Game Over

It’s official – I’m a loser. After failing to get into Pop I’ve now failed to get what I really wanted after all: the house captaincy. Dark Horse has won, he has beaten me. He will be house captain next year.  I will be a nobody.

This past week has been a sad one. Last Thursday evening our house master called all of us C blockers into his office for a meeting. He said he wanted to discuss plans for next year, and looking back I should have guessed he might say something about the house captaincy. Given he had yet to talk to me about it though i.e. ask me to be house captain, I wasn’t expecting him to announce it. Consequently, I suspected nothing as we walked in, not even when we found Dark Horse already in there with a smug look on his face.

For ten minutes we did indeed talk about plans for next year. We looked back on the past year’s achievements as a house, all the trophies we had won, those we had missed out on, and everything in between.  As always, I made several insightful comments and was appreciated by everyone there.

Then, after a few points about house athletics, our house master cleared his throat to gather everyone’s attention on him.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘before you leave there’s one important thing I would like to announce.’ He looked down at this point warmly at Dark Horse, who stared back at him doe-eyed. We all sat there in a state of bafflement – where they going to announce their engagement?

‘As you know,’ he said, ‘I will need all of you to help me next year, but some more so than others. This is why I am delighted to announce, as my house captain for next half, Dark Horse!’

Silence. None of us could believe what we’d just heard.

Someone eventually punctured the awkwardness with a half-hearted ‘congratulations Dark Horse’. Others joined in with no more enthusiasm. I myself could say nothing. I sat there utterly shocked, completely mute, unable to take in what had just happened. Dark Horse. Dark Horse? He’d done it. He’d actually beaten me and become house captain. Dark Horse, the most unintelligent, un-sporty, unfunny and unpopular person I knew - he had given me a beating. What was I now?

Of course, part of me had seen it coming. As I left the study in a daze I realised I had no reason to feel surprised. Ever since the moment I had spied his parents chatting to our house master in his study it had been a done deal. A fait accompli. My mistake had been thinking I had a chance, getting sucked into the competition while Dark Horse was pulling strings I had no access to. It was a stitch up.

Back in my room I continued the post mortem. Regarding my own performance there was little more I could have done. For the whole year I had flattered our house master, conversing with him in the corridor, complimenting him, assisting him with tasks and even flirting when the situation demanded. Whenever there was a chore that needed doing, I was the one to volunteer. I was always there next to him at lunch, making sure the conversation was all about him and filling up his glass whenever it was even half-empty. To put it bluntly, I had been his obsequious servant for a good ten months.

But in the end it had failed. Even my dirty tactics had no effect, such as my subtle reminders to our house master and the house generally about Dark Horse’s most embarrassing moments. Moments such as the time he scored a horrendous own goal in Junior League, or when he failed his Maths trial, or best of all, when he had diarrhoea one time and had to run out of lunch clutching his arse. Bringing up these memories during lunchtime conversations, or in the waiting time for Prayers clearly hadn’t done the trick.

I may sound bitter and a sore loser. No doubt I do, but the biggest loser in all of this is going to be the house. Dark Horse is such a spineless, stultifying dweeb that we have no chance of exceeding our potential next year. It’s as if the country were suddenly to have James Blunt thrust upon it as Prime Minister – our chances of exerting any influence around the world would be instantly nil.

I’m not sure what to do now. The school year ends tomorrow so there’s no way I can force a U-turn on our house master’s decision, not even if I convinced him that Dark Horse was a sexual predator (oh the irony of that). It is inevitable, therefore, that Dark Horse will be in charge next Michaelmas half.

But it will only be for one half as things stand currently. Houses often change their house captains for the Lent and Summer halves, so if I carry on trying my best there’s a good chance I could become house captain for one of those halves. Better than nothing surely?

The problem is though that being made house captain in the Lent or Summer is a bit like picking up your mate’s sloppy seconds. He already been there – being made house captain in the Michaelmas – and now you’re just taking over what he’s left behind. The position is always going to be somewhat tainted for you.

