys are put up for their stay in their future houses, providing they don’t get a scholarship and go to College. Arriving at the house is a nervous moment, since for the duration of one’s stay you are required to participate in the house activities, such as eat meals and meetings. Depending on what house you’re staying in, your room will either be on the house master’s private side, or a spare one on the boys’ side. The latter is certainly more fun.

After unpacking and settling in, the impending exams loom in one’s mind. This week will be the culmination of a year’s (if not longer) hard work and preparation, as everyone will have been coached intensively by their prep school. This means month after month of algebra equations, French irregular verbs and Latin declensions, and as a result little else occupies one’s thoughts.

There are only four papers which are compulsory for everyone: English, science, maths ‘A’ and general paper I. An additional three papers must then be chosen from a list of French, Latin, Greek, maths ‘B’, history-geography-divinity (all one paper) and general paper II. In total, seven exams over the three days.

The first exam is definitely the most nail-biting. You are beckoned into School Hall, which with its lofty ceilings, its little natural light, and its many portraits of old men staring down at you does not feel you with much ease. In fact, it’s positively spooky. Only after the third or fourth exam do you feel reasonably comfortable.

So long as you have revised properly, most of the papers are not too tricky. The first few questions are straightforward, but then begin to increase in difficulty. By the end you always find one knock-out question which is so challenging that only one or two boys will answer it at most. Best not to even look at it!

The most peculiar or unpredictable papers are without doubt the ‘general’ ones: general I and general II. Only general I is compulsory for all, but a fair few enter general II as well. General I is akin to an IQ test, with a bit of verbal reasoning and maths thrown in too, whereas General II is more of an essay-style paper, with questions on topics that range from philosophy to current affairs.

The year I sat the scholarship exam (2011) actually saw one of general I questions later court controversy in the nation press. The question was about a hypothetical riot in London after a Middle East oil crisis, in which the Army had to intervene and kill several of the protestors. You then had to imagine you were the Prime Minister and write a speech to the public explaining why the killings were both ‘necessary’ and ‘moral’! I don’t think it’s hard to see why this didn’t go down so well!

Outside of the exams there are plenty of opportunities for exploring Eton and enjoying oneself. Given the seriousness of the prize at stake you’d think everyone would be stuck inside revising, but the reverse is true. But the time you’ve arrived at Eton people have done so much revision that it’s hard for them not to get distracted. Tudor Stores for instance, the Eton tuck-shop, has every chocolate bar imaginable stocked under their roof, which after being cooped up as a prep school boarder is a bit like having Willy Wonka’s factory on your doorstep. Plus, there are F and E blockers calling you out for a game of football, not to mention the chance to wander round and explore.

This time away from the books doesn’t really matter that much if, like me, you have little hope of actually getting a scholarship. I knew before going into it that I wasn’t bright enough to become a KS, but I did it anyway to stretch myself more than Common Entrance would have done. Common Entrance is the entrance exam for all independent schools, and if you do well enough in the scholarship exam without actually getting a scholarship you can be exempt from it. Somehow, this is what I achieved, and I went back to my prep school with a long, lazy summer to look forward to.

However, when you have plenty of time on your hands you often think about things you would otherwise never have thought about. For me: what kind of impression did I make on my future house members during my stay at Eton? Not a brilliant one I slowly realised, not a brilliant one at all, what with all my irritating pseudo-intellectual posturing. Only a vigorous PR operation when I actually arrived in F block stopped me becoming the most unpopular member of the house.

So although I dread the arrival of the scholarship boys every summer half, I do absolve them of their sins. They know not what they do, those little freaks.

Just be careful not to hand me a machine-gun while they’re here.

Summer Half

I'm not sure there's a better time of year than the summer half at school. The smell of freshly mown grass this week, the sound of ball on willow, and the feel of the sun on my back has made me appreciate all things summer. Ok, it may not be technically summer yet, but it certainly looks and feels like it, and it's wonderful.

The first thing I look forward to about the summer half is the sport. There's the cricket. The tennis. The athletics. All designed for being played in pleasant weather. No scene encapsulates the summer better than that of eleven men resplendent in white tossing around a red cork ball against a background of verdant foliage. It tingles the senses.

