A New Dawn

Over the past week I’ve been wondering how Eton could change when Simon Henderson, the incoming headmaster, takes over. I imagine any changes will be minimal at first, since Eton is an inherently conservative institution and not subject to the whims of fashion. Yet who knows, maybe Mr Henderson has plans for a revolution that could fundamentally change the school, for better or worse. Letting my imagine run away with me somewhat, I wrote the following story about a possible Etonian dystopia under the new headmaster.

__________________________________________

Hubert awoke with a jolt. He lay still for a moment, then felt his forehead with the palm of his hand; it was dripping with sweat. The same nightmare he'd experienced each night for the past week had woken him up again. The one with his house master standing over him, bloodshot eyes, beating him for missing that goal in Junior League.

He felt for his watch in the darkness and located it under his pillow. Twenty past five. Ten minutes left till wake up.

His body had got used to the early starts by now. The first week had been awful, waking up at six every morning. But now it was just routine. Even when they'd pushed it forward half an hour after the leggit it hadn't disrupted him greatly. He spent most of his days in a daze now. Surviving mostly.

The bell rang harshly and he scuttled out of bed. Grabbing his towel from the hook he made his way to the showers, joining the throng of other boys on their way. No-one said a word to each other. The rules were simple: no talking, two minutes under the shower, and shampoo once a week. A CCTV camera watched them from the corner of the room.

Back in his room Hubert changed into a sports outfit. Black polo shirt, black shorts and black socks. The Eton blue was a distant memory. He walked downstairs and out into the driveway where the whole house was forming itself into perfect, straight rows. He joined the back of the E block one and looked ahead at a boy facing all of the boys. It was the house captain, Chapman. In his right hand was a thick, wooden cane.

The bell rang again and Dr Gruel, the house master, appeared. Slowly, he walked over and joined Chapman in front of the D blockers.

‘Any absences today?’ he asked the boy.

‘None today, sir.’

‘And any incidents in the night?’

‘Just a couple. They were dealt with’

They spoke tersely, like military officers. The house watched them, and listened as they made the announcements for the day. Senior League to play on Agars. D block to run ten miles ahead of the Steeplechase. The list went on, but there was only one thing on everyone's mind - who would get it today?

The moment came eventually. Dr Gruel cleared his throat and drew out his pocket book. In it was the name of the boy who had disappointed him the day before.

'Jenkins!', he shouted.

Everyone's head turned. There at the front of the F block queue stood Peter Jenkins, his bottom trembling and a tear already forming at the corner of his eye. Yesterday Hubert had seem him drop his pen in front of Dr Grue. That must have been it

'Come here!' Chapman ordered, taking control.

With his knees wobbling, Jenkins made his way towards the two figures. On reaching them he dropped to his knees and positioned his buttocks in the air to face his house captain.

'Thwack!' The first hit struck the flesh like a rifle shot. The boy squealed pathetically.

'Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!' The blows continued and the yelps of pain increased. Eventually the torture stopped.

After the beating there was an hour and a half’s fitness on South Meadow. Today it was relay races with sacks of bricks. Several people collapsed from exhaustion and were wheeled off to the Sanatorium.

As Hubert nibbled at his cold toast at breakfast later he wondered how it had got to this. Since Henderson's arrival everything had changed. All the comforts and pleasures of school life had gone and been replaced with a boot camp-style existence. Although everyone he knew had complained to their parents, nothing had come of it. They had already been told in advance that this was a world-beating educational approach.

Over time a cult had grown up around the new headmaster. A picture of his face now adorned every classroom wall, and impressive-sounding quotes attributed to him were read out in chapel. One EW per week was dedicated to studying his life achievements.    

Some of the beaks had resisted the change. They were soon got rid of, often in the middle of the night. A new, obedient beak was then installed by next div, as if nothing had happened. One elderly master was even dragged away from the lunch table and bundled into the back of a van by two burly security, never to be heard of again. Any remaining resistance among the staff dissipated soon after this.

The only way to get ahead in this new Eton was to please the people with power. These included the house masters, the house captains and members of Pop. Money was the main way immunity could be obtained - one C blocker had already paid five figures to buy the house captaincy for next year. But not everyone could afford it, Hubert among them. The only hope for these unfortunates was to pray that the nightmare would end. ‘Please God, let Tony Little come back' were the last words he thought each night.

Vale Tony

If you didn’t already know, Tony Little, the headmaster of Eton for the past twelve years, is retiring. It is not a sudden departure -  for over a year we have known that he will replaced by a former beak at the school, Simon Henderson.

Unfortunately, this very advance resignation has turned the past year into one long, sugary farewell. Tony’s last time doing this we've been told, Tony's last time doing that. How far do you go? His last poo in College? His last scratch of his nose?