So no, a large part of me doesn’t want to play ball. On the contrary, doing my best to hijack Dark Horse’s tenure as house captain seems a far more attractive proposition. Doing so would not be difficult; teasing him in public, trashing his room, slagging him off to the new F blockers, these are all ways I could easily undermine him.

One thing’s for sure though: he needs a new name. No longer is he a dark horse, not after this victory at least. A more appropriate animal now for him would be a snake; a massive, slimy, poisonous snake. But that doesn’t really fit. A catchier name I reckon is Sepp. After the outgoing, power-hungry, corrupt FIfa chairman. Because Dark Horse bought this position and he will cling onto it for all he can. And while he does so can someone pass me another lemon?

Pop

So, Pop has been chosen for next year and I didn't get in. On the one had I'm not bothered; I never expected to get chosen and didn't really want to anyway, but at the same time it's a bit of a wake up call, insofar as my Eton career will now never be thought of as distinguished.

Pop (a nickname for the ‘Eton Society’) is the group of B blockers who act as school prefects. There are only about sixteen of them, so it’s an exclusive group of which to be a member. Poppers’ main duties include monitoring boys in chapel, signing in boys to certain events and acting as general doormen and lackeys. It sounds like a chore, but the power rush to be gained from bossing people around more than makes up for the extra workload.

One of the other advantages of being in Pop is the outfit. Poppers wear a different uniform to everyone else, which is both distinguishable and cool. Besides the normal tailcoat they are allowed to wear grey spotted trousers and a waistcoat of their choice. The design of this waistcoat is entirely up to the wearer, which means that football team crests, national flags, fluorescent colours and even sequins are not uncommon. If there is a list of banned designs by the school it probably only covers pornographic material and anything Nazi-related.

It must be great to wear this uniform, and after a few weeks of prancing around in it and shouting at E blockers you can imagine most poppers getting a bit big-headed. And indeed, most of them do become quite arrogant. But rather than being a deterrent that's part of the appeal – it’s an enormous ego boost and you’ve only got a million years in which come back down to Earth.

As with anything that’s highly sought after though, becoming a popper is not easy. There’s no application process as such, but you have to stand out in such a way as to be eligible for a leadership role. In most cases this is by being good at sport, but in can be in other areas too, music and drama for instance.

The electoral system is a tad controversial. Every summer a committee meets to decide which C blockers will make up the Pop for the following academic year. This committee consists of both beaks and current poppers, and they rely on recommendations from others and their own judgment to pick the lucky few.

Fine. Nothing too dodgy. But the problem is: who chooses these people on the committee? And who monitors how much influence they exert over the decision-making?

The truth is that every year one or two boys appear on the Pop list whose inclusion is very questionable. Boys who you might not have even placed on a B list of candidates. And boys who, if you do a bit of digging around, you find have strong links to one of the members of the committee.

In my first year this problem blew up when one tutor group had five out of its six boys elected into Pop. Five out of six! You don’t need a statistician to tell you the chances of this occurring naturally are several million to one. And who was the tutor in question? Answer: a member of the Pop committee.

Despite this fault in the system, I'm told the process is better than it used to be. Back in the day the new intake were elected entirely by the current poppers, with no chance of a veto by the school authorities, the result of which was a massive culture of cronyism and the election of some far from suitable individuals.

Although things may have improved since, there is still a hint of nepotism. Making friends with the right people, particularly current poppers, is essential for any ambitious C blocker. Strategies can include anything from making general conversation to going drinking together and even inviting them to parties and on holiday. Essentially, nothing you wouldn't have found in the bribing and lobbying at FIFA!

This year there wasn’t actually too much surprise in the Pop election. Most of the shocks in fact are in finding out which people weren't picked; this year, several big names in the football and rugby teams. People whose inclusion you would never have questioned had they been chosen.