Then there’s the extra daylight. British summer hours means long evenings past eight o’clock, allowing for games of football on the fields after supper and getting into bed with the setting sun. Gone are those lugubrious days of December, where it seemed like the street lamps were never switched off.

The summer half brings a new, better timetable too. Afternoon divs are switched from after games to before them, meaning that cricket and tennis practices begin in the late-afternoon and carry on until supper. This often means a dash back to the house or Bekynton for food, hoping not all of it has been scoffed.

Some things also look different in the summer. Gone are the bulky overcoats, the hats and the gloves. In their place are brightly-coloured blazers (for rowers and senior members of the house) and half-dress on especially hot days (when the waistcoat and tailcoat can be replaced by a simple suit jacket).

But the main difference in school life in the summer half, in my opinion, is the relaxed atmosphere. Which is surprising given the impending doom of exams for most of the school, but something that can be explained by all of the above. The long mild evenings are perfect stress relievers, as are the impromptu kick-arounds, something just not possible during the other halves. The sight of garish blazers at every street corner makes life seem less serious, and the absence of particularly competitive sports (cricket not quite matching the football and Field Game house rivalries) gives the place a more genteel atmosphere. Summer may be a time for studying, but it is an also opportunity to lounge on fields, stroll along the river, grab a Mr Whippy and play the odd spot of tennis. The gallop of the Michalemas and Lent halves slows down to a trot.

Several times over the past week I’ve noticed this effect on the people in my house. One B blocker, not the friendliest guy at times, has on two occasions let me through the door before him. Without even a‘ladies first’ I should add. And the D blocker in the room next door to me has kept his music at a very reasonable level, playing some decent tunes as well. It’s all been very welcome.

Even Runty has appeared mellower. Rather than dominate the conversation at lunch as usual, telling everyone how much booze he drinks and how many girls he pulls, he’s been far more civilised. Today he even seemed interested in my opinion on the England test match, which is a first for him.

However, whilst everyone else has thought nothing of this change in personality, I've been somewhat suspicious. Why should Runty be acting kindly all of a sudden? What event in his life could have prompted such a change? Could he have experienced a Damascene conversion?  It was all a bit of a mystery.

Or that's what I thought.

History tells us that the greatest discoveries are often unintentional, and so it was with Runty. On the Tuesday of this week it happened that I needed to borrow a book from Runty to help me with my EW. Convention dictates at Eton that you don't need to knock on someone’s door before entering if they're in the same block as you, (rude, I know), so I just barged straight in.

What greeted me was not a scene of nudity (thank God), or even an explicit video being watched. Instead, Runty was sat there talking on his phone, but in a way I had never heard him speak before. His voice was soft and simpering. Pathetic even.

Upon seeing me his face changed. A mixture of embarrassment and anger flooded his cheeks, and he motioned angrily at me to get out . Indeed, his reaction was so violent that whereas normally I would have hung around and jumped on his bed to annoy him, I felt frightened and left immediately.

In the safety of my room I pondered over what I had just witnessed. I had never seen Runty react like that before. Why had he done so? He had been in a good mood earlier in the evening so it's not like he was having a tough time. The answer surely lay in the person he was talking to on the phone. It must have been someone important, important enough to warrant such a reaction. But who could it have been? His mum or dad perhaps, possibly bringing bad news? Or his little sister ringing on her birthday? But somehow that didn't seem likely.

Slowly I thought back to how he had been speaking when I'd burst in. It was like the way toddlers talk to their mums; gooey, sickly. Not what you'd expect from a teenage boy certainly. But then I realised I'd heard this same type of voice from other friends at previous times. They had also been on the phone when I'd caught them. And who they been talking to? It suddenly clicked! Their girlfriends. They'd been talking to their girlfriends! Runty had a girlfriend!

I don't think I've ever felt so pleased with my detective work before. I gave it twenty minutes before I sprinted back downstairs to confront Runty with my theory.

‘You’ve got a girlfriend, haven’t you?!’ I said, bursting in.

‘No,’ he said, his face turning red.

‘You have! I know it! That's who you were speaking to on the phone!'

‘Well, kind of’ he muttered. ‘It’s complicated you see.’

I had him! My theory had been proved correct. Runty had a (sort of) girlfriend!

Now, there’s nothing wrong with a seventeen year old boy having a girlfriend. In fact, it’s positively normal. But the idea of Runty having one, after years of claiming to be a womaniser, struck me as hugely ironic.