I don't mean to sound uncharitable, but it can become a bit much sometimes. Unsurprisingly, the 'Vale' written for him in the Chronicle was unfailingly positive. A Vale is a tribute dedicated to each departing beak and is printed in the school magazine in the half that they leave. They never, ever say anything remotely critical about their subject, even though the number of good things to say about some beaks is very limited.

This has essentially been my problem with Tony’s goodbye. He's been a great headmaster, no doubt, but the half saint half superhero image that has been cultivated the past year is clearly inaccurate.  Why can't we hear about all his awkward moments? The times he cocked up? The enemies he made in the school?

To rectify this omission I have researched Tony's life and written my own Vale for him, which I print below:

(DISCLOSURE: everything below is strictly NOT TRUE.)

Tony Roger Mohammed Little was born on 1^st April 1959 in Milton Keynes, England. His parents abandoned him as an infant, leaving him under the protection of a pack of feral badgers. Tony lived with the badgers in their burrows, and they taught him how to hunt and fish. Unfortunately they spoke only Spanish which meant Tony started primary school as 'Antonio', unable to converse with the other children.

Nevertheless, little Antonio soon excelled and at the age of 13 won a scholarship to Eton College, Berkshire. It was there that he established the infamous Sexy Dancing Society. At first illicit and strictly underground, the society grew until it had enough members to gain the approval of the Provost. It went from strength to strength, until one day a member ruptured his sphincter, leading to a costly lawsuit and its closure.  

After five years at Eton Tony moved to Cambridge, where he studied English. His wrote his dissertation on the subject of: ‘Thomas Hardy – tyrant or transsexual?’, a title in keeping with the spirit of the age and one that gained him a First. It was at Cambridge too where Tony made the decision to become a teacher, a life-decision influenced by his upbringing with the badgers.

Tony started his career at Tonbridge, before moving on to Brentwood, Chigwell and Oakham. These were all very minor and crappy public schools, and so entirely forgettable that to this day Tony remembers nothing about them.

It was in 2001 that Tony was headhunted by his alma mater and persuaded to return as head master. He was reluctant at first, unsure about whether he wanted to move to Japan, but after being told that Eton was in England (and that his contract included a lifetime’s supply of Quavers) he accepted.

Moving back to the school where he had studied was a strange experience for Tony. ‘How will the boys accept me?’ he asked himself. Before his first speech to B block he popped a pill an old man had once given him. Within five minutes he was flying round the school with some pigeons, diving in and out of Judy’s Passage to bite F blockers on the chin. He then flew up into the heavens and met the pigeon king seated on his throne.

‘How do I become a good headmaster of Eton?’ Tony asked.

‘I don’t know much about teaching,’ the pigeon king replied, ‘but just go and be a sassy, badass player!’

After returning to earth Tony followed this advice and had 'sassy badass player' engraved on his wall. It became his philosophy for the rest of his headship.

As the headmaster, Tony’s achievements were innumerable. His most popular successes included shortening chapel services by 50 percent, buying a tank for the CCF and ordering Bekynton to serve jelly six times a week.

The secret to his success lay in Tony’s ability to see things differently from others; to think outside the box. On one occasion a cheeky E blocker asked him whether he grew his moustache because he loved Hitler.

‘No’ Tony replied, ‘I grow it because I hate him!’

Nevertheless, at some point all good things come to an end, and by the end of his tenure Tony felt the school were taking advantage of him. He resented the way he was auctioned off at Old Boys charity events to do certain activities. He didn’t mind ‘go shopping with Tony’ or ‘get pissed with Tony’, but when it came to ‘receive a foot massage from Tony’ and ‘have a baby with Tony’ he felt he had to resign.

The final straw came in chambers one day when a beak’s mobile phone went off. The ringtone was Chris Brown's 'Beautiful People', and to amuse the staff Tony began to break-dance. The intended comic effect was limited, however, and Tony retired with a sore neck after a head-stand went wrong. Injured and humiliated, Tony told all present to go stick it and formally tendered his resignation that afternoon.

In all seriousness though, the very best of luck to Mr Little. He was a great man and will live on in the history of the school.

School's Out!

I’m not sure there are many better feelings than getting back home at the end of the summer half with ten lazy weeks of holiday to look forward to. Ten weeks in which to sunbathe, watch TV, play tennis, drink Pimms and chase girls. In other words, do nothing at all involving writing or studying. Bliss!

Last September feels like a lifetime ago, and although I'm not one for reviewing my life I’d say that C block has been a mixed bag. The ups have included:

• Doing well in work and decently in exams

• Scoring over 40 points in the Field Game season

• Hitting my first ever six in house cricket

• Humiliating  Runty on multiple occasions.