However, when complete bellends who might very well have got in don’t end up on the teamsheet it’s one of the best feelings! It happened to one boy this year and I couldn’t help giving him a ‘sorry you didn’t get in’ the next time I saw him, delivered with a smirk of course. Perhaps even more entertaining though is when boys who don’t have the slimmest chance in hell of getting chosen see themselves as genuine contenders.

These people are not that easy to spot, however. This is because that no-one actually walks around talking up their chances of getting into Pop. To do so would be so unbelievably uncouth that everyone would hate them forever. The only way to find out, therefore, if someone considers themselves Pop-material is to study their behaviour in the run-up to the event. This can be done at the lunch table, when the election is the main topic of conversation. If someone speaks like they’re an authority on the subject, and in particular dismisses the names of other people being put forward, you can tell he’s a wannabe. Any unusually strong interest in the event is basically a good sign, and if you’re not sure of a person's ambitions beforehand you can always tell after the event when he's bound to look rather glum.

Indeed, there was one person in my house who fulfilled this stereotype this year: Dark Horse. Not content with campaigning for just the house captaincy (on the back of his parents’ hobnobbing with our house master I should remind you), his ambitions had stretched to the target of Pop. Every time we discussed it at lunch or supper he dominated the conversation, giving us all the ‘insider goss’ about who was and wasn’t likely to be picked. How he got all this information I don’t know, but only someone with a personal interest in the result would have gone to such lengths to obtain it. On the day of the results he was strutting around even more than usual and I genuinely feared the little dweeb might have fixed it. But no! Thank God no! My faith in humanity was restored when his name was absent from the list. Not this time mate!

Of course, I don’t have much to brag about myself because I'm not going to be in Pop anytime soon. All of which has left me thinking: how will I be remembered by the future generations? Will I be remembered at all? Politicians are forever worrying about their legacies, so maybe I should too. But if I can’t establish a legacy via the conventional route (Pop) then perhaps I should go unconventional. But how unconventional? Suggestions welcome.

Girls

One of the great things about a heatwave is being able to relax outside indefinitely. For most of the year this is difficult without getting cold, no matter how many thermals you wrap up in.

I say this because this past weekend I decided to head into Windsor, and opted for the South Meadow route rather than the high street. It was there that I saw plenty of people relaxing on the grass and making the most of the weather. The majority were locals, but there were a few Etonians among them, including a few relaxing with girls who were visiting them for the day. This isn’t uncommon, especially in the summer when the weather’s good, but it was still a surprise to see girls in Eton. It show how conditioned we are to an all-male environment.

Indeed, most outsiders would predict that when it comes to girls us Eton boys are completely inept. That we don’t have a clue. They wouldn’t be far wrong. Having no contact with girls for two thirds of the year means we are bound to be slightly retarded when it comes to the other sex.

Indeed, for people like me with a brother but no sisters it can be difficult to imagine girls as something other than fantasy creatures. It’s true that I know a little bit about them now, but when I arrived at Eton my knowledge was very, very limited. Going to an all-boys prep school didn’t help, and apart from the girl a few doors down I’m not sure I could count any girls among my friends.

As a result, I wasn’t holding out much hope going to an all-boys secondary school, but things did in fact improve. Ever so slightly. Eton doesn’t keep us locked up the whole time and it is possible to meet up with girls. Actually, when I came to Eton I learnt that the word ‘girls’ is extremely rare, the preference being for ‘birds’, ‘minge’ and other probably sexist terms.

Anyhow, in F block I worked out that my best chance of meeting girls would be to hitch a ride on the coattails of my friends. Thus when two of my mates were planning a get-together in Windsor with some girls from Down House (a localish girls school) I made sure to worm my way into the event.

Unfortunately, Runty did too. And even more unfortunately, he didn’t want to deviate from his default bellend mode.