It's funny, although one part of me is jealous. Why can't I get a girlfriend? The Princess for instance. But for the most part I’m pleased. If a girlfriend is going to make him more docile then I’m all in favour of it. Indeed, maybe it could lead to a rapprochement between us two, an alliance of some sorts.

I say this because Dark Horse has also come back from the holidays behaving rather differently. Unlike Runty, however, it is for the worse. His smug attitude and over-confidence has increased even further, and my fear is that he sees his election as house captain as a done deal. Perhaps he knows something I don’t - after all, his parents did visit our house master at the end of last term. But there's no doubt he can be stopped. He's not an unstoppable force. If Runty and I were to somehow join forces, form a coalition of some sort, then maybe, maybe we could take him down. Because it’s reached the point where I’d almost rather have Runty than Dark Horse as house captain.

Perhaps I've been overtaken by the whole general election fever. Maybe I’m seeing opportunities for electioneering where there are none. But if I’ve learnt anything from the past few weeks, as candidates from each political party have been toppled by unsavoury allegations, it’s that smear campaigns do work. And if smear campaigns work on future MPs, then they can surely work on Dark Horse and the house captaincy.

Which leaves only one thing for me and Runty to do: get digging!

Let's Coffee...

What is it about the summer that turns some people into morons? I say this on the back of my experience this week, when a quick trip into town featured the sight of twenty or so boys with their tops off, flashing their torsos for all to see. Some of them didn’t even have a shirt with them, which suggested they hadn't even left the house with one. Now, I'm not against nudity per se, but I find this kind of behaviour baffling. There’s a time and a place for taking off your shirt; on a Greek beach in August for example. But not outside WH Smith on a lukewarm April day. Hmm.

I don't often go into town (mainly because I can’t be bothered to do anything that involves any kind of movement), but this Tuesday was an exception. The day before I received a call from the Princess who asked me whether I fancied meeting up and having a coffee at some point. Yes, I said immediately. Yes, that pretty much sounds like the best idea ever, save seeing you naked, I almost added.

It's true that I was surprised by her call. I hadn’t seen her since my New Year’s Eve debacle, where I had shot myself in the foot by hitting on some other girl. Combined with the fact that in the meantime she had acquired a boyfriend in the form of Tonbridge Boy, I was beginning to give up on her. So to receive an invitation for a one on one coffee was a shock. I pondered her motives. Was Tonbridge Boy aware of this arrangement? Quite possibly not. It could be that she wanted to use me for a quick dalliance, a fling on the side. In which case I was more than ready to be used!

We arranged to meet at Starbucks at 3:30 pm. I’ll admit that Starbucks is not my first choice of coffee shop, being more of a Nero man myself, but I forgave her lack of taste and agreed to be there. I then spent the next morning getting ready for the date, choosing an appropriate outfit and rehearsing lines I could use. I set off in the balmy heat of the day with plenty of time to spare.

I arrived early. Very early in fact. A good twenty minutes or so before our arranged time. Normally in such a situation I would just go in and get something to eat, read a paper until my companion arrived. But in this situation it didn't seem like the best course of action. I didn’t want to give the impression of being overly keen, which I would do if the Princess arrived early to find me already there. To avoid this, therefore, I decided to lurk in the clothes shop opposite, from where I could spy on the people coming in and out. Once she had entered I would follow her in soon after, looking a bit flustered to give the appearance of being a busy man. But a busy man prepared to make time for her.

At just past half three, therefore, in the middle of pretending to examine a floral dress, I saw the Princess enter Starbucks. With my heart pounding, I gave it a minute before hurrying in after. She was standing by the check out, her back turned to me, and with a slightly sweaty palm I went over and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around, and when she saw me she gave me a very close hug! I felt encouraged to say the least, and could smell the sweet lemon perfume she had on. She looked amazing, with a deep blue dress that gave way at the back. I asked her how she was and offered to get drinks - for her a mochaccino, for me a frappucino. We settled down into two armchairs by the window, and I felt like I was in heaven.

Just as I hoped the conversation flowed brilliantly. Each of us was interested in the other, asking lots of questions and making funny comments when possible. There was flirtation too, as she complimented me on my haircut and tan, and I said I'd almost mistaken her for a beach model. She had a twinkle in her eye, and I could feel the room crackling with electricity.