Whereas the downs have included:

• Not being made house captain (I’m still recovering)

• Failing to make any progress with the Princess (and witnessing her get with Tonbridge Boy in front of my face)

• Following through on a silent one in first div one time. That was a long wait for chambers.

Naturally the euphoria of breaking up wears  off pretty quickly. At the moment I’m still content  to wake up at 11:30  and settle down for a Game of Thrones session, but how long this can go one for I cannot say. The truth is that an empty summer soon becomes a borefest.

The easiest way to escape the tedium is to go on holiday. The most cliché UK destination for lads my age is definitely Cornwall. This was where some of my friends went last year after their GCSE results, since it's apparently a tradition for toffs to go down there and engage in drunken behaviour each summer. The stories I’ve heard from people who've been there have been unfailingly tragic, namely boys getting tipsy on Strongbow, hitting unsuccessfully on any girl they can find and then decorating the beach with their vomit.

If you venture outside the UK then basically anywhere is an acceptable destination. There's always one person who comes back in September telling everyone about what a great time he had in St Tropez, Cannes, Monaco etc, but such individuals are generally horrifically insecure and no-one is bothered if you ended up in Brittany or Benidorm.

Besides holidaying there are plenty of social events. Often sport-based, one of these is happening right now: Wimbledon. Already I’ve been amazed at the number of people who seem to have gained access Centre Court and put up photos on Facebook to prove it. I thought these tickets were like gold dust, only obtainable if you knew the right people or have huge amounts of cash. Hmm.

Then there is the Ashes the summer, the start of the football season in August, and a number of lame polo events which exist purely as an excuse to dress up and get tipsy. For the non-sporty there is also the fringe festival in Edinburgh (to which Eton regularly sends boys to perform) and all kinds of music festivals, like Reading and Leeds.

As things stand currently I am hoping to go to one of the Ashes tests for a couple of days (dependent on the generosity of a friend) and spend a week in August in a certain Mediterranean country with my family. It’s better than nothing, but not exactly a calendar bursting to the brim.

That is why I have applied this week for a part-time job in a sandwich shop near my house. Yes, a job! My summer may consist of some hard graft. I must admit though that it wasn’t me who came up with the idea (I am far too idle to actually want to spread butter every day) - instead it was my mum who threatened to withdraw any cash or favours if I didn’t get out of the house and do something useful. Faced with the prospect of being penniless, and realising too that it wouldn’t be a bad thing to put on my UCAS application, I complied.

So it was that I wrote my first ever CV this Monday. Truth be told I was rather pleased with it once I’d finished it, but that was before I showed it to my dad who burst out laughing the second he saw it. Apparently it was among the worst he had ever seen. Upset, I asked him why, and he explained that a CV is not so much about what you have achieved in life, but about how you lay these achievements out on a page. In other words, it’s all about the style, not the substance. If you don’t have much proficiency with Microsoft Word then you’re not going to get far in life it appears. With this valuable life lesson under my belt I then spent the next four hours engaged in the most superficial activity of making sure my fonts and sub-headings were tiptop.

Why exactly I needed to provide a CV for a job that involved no mental effort I couldn’t work out. How hard would the work actually be? Surely the fact that I got a GCSE in Latin was completely irrelevant. It crossed my mind to actually express these thoughts to the shop when I went to down to hand in my application. I was stopped, however, by the employee who greeted me on the other side of the counter – namely one of the most attractive girls I have ever encountered. Blonde, green eyes and with a friendly smile, she was smoking hot. Not only that, she was almost disarmingly friendly and down to earth. Immediately I forgot all about my CV-related rant and did my best to appear cool, explaining I was here for the job and did she mind handing in my application to the manager if possible.

She didn’t mind in the slightest. Indeed, she thanked me for my interest and took my CV and gave it a brief look over. The first thing she commented upon was the attractive layout of the page (thanks dad), followed by my ‘impressive’ GCSE results. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m not that intelligent, really.’ She was having none of it though, and I reckoned I was definitely rating my chances with her. But then came the killer question:

‘It says here you go to Eton College?’

‘Err, yes I do,’ I said turning red. Dammit, why hadn’t I just put ‘secondary school’!

‘Is it near here?’

‘What, Eton? No, not really, it’s next to London’

‘Ok, it’s just I’ve never heard of it before,’ she said, smiling apologetically at me.

Never heard of Eton? I felt like I was in dreamland - not only was she a worldie but she knew nothing about my school!

The only thing I want now is to actually get the silly job. Who would have guessed that a week ago? Maybe work does pay after all.