This was evident during the walk into Windsor as we strolled along in our best clothes and our hair perfectly quiffed, looking like a wannabe boyband. As we tried hard to look cool Runty told us clearly how all the girls were bound to fancy him and how he reckoned he could get all their numbers.

It was grating to listen to this verbal diarrhoea, but at least it distracted me from the prospect of actually meeting the girls. So much so that when we arrived and I saw them in my flesh my stomach began to turn, and I started sweating all over. I had no experience of this kind of thing, and despite dreaming beforehand of going up to them casually and making easy small talk I was a nervous wreck.  I awkwardly went to shake hands with one of them, but was pushed out of the way by Runty who gave a hug to each of them. I couldn’t believe it – he didn’t even know them! I might have copied his trick but had nowhere near the courage, so ended up giving them a pathetic half-wave which I’m sure they found attractive.

After this inauspicious start, things got worse as we went to sit down. We had a circle table near the back, but there were four of us boys and only three of them. This, I worked out, meant that two boys would have to sit next to each other, with only one girl in close proximity. Not me I thought, but I was slow off the mark. Everyone else had already realised the same thing and so I found myself next to my friend on one side and next to one of the girls on the other. Better than zero girls at least. But that was before I saw that the other boy my girl was sitting next to was Runty.

I prayed hard he wouldn’t talk to this girl, but distract himself with the one on the other side. But no, he had his eyes on her and didn’t intend to chat with anyone else. More depressing than this was that she actually seemed to like him, laughing at even his worst attempts at jokes. Jokes that back in the house wouldn’t even get a reaction. ‘How could this be happening?’ I thought. So it was I learnt a valuable lesson: Girls are different from Boys. Period.

To cut a long story short, I spent the three hours at Starbucks acting as a kind of seventh wheel, trying to participate in all the conversations around me with no success. It was a shame, not only because I couldn’t claim to have said more than fifty words to one girl, but because they were all very attractive. One was blonde and thin and the other two were pretty brunettes. Unlike me, however, Runty came out like a champion. He did somehow blag all of their numbers, and even succeeded at a later date in getting with two of them (including the blonde), at the same party no less. What a shameless person.

Given Etonians’ general ignorance of the female species, and the testosterone flowing around our bodies, you might think everyone here would be desperate for the school to go co-ed and accept girls. However, the reverse is in fact true - I can’t think of anyone who would seriously want girls here. Sure, it might be fun to have a fumble behind the Art Schools, but if girls did arrive it would certainly be less fun. Many friendships would be obliterated as multiple persons went for the same girl, and it would no longer be possible to crawl into first div looking dishevelled and escape judgement.

Furthermore, it is actually possible to have a girlfriend outside the school. Whilst I haven’t cracked that one yet, several of my friends are currently seeing someone. Somewhat greedily, one of them has had four girlfriends since E block, and even the lothario that is Runty appears to have a girl on the go (although it is still a secret apparently).

For the rest of us though, we can just sit around and hope. Good things come to those who wait, as they say. And in the meantime there are always the birds on the internet.

Prayers

This week Tonbridge Boy was tagged in a Facebook video showing him making a speech at someone’s birthday party. First things first, yes I am now Facebook friends with Tonbridge boy,although not out of my own volition. After our meeting at Starbucks during the Easter holidays (which had the Princess involved in a mini love triangle) he requested my friendship on Facebook. Of course, I had already stalked his profile many a time, so there wasn't much else I could gain from it, save a few extra photos and some personal info. But I accepted anyway. Whoopee.

Yes, I didn’t exactly relish the thought of being cyber friends with the boyfriend of the girl I fancied. Now he would be popping up every day on my newsfeed. But what choice did I have? Had I not accepted his request and/or blocked him he would have been sure to tell the Princess, who then would have thought me anti-social. Not wishing to rule out any future chance with her, I begrudgingly accepted his solicitation with the long game firmly in mind. So we are now ‘friends’ (as inappropriate a term for our relationship as there ever has been), which now means I now have to put up with him posting innumerable selfies of himself with the Princess, as well as appearing in videos like the one this week.