But just as things were starting to heat up, just when I thought I had a chance, she ruined it all with sixteen  short words: ‘Oh, my boyfriend was going to join us in a bit. I hope you don't mind?’

For anyone who's ever swallowed rejection - the nasty lump that lodges itself in your throat after a failure – then this one's for you. I suddenly found myself with a snooker ball at the back of my throat after these words, not to mention a sledgehammer pounding me in the stomach. I was devastated.

Of course, I knew she had a boyfriend, Tonbridge boy, but I had thought this meeting was to between us only. Consequently, I hoped beforehand that I might turn her head, if only for an instant. But clearly this was out of the question now. One part of me felt like crying, the other half wanted to shout curses at her.

Naturally though, I controlled myself, and muttered something about it not being a problem. Which is one of the bigger lies I've ever told.

Unfortunately, she herself wasn't lying when she said Tonbridge boy would be coming ‘in a bit’. He arrived no more than thirty seconds later, and with it taught me a very valuable life lesson.

I've mentioned before about how I had spent many hours researching Tonbridge boy back at school. After learning of his involvement with the Princess, I ravaged his Facebook profile for information and threw in some Google searches too. Thus, although I had never actually met him, I felt like I knew him. And what I knew of him was not good, for me at least. He appeared to be almost without fault; sporty, clever and nice as well. However much I tried, I could find no dirt on him. Nothing to give me hope in other words.

However, anyone who's ever read Jane Austen will know about the importance of first impressions. Or to put it another way, the danger of relying too much on first impressions. In all of her novels, one of the characters is misled by their first meeting with another, after which only a huge amount of damning evidence can force him or her to change their mind. At which point the two either marry or break up. This, in a nutshell, is what happened between me and Tonbridge Boy.

As he approached our table I looked up expecting to see a well-presented young man. In his place there appeared a frat boy lookalike, dressed in garish baggy shorts, a ridiculous vest that showed off more flesh than it covered, and flip-flops. Flip-flops? I couldn’t believe it! He was no better than the idiots outside, dressing like it was the middle of summer.

Yet it wasn’t just his appearance that had me questioning my judgment - his personality turned out to be just as offensive as well. Instead of greeting me with a shake of my hand, he came up to me and gave me one of those full-on man-hugs tennis players give each other, patting me on the back like I was an old friend. He then kissed the Princess for an uncomfortably long time (which I should say felt like being stabbed in the guts), and positioned himself so that he was on the armrest of her chair, legs spread apart to reveal his inner thighs.

It's safe to say I was shocked.

But the worst was still to come. The conversation, after the usual smalltalk, fixed solely on him. After finding out where I was from and what A Levels I was doing, his interest in me was exhausted. All that worried him now was to make sure I knew everything about him, and in particular everything that he was good at. All of which was recounted in the most horrible drawl, and punctuated with frequent 'you know mate's and 'buddy', a clear sign he'd forgotten my name already.

And what a lot of things he was good at. I knew most of this already following my detective work, but it didn't hurt to have it told to me from the horse's mouth. His GCSEs had been brilliant. His sporting prowess was unrivaled. He was brilliant at debating. He was more or less guaranteed a place at Oxford, and with a bit of luck might become head boy next year too.

As I sat there listening to this I looked over at the Princess. Depressingly, she was staring at him like a lovestruck puppy, oblivious as to how much of an obnoxious bellend he was. Which, frankly, is a generous description for Tonbridge boy.

On the one hand I’m pleased to have discovered that Tonbridge boy is not my superior after all, insofar as a raving egotist is preferable to almost no-one. But on the other hand I’m disappointed, disappointed that the Princess could be so stupid as to fall for this imbecile. How do I move forward from here? Do I wish him good luck and try to forget about it all? Or do I plan some evil revenge on Tonbridge boy?

I would normally take the moral high ground and pick the first option, but since arriving back at school yesterday I've learnt some interesting information. The summer Fixtures informs me that Tonbridge will be visiting Eton on 16^th May for their first eleven cricket match, a match which Tonbridge Boy is likely to be playing in. As he told me, he once hit 32 runs in a single over, which to be fair is the mark of a decent player.

But here’s the question: can he do that with a greasy bat handle? After all, no-one looks out for people going into the changing room…