In fairness to Tonbridge boy (and I don’t really want to be fair) his speech that appeared in this video wasn't that bad. It wasn’t great – he delivered most of it in a half-shout despite a good microphone – but content-wise it was acceptable. Some reasonably amusing lines and nothing too inappropriate.

Speaking generally, public speaking is a difficult thing to master. I haven’t had much experience of it over my time at Eton, but when I have I've always felt very anxious. Exhilarated as well, but it's not been something I look forward to. It's strange, because speaking in front of twenty of your peers in a normal div is an everyday occurrence, but once you are required to go through the formal process of standing up and delivering a prepared speech to an audience it turns your knees into jelly.

I remember back in E block being asked to read the lesson one morning in Lower Chapel. Five hundred boys staring at me, willing me to trip up and make an idiot of myself, particularly Runty whose stupid face was just metres away from the lectern. I got the Bible passage a few days before the actual occasion, and spent a good two hours going over every line of it. Come the big day I had pretty much memorised it, and despite feeling like the world was spinning around me while I said it and that was voice was different to how I had ever heard it before, I got through it without too many stumbles. Even Runty was gracious enough to congratulate me on my performance afterwards, which was a nice gesture after his previous prediction that I would have a panic attack.

Thankfully this was the only time I was ever asked to read in Lower Chapel. A more frequent obligation to speak publicly, however, for everyone in this case, is at Prayers in the house. Prayers is an event that takes place every evening after supper, and rather than being a moment for actual prayers (get ready for another misleading Eton term) it is when the house meets to be given notices by the housemaster and to discuss important issues. Oh, and it also sees one member of the house stand up and entertain the house in some way for five or ten minutes. So if someone says ‘I’m on Prayers tonight’ it means he’s been asked to be the jester in residence for that night only.

Prayers is kind of a big deal, but not really. That is to say, for the person doing it can be a horrifying prospect (particularly for lowly F blockers) but everyone else's expectations of what to expect are really low.

I remember my own first attempt back in F block. The schedule had been arranged in alphabetical order, and me being at the front of my block meant I was asked to go first. Panicked by the thought of speaking in front of fifty other people, I asked one of the E blockers to help me come up with something. Together we decided that I should read out three weird and wonderful football stories that we found on a sports website. It was a conservative debut all things considering, but my only aim was to get through it without making an idiot of myself. This I managed just about, and I even raised a few laughs while doing so.

However, not every person I’ve seen do Prayers has been so lucky. There have been some horribly misjudged ones, often poorly thought through attempts at stand-up comedy or similar. This type of Prayers is easier to pull off the more senior you are, but when you’re an F or E blocker it is best avoided.

Holding a competition of some sort is a popular choice. This can be in the form of quiz between each block or individuals, or an amusing challenge. Last year, there was a spurt of food competitions in my house – one person coming forward from each block to eat three bananas as quickly as possible, or a packet of digestives, or even more extreme: a super-hot chilli. These are normally good fun, although the chilli one didn’t end so well for one boy who couldn’t eat warm food for two days afterwards, with the remaining boys also complaining of ring sting.

Although Prayers is a bit of a chore to do, and often a pain to sit through too, you can see why the school promotes it. As well as being a tradition, it helps to build house spirit. Most importantly though, it takes everyone out of their comfort zone at least once a half, and gives them the experience of speaking in front of an audience, a valuable life skill no matter what your age. So although personally I dread it when it comes round to my turn to do it, I understand that it is only for my benefit. One day I may be a businessman pitching my product to an audience and I will remember the experience of those many eyes being trained on me. So when my house master tells me that yes, I do have to do Prayers this evening, I guess it's a bit like when my dad shouted ‘It’s for the best!’ as he pushed me down the road on my stabilizer-free bike. Many grazed arms and knees later I can see he was